Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Prologue:  Prince in Exile

The grave was not deep beneath the mountain as stories later would tell; it was outside on the height under the pines that long ago had blazed in Smaug’s terrible fire. The dwarves had built a mighty stone cairn to lay their fallen King to rest. The deep grey stone was adorned with the Raven on either side, but no other adornment had been placed on it yet except for the runic inscriptions.

Thorin Son of Thrain

King under the Mountain

No words mentioned that his eldest nephew was resting beside him, having sacrificed his life shielding Thorin as they broke through the ranks of the Orc host. Bard the Bowman and Thranduil of Mirkwood stood a few paces away of the tomb, having placed the Arkenstone and Orcrist with Thorin before the heavy stones had closed over his resting place. They could have left with most of those who had been assembled here hours ago. Yet, this very place had a decision yet to see and both were determined to know which it was to be.

A lone figure stood still in front of the dark grave, head bowed, dark hair torn by the wind, not holding back the tears in his eyes. Kili was hardly able to stand at his own feet; the healers had been loath to allow him to get up at all. With Kili stood Balin and Dwalin, giving him support while allowing for the space he needed to grieve. Dwalin frowned deeply when he saw Daín approach. The King of the Iron Mountains had chosen an ill time to approach. The broad-shouldered dwarf stepped away to cut off Daín. Not a man of many words he stared down the shorter dwarf. “Leave him be.”

Daín frowned impatiently at Dawlin. “What must be spoke off is not yours to decide.” He said coolly.

Before things could escalate Kili woke from his trance and turned around. “Dawlin,” he said softly. “let him come here. If he wishes to speak to me this time is as good as any.”

Daín walked past Dwalin, he was a short dwarf, shorter than the rough warrior and even shorter than young Kili. “They said you had a stout heart, lad,” he said to Kili. “it will be easier to speak in the shadow of these stones than down in the halls with their prying ears.”

Kili acquiesced and they walked a few steps along the tomb right to the ridge where it overlooked the surrounding land. “Thorin was most distressed to learn of your brother’s death,” Daín began without preamble. “it pained him to know Fili had been killed defending him. He was glad you had at least survived… he must have loved you both dearly.” He cast a glance at the silent young dwarf Prince beside him. “But… he did never name either of you his heir… you were the sons of his sister and maybe in his mind you were meant to take up his mantle. Yet he never named you, not even in the hour of his death. That puts you – his nephew – and me – his cousin – on even footing when it comes to succession.”

“I see,” Kili’s eyes followed the flight path of a single eagle streaking across the valley. “and as you already have your army here and have a claim on the throne…”

Daín stretched his shoulders, assessing the younger dwarf anew. He seemed to see things more realistic than Daín had expected. “You are barely of age, Kili. In fact, in the Iron Mountains you’d still be a youth…”

“But I am not from the Iron Mountains. A dwarf in the Ered Luin will be named adult once he passes 70 and proves he can kill a warg, an orc and forge a decent axe or sword.” It had been a long departure from established dwarven tradition to do so but the great number of orphans left among the Erebor dwarves after Azanulbizar had forced change upon them.

“Now there, lad, that may hold true for that Exile home you founded back in the Ered Luin but no one from the proper dwarven lands will take your claim seriously.” Daín pointed out. “And my share in reclaiming Erebor is not a small one either, your and your Uncle did far less, even the dragon was killed by another.”

He was suddenly and violently spun around, brought face to face with the thunderously angry face of Dwalin. “How dare you, Daín?” Dwalin growled. “Kili is Thorin’s heir and you know it – he adopted both boys the day Dis died. I should toss you down that ridge that would end your claim nicely.”

“Try,” Daín croaked, trying to break the violent grip. “you are barely a dozen, your people are on the other side of the world still. My army will make short work of you.”

“Dawlin,” again it was Kili’s voice that brought the warrior to a halt. “set him down. He holds all the cards now.”

Angrily Dwalin put down the flustered king. “Kili – we will stand with you, none of us will stand for such treachery.” He said fiercely.

Gently Kili put a hand on his arm. “I know. You are one of the truest, loyal souls that my house was ever fortunate to meet, Dwalin.”

Daín straightened up. “I’d put that to a test – how many of your kind would prefer their home back over another bloody war.” He pointed out somewhat slyly.

Balin, who had joined his brother looked at him disbelievingly. “What are you thinking, Daín?”

“He thinks that he is the laughing winner,” Kili now spoke more evenly, for a moment the pain for the dead having to take second place over the concerns for the living. “he would not give us an army when we needed it and now, with Thorin dead he can take Erebor for his own.” He raised his hand forestalling Daìn’s words. “Do not protest or claim noble motives here, Daìn. There is no one but us to hear. What was your plan for me, then? Would I have died within a few days either if I did not support your claim?”

“I would rather you vanished entirely.” Daín was surprised that it was the young Prince who seemed to have the clear eye for politics. “even with your support there’d be those who’d whisper that you are the true King of the Mountain. No matter where you went among Dwarves… you are too much like your Uncle, you would always be the uncrowned King. And we had enough of that with Thror’s line already.”

Kili could sense Balin’s shock and Dwalin’s fierce anger – they both would fight if it came down to a choice and that was why he could not make that call. Thorin had valued each and everyone of his loyal followers highly, he had placed their wellbeing before his own and he’d expect as much from his heir. “On one condition Daín,” he said.

“Name it.”

“You will allow all of the Erebor dwarves to return should they wish so, their ancestral homes and possessions restored to them. If you want to be King of the Mountain you have to do right by the Mountain’s people.”

Daín visibly relaxed at this demand. “You have my word, Kili. A King doing less would be stupid. Your people have proven time and again their strength.”

“Kili… no.” Balin tried to intervene. “you can’t let him get away with this.”

“He already has, Balin.” Kili turned to him. “my friend… he could as easily burry us beside Thorin and go on with his schemes. My Uncle wanted to give our people back their home. He wanted them to be proud once more, to no longer live in foreign lands, homeless and scorned among men. You, your brother…you all faced death, danger and horrors beside him, out of loyalty, out of friendship… you deserve to gain back what was taken from you so long ago.”

Awed Balin looked up at the young dwarf. Where was the mischievous boy? The young wild archer? He had been burned away by fire, by battle and by grief, leaving a young solemn warrior – a young Prince. “I would rather live out the rest of my life in the Ered Luin than under the rule of one who stole the throne from your family, my Prince.”

Dwalin nodded approvingly. “He is right, Kili. I won’t have anything to do with that maggot – and neither will the others.”

Deeply touched by their unwavering loyalty, Kili still had to caution them. “Leave the others their own choice,” he insisted.

Daín weighed what he had just heard. He had hoped that his rule would be uncontested but it seemed Thorin’s house still had a stubborn following. It was something to keep an eye out for in years to come. “Most will chose more wisely,” he said acidly, unable to resist to put a hit or two on that noble façade the young one put up. “they will know where their gold and home is.” He turned walking off stiffly.

Bard turned aside seeing Thranduil was leaving. “That was the single most coldest thing I have seen in a long time.” He said to himself before he approached the three dwarves.

“And what would you want?” Dwalin was not in the mood to hear any more.

“I will not intrude upon you long,” Bard spoke swiftly, he could see the warrior’s patience was already wearing thin. His eyes sought Kili’s gaze. “Your family had a long feud with Smaug and even as I was the one to strike him down – you should have this.” With these words he handed Kili one long glittering dragon’s fang.

Closing his hand over the icy cold fang, Kili inclined his head. “You have my thanks, Bard of Laketown. And I wish you luck in rebuilding your city.”

Bard’s eyes grew thoughtful. “It seems we have a new King under the Mountain to watch out for. I fear there will be many a day when even I shall wish your Uncle had survived.” With this he bowed slightly and left the gravesite.

A cold wind rose from the east sweeping across the mountain and the valley below, snow began slowly to fall from heavy grey clouds. Dwalin’s eyes went to the far of ridge of mountains to the west. It would be a long way home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: A Meeting in the dark

More than 75 years later

The plan for his journey from Minas Tirith to Rivendell had been a simple one, or so Boromir had assumed when he had departed his city. Through Gondor and across most of Rohan things had been easy enough, he had known the ways and paths leading west and there had been little danger in these parts either. When he had passed through the gap of Rohan he had felt like he was watched for the first time and for many nights since he had felt like there were watchful eyes in the dark, hounding his every step. Crossing the marshes of Dunland had proven dangerous quickly enough with more fights and troubles than he would care to count. He had been glad to leave them behind but after that things got even more complicated for no one in entire Gondor had been able to say where exactly Imladris was. It was the famed hidden elven kingdom of the north, hidden being the problem word. There was no map that gave it’s location exactly, no road leading there and none of all the wise men his father had consulted had been able to shed light on how to find a kingdom the elves had taken great pains to hide.

Boromir’s greatest hope had been Anor. While long gone and diminished he had firmly believed that there had to be still people of this ancient kingdom. Anor’s people had to be much like Gondor’s – they would never give up on their homeland, they’d keep fighting King or no King. But when he finally left the Dunland marshes and came closer to the lands that had been part of Anor all he found was lone lands and wilderness. The beings dwelling in the wilds had quickly proven unfriendly as well. So he had been stuck with the one piece of advice his brother Faramir had been able to give him before he departed: Rivendell, Faramir had said was a valley hidden in the western reaches of the Misty Mountains, close to an ancient road leading towards the western seas.

Thinking of that Boromir stuck to the edge of the mountains hoping to soon reach his destination but his journey drew on, he ventured more and more north and eventually was forced to abandon the hills for the foothills. The only path he found wound at a height through the mountains. Yet, he still hoped to find that road leading into Imladris.  Autumn was approaching fast and soon the icy weather would begin. For now it was just the rain – heavy clouds driven by a western gale unleashing their heavy load at the mountain range. Never in his whole life had he encountered such a downpour, let alone days and days of pouring rain. On the third day the narrow winding path go so slippery that Boromir resolved to find a place where he could wait out the worst of the weather. It had seemed a lucky turn of events that he had indeed found a cave in one of the rock sides, large enough to allow shelter for himself and his horse.

Sitting down with his back against the cold stone Boromir dozed off, trying to make the best of a few restful hours. A thunderous noise woke him hours later, he reached to the side but the rock wall itself had vanished. He slipped and fell as the ground revolted and he was tossed into a steep tunnel, tumbling down hard and finally crashing down on a wooden platform.

Figures emerged from the darkness, seeing him and suddenly high pitched shrieks echoing through the tunnels. For one moment he froze in surprise. Orcs! These were orcish voices… but he was hundreds of leagues away from Mordor’s borders? Two small figures rushed in, trying to jump him, more in reflex than anything he kicked the first one off the ledge, grabbing the second to toss it right after.

Boromir used the short moments this gave him to draw his sword. More Orcs, a whole dozen of them, came at him across the ledge. They were smaller than Mordor’s legions but swifter too. Making the best of the moment he advanced on the narrow ledge forcing them to come at him in pairs. They rushed at him armed with daggers and coarse curved swords. Boromir blocked their attacks, his sword a whirling circle of death, stabbing, cutting, slashing through their numbers, corpses falling off the ledge, vanishing into the dark abyss below.

It ended as fast as it had begun the sudden silence deafening to his ears; only the ledge under him creaked. Boromir frowned, what was thing anyway? His eyes had adjusted to the darkness down here. It seemed he was standing on some coarse bridge of wood and ropes spanning a massive chasm. It seemed barely able to support him. Had there been a cave in recently, he wondered. That would explain the vanishing wall earlier and the unstable bridge. Even Orcs – crude monsters that they were – built better than that. Boromir had seen enough of their dens in the Ered Lithui to know. Carefully he followed the bridge towards where it connected with a rocky ledge on a steep cave wall. He had to find a way out of here.

The rock ledge was only marginally better than the rickety bridge before, crumbling and full of cracks it had been repaired with more of those wood bridges many as rotten as the first had been. There were nor markings, no signs, like the Mordor Orcs used to mark their tunnels, only a chaos of ways, where they might lead he could not begin to guess.

He had no idea how lucky he had been not to having been discovered much more quickly again. A shriek, shrill and angry, rose from the dark of yet another tunnel. In the dim light he could see a mass of bodies emerge from the tunnel’s mouth. Fire and Blood, there were so many of them. He turned running the other way, jumping from the bridge onto another ledge and raced on. There were some coming his way, he fought them off, sword cutting through them with grim determination. Rounding another corner he found the bulk of the horde chasing him again.

Boromir ran through the dark, the rickety bridges streaking under his feet, screams of orcs echoing in the tunnels. He did not know how many he had killed, how many were still after him. He had lost his sense of direction not knowing anymore where he was going, if he ever had to begin with. Several Orcs spilled from a side tunnel; he attacked before they could, killing two before having to shake off the others. A blunt blade cut his arm, not the first scratch he had received. He kicked the creature off the ledge, hastening on. His breath was flying hard after hours and hours of running the dark, he was exhausted and when he reached the next bridge he hardly noticed the silence. Yes, it was unusually quiet in this tunnel and the wooden contraption was older than others he had seen down here.

He saw that part of the old wood contraption was broken, or had been shattered a long time ago, maybe it had been left alone ever since? Carefully Boromir stepped on the failing construction, it creaked loudly but still carried him. He began to walk, each step shaking the ancient crossing. When he was halfway across he heard shouts and angry yells from behind. A few Orcs had come out on a higher ledge, shaking their swords at him and hurling stones in his direction. Boromir ducked moving on with more haste, disregarding the feeble bridge beneath his feet.

That proved to be a grave mistake, only a few running steps out the ancient wood broke under his step, the whole bridge collapsing. He fell into darkness, desperately trying to somehow slow the deathly fall. His hands managed to grab the rocks on another ledge, shark stones cutting into his palms, he barely managed to hang on.

A spear flew from the darkness, shattering on the stones beside him, again Boromir tried to pull himself up but another spear missing him only by a hair’s breath made him nearly fall again. A sharp hiss sounded from the ledge above, the typical whistle of arrows. Somewhere behind him Orcs shrieked as their bodies dropped into the darkness.

“That will teach the bastard,” a voice grumbled in a strangely accented speech. A figure appeared above him, in the dark he could not see much more than a head and a shadow but he felt a strong hand grabbing his arm, supporting his fleeting hold. “Grab my shoulder, I’ll pull you up.”

Boromir did not waste time, he used what strength he had left to grab the stranger’s shoulder and was pulled up by surprising strong arms. Few men would have so easily been able to lift him like that. Not a moment later he was on stable ground. “That’s better,” the stranger said, grabbing his things. With a soft hiss a torch was lit.

Boromir blinked into the light of the flame. His helper was strange, standing he did not even reach to Boromir’s shoulder. His hair was long and fell freely around his shoulders… was he really wearing some braids like a maiden? A few grey streaks mingled with the dark locks – strange, his face did not reflect the age of someone already greying even as it was set in a few deeper, pleasant lines. The short cropped beard was barely a shadow. He wore chainmail and a leather coat, both well worn. Something about him seemed off to Boromir but it took him a moment to realize that this was most likely not a man at all but a dwarf. He had never seen one before except in pictures and drawings in Faramir’s books. “You are a dwarf,” the words were out before he could stop them.

The stranger bowed slightly. “Kili, at your service.” He said. “and you better be happy that is not an orc.”

There was something in his grim humor that actually made Boromir grin. “We shouldn’t wait for them either.”

Kili took the lead as they headed into the dark again. His torch gave a minimal light allowing Boromir to see where they were going. He had the distinct impression that Kili knew his way around these tunnels. Dwarves were said to be at home under the great mountains of the west after all. The notion was strongly reinforced when their path began to lead upwards and a fresh breeze of air touched them. They passed through a narrow gap and suddenly they stood outside again. It was dark, night had fallen but the rain had passed.

In the end Boromir did not know how long they had run, when the sun rose it finally ended. He was tired, stumbling with exhaustion. They had reached a wide vale of woods and rocks, some grassy patches in between were yellow with the dying grass of summer.

Kili exhaled sharply. “Lets find a place to hide and rest.”

“Are you sure we got far enough away from them?  Boromir asked in spite of his exhaustion. “There may be more orcs nearby.”

“Show me the place in the lone lands where they aren’t close…” Kili growled. “I still know some hideouts that they haven’t found yet… daylight will be a much better protection against them.”

The hideout proved to be a tall, pillarlike rock with a den deep enough to hide a small fire on top. How Kili managed to light the timbers to burn was another matter entirely. “Where did they capture you?” he asked.

“They didn’t. I hid from the storm in a cave.” Boromir explained. “I don’t know what exactly happened.”

There was something akin to grim amusement shining in Kili’s eyes. “The very same happened to some of my kin once and got us landed right under Gundalbad mount. Most caves in these parts are dangerous.” Dark eyes surveyed Boromir across the fire. “What brings a son of Gondor so deep into the lone lands?”

There was that word again – the lone lands. A term that made Boromir shiver. Was that all that was left of Anor  and her glory? Even of her memory? A land overrun by orcs, given up upon by everyone? “I am on my way to Rivendell. Denethor, Steward of Gondor has send me there. I kept to the mountains hoping to find it.”

“If the elves call a place the hidden valley it’s hard to find,” Kili observed dryly. “and the path leading from the mountains into Rivendell is even harder to find than the Bruinen ford.”

“You know where it is?” Boromir asked, his hopes getting up.

“Aye, I came through there years ago with my kind.” Kili deftly fished an old iron pot from the fire. “You are far off your road, Boromir of Gondor, you have strayed far to the north but I will help you to get to Imladris if you’ll have me.”

Boromir’s eyes perked up. “I never told you my name.” he said, suddenly tense again.

“No – but that sword you wear was actually commissioned by Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor for his eldest son. It has been wielded by the Steward’s eldest son ever since. I know for Ecthelion had one of my kin make it.”

Boromir’s hand fell to the hilt of the familiar blade. He knew what Kili had said was true – Ecthelion had had a blacksmith from foreign lands make the sword because the man’s work had been unsurpassed. Had that stranger maybe not been a man at all but a dwarf? It was well possible, if Kili’s looks were any indication what his kin was like. “I’ll be grateful for what help you will give,” Boromir eventually replied. He was injured, exhausted and had been hunted through the strangest of orc dens… but the prospect of finally being on the right track was all he needed to recover quickly.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The death of men

Boromir stopped at the end oft he barely visible path, ahead lay another wide valley. Grass, rocks, scarce trees and a view of rolling hills stretching to the horizon; that’s what the north seemed to be composed of. He had seen many places from the White Mountains to the southern coast, from the wide plains of Rohan to the borderlands of Mordor but nothing like this wild land. It touched something in him he could not name. Far off to the west the tips of another mountain range cast blue and grey shadows into the autumn sky. “Those mountains, are they…?”

“The Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains near the ancient lands of Forlindon.” Kili replied, catching up with him. While the dwarf was visible at home in these parts and well familiar with the paths and trails of this land Boromir still was the faster marcher by a long stride. If the dwarf noticed at all it did not seem to bother him.

“How long until we get to Rivendell?” Boromir did not want to sound impatient but the sheer size of this land made him wonder.

“Two weeks, maybe three.” Kili shrugged. “We need to steer clear of the Ettenmoors and we don’t want to get any closer to the Trollshaws than we have to. And that means crossing Rhudaur until we can get to the Great East Road.” He moved ahead downhill, heading slightly more southwest then before.

“Rhudaur was part of Anor,” Boromir mused. “are there still people in this land who could aid us? Or provide horses?”

“Very few people live in this land, there may be a settlement here or there but I do expect little help there. A stable to sleep in is as much as we may hope for.” Kili replied picking up the pace.

The day proved hard for Boromir, not the march itself, though. He could keep up well with the seemingly inexhaustible dwarf. No, it was the ruins that began to appear on the tops of hills or in the vales. Ruins of Towers, of houses and bridges, remains of an entire civilization vanished. Many of them showed signs of violent destruction if you had the eye to discern a wall torn by a catapult or the collapse a wild fire would cause. He hardly noticed Kili shooting two hares that had come too close.

“There,” the afternoon was already wearing late when Kili pointed ahead. Down in the valley below them were a few ruins, remains of a wall and a tower. Boromir spotted the traces of few stone houses that once had stood there. A small well defended settlement it had once been. Down in the deep ground of the valley he could see graves – the typical barrow mounds Arnor’s people had built for their dead.

“We’ll camp there for the night. Easy to defend in case we have to.”

“I’ll go and gather some wood,” Boromir said, heading past the dwarf and towards a patch of trees to their left. It did not take much searching to find a fallen tree and break it into serviceable chunks that would last long into the night. The work allowed Boromir to release some pent up emotions. He was almost angry at his companion who walked through this sad land with a casual acceptance of someone who did not see the tragedy of what had happened to this place. How could he not see? Or was it simply that the dwarf cared little for the fate of the human kingdom?

The sun was setting slowly when Boromir brought the last of the firewood to the tower, Kili would hopefully have found water already. The last light of the sun touched the empty window in the tower’s west side, warm rays bathing it beautifully. For a moment Boromir could imagine the tower still standing, people walking here, horses in the stables, guards… Was this what would remain of Gondor too? Ruins and a memory? A memory swiftly forgotten by those still alive?

Kili came out to help him carry the rest of the wood inside. “Lets get inside – who knows what will be creeping about after dark.”

“Is this all you care for?” Boromir snapped, his words sharper than he meant to. “This was once a village of men, people living here. This was their homeland and now look at it… broken, crushed… all but forgotten. Their entire homeland sunk to ashes.” He brushed past the dwarf and walked inside. “They fought Angmar and when they broke who cared to remember?”

“In my experience the world will not care for those broken or cast out,” Kili’s words were grim, short and did nothing to actually assuage Boromir’s stormy feelings. He had squatted down beside the ancient fireplace, clearing away leaves and small rubble. “That’s strange…” his eyes narrowed.

“What?” Boromir asked not seeing what in the pile of rubble on the fireplace was so strange.

“These stones, they were placed here like this deliberately.” Kili explained patiently like it was obvious. “someone wanted to make it appear like this fireplace had been buried under rubble a long time ago already.” He turned to his pack to produce some tool for digging up the fireplace.

“No.” Boromir stopped him. “whatever is buried in there – it probably belonged to the people who lived here. When they had to flee they buried their possessions for the day they returned. We shouldn’t steal them.” He could see in Kili’s gaze that the dwarf was about to point out that it was centuries ago and no one had returned. “I won’t be part to stealing from those who’d be my people.”

Kili shrugged and returned to building a fire. It did not take long and the fire flickered merrily at the broken tower walls, the two hares roasting above. Boromir had sat down with a bit distance, leaning his back against the old stones, he still felt it hard to calm himself.

“I know it is hard to bear,” Kili suddenly spoke up. “to see the land of one’s people, one’s kind destroyed like that. To know no one will ever come home again… it hurts, and it should. But their memory is not dead, nor is this land entirely forgotten.”

“And how would you know?” Boromir asked, reigning in his hard tone. He could see the dwarf was trying to understand, to reach out. He actually was a good companion to try and not to be indignated for being snapped at.

“More than 200 years ago the dragon Smaug attacked the dwarven kingdom Erebor, driving my people from their mountain home.” Kili responded, his voice softening. “they fled, wandering the wide world, working among men, settling here and there where they could find a place. Me… I was born after, having never seen the mountain home. My mother and my Uncle would tell me of the Lonely Mountain, of our homeland… and when they spoke of it there was a pain, a great sadness in their eyes.”

Surprised Boromir looked at the dwarf on the other side of the fire. He recalled history, there had been a great number of wandering dwarves a bit more than two centuries ago. Many a good construction work in Gondor had been accomplished making use of these extra wandering workers. He knew little else of this. “Where was your father?” he asked, noticing how Kili only mentioned his mother.

“Dead. He fell in battle against the Orcs when I was very young. My Uncle was more of a father to my brother me – the only father I can remember. He took us in and eventually helped us to settle in the Ered Luin.”

“Does he still live there?” Boromir had seen the far away mountain range, wondering if there were any northern mountains unsettled by dwarves.

“No. He too fell in battle… as did my brother.” Kili’s eyes were on the fire, for a moment a deep sadness shone in those dark orbs but when he looked up it was gone, locked away. “Hope does not die.” He added more firmly. “It was my Uncle who led our people to reclaim the mountain home when I was young warrior. Many then argued that we had a new home in the Ered Luin, we were even prospering after a fashion, why risk our lives for something dead and gone?”

“Because it is home.” Boromir spoke with conviction he well understood what Kili meant. He only wished he knew more of Dwarven history, but whenever he had needed such tidbits of information – which had been nearly never – he had simply turned to his younger brother who would provide them.

“Boromir? Are you alright?” Kili had noticed his absent gaze short as it had been.

“I am – you just made me think of my younger brother.” To his own surprise Boromir found himself smiling. “He would know the kingdom you speak off, when it fell and when it was retaken – including your Uncle who led you back there. He must have been a mighty warrior.”

“That he was,” Kili reached over the fire and got the grilled hare off the pick, handing it to Boromir. “Tell me of your brother. Is he a warrior like you?”

“No… he is more a warrior in your vein, a quick archer and swift runner.” Boromir’s voice became fond when he spoke of his brother. “Faramir loves lore and learning, books and scrolls. He prefers wisdom over weapons. Were these more peaceful times he would become a renowned scholar. How did you become an archer? Forgive me for saying so your people have little reputation with the bow and more with their axes.”

Now it was Kili’s turn to laugh. “I learned it during our travels. My mother took very sick when I was about 30 that’s barely half grown by dwarven standards. Sif, a former serving woman and now innkeeper agreed to take care of her, but she could not handle two extra mouths to feed let alone two young boys. So my Uncle took us along when he went wandering again. We were old enough to help around the forge and that way he could earn the money for mother’s healing and keep us fed. For one whole long summer we were camped outside that fortress of men that you call Dol Amroth making swords, armor and horse shoes for some clash with Umbar. There was a young human – Berengil was his name – the son of some nobleman who had employed our Uncle’s services. He would often come down to us in the evenings to talk – he taught me how to use a bow. My Uncle approved as it made me better able to defend myself on our wanderings.”

“Berengil of Dol Amroth taught you how to shoot?” Now there was a name Boromir could place even as the man they spoke of was long dead and buried. It drove home the point that Kili was probably already older than any man could get and not yet at the end of his people’s lifespan. “He fell in a skirmish near Osgiliath decades ago.”

“His ancestors receive him with praise,” Kili whispered softly, a dwarven blessing for the dead. Kili was gazing into the flames, as if he was seeing the things he had spoken of in the fire’s dancing shades. The light of the flame was mirrored in his eyes and played upon his features.

Boromir’s thoughts were interrupted abruptly, when a painful yell ripped apart the silence of the night. Like an answer a fierce pitched howl echoed the night. It was the rough, beast like howling of a giant wolf.

Kili jumped to his feet. “Wargpack” he snapped. “they are hunting again.” His voice echoed worries and uncertainty at the same moment.  Another yell rang hollow in the silence of the night. It was much nearer than before and they heard quite clearly now that it was no Orc or goblin screamingbut a man.

Boromir could easily tell that Kili was not cold towards the person in danger out there but that experience and caution made him hesitate to act. “From where does it come?” he therefore asked.

“The other side of the valley by the old tombs.” was the prompt answer. The howling ripped apart the night again, louder and more angry this time. The voices of the Orcs joined the angry chorus. Their blood hungry screams were carried by the wind, echoing through the darkness. “They have not caught him by now.” Kili murmbered.

„Can we help?“ Boromir now asked directly.

Kili listened intently to the howls that were drawing nearer and nearer. “We can help him. Do we dare to? It’s a whole bunch out there and the Orc pack won’t be far behind.”

“What are we waiting for?” Boromir asked, he had not doubt that the man who had rescued him in the orc caves would not leave someone else to the wolves.

“The dark take it, you are right.” Kili growled then they hastened outside. A chill wind was sweeping across the hillside. He took the shortest way down to the ruins of the old gravesite. “They are chasing him down the vale directly towards us. We can cut them off.”  He jumped over a fallen tree trunk, agile as a cat without even slowing down.

They reached the valleyground, ahead of them the shapes of the barrows stood in the darkness like shadows before an even grimmer night. The wind had picked up strength; cold gales whirled through the barrows, dead leaves dancing in the nightly air. The clouds were ripped apart by the gale and the pale light of the moon flooded over the barrows. In the silvery shine Boromir saw a figure stumble towards them, he did not hesitate to race towards him, supporting the man in the last steps towards them.

A growl rose behind him. He turned around to see a huge wolf-like creature with an Orc on it’s back racing towards him. The creature jumped but before it reached him it was killed by an arrow to the eye. The angry Orc was upon Boromir within moments. His head falling from Boromir’s blade.

More angry howls rose. Quickly Boromir ushered the injured man into the relative cover of the barrow, he and Kili taking position left and right in the narrow opening between the two barrows. Back to back they stood as the wargs swooped down. Boromir had never seen such creatures, Mordor did not used their kind, they were huge and fierce. When the next jumped him he ducked, ramming his sword into the beast’s belly. It worked but nearly ripped him off his feet. It was only the beginning.

He’d never know how many he had fought, had Boromir not been hardened by a life fighting Mordor he may not have lasted through that stand. The Wargs had been first to swoop down, followed by Orcs. Their only luck was that these Orcs had no archers. Between the dark barrows they were forced to attack in small groups giving them a chance to cut through them as they came. Still when they drew off at the hour of dawn Boromir had been wondering if this would be their end soon enough. They both were injured, bleeding and exhausted. It was the sun that decided this fight in their favour.

He turned around to see Kili lean heavily on his sword. The dwarf had a gory gash in the left side and was pale as dawn itself. “Kili,” Boromir hurried over, ever the captain, checking at once on his men.

The dwarf waved it off. “Lets see whom we saved first.” He said, pointing to the figure sitting on the ground, leaning against the cold side of the barrow. But this was a useless errand to make as Boromir could clearly see the sun reflected in the man’s broken eyes.

***

“He was so young,” Boromir shook his head in resignation. “what could have brought him out into the night to be hunted?” Again his eyes strayed to the corpse. The man… he hardly dared using the word, was young barely twenty if guesses could tell.

“That’s what I am wondering too.” Kili was sitting on a rock beside the barrow, wrapping up some remaining bandages. They both had been in need of those and had taken care of each other’s injuries. “There used to be a settlement about five miles in the direction he came from. Not the friendliest place I recall but it sits right on the trail coming from Archet and leading to the old Framsburg pass.”

“Maybe someone there knows him – or can claim his body for burial.” Boromir harbored no illusions that they had they had the means to properly bury the boy. “At least they may know what drove him to travel at night.”

Kili stood up he was still pale from loss of blood but walked without aid. “Let’s gather our belongings and be on our way. The sooner we get there the greater the chance they can recover the body before night falls again.”

An hour after dawn the wind returned and string gales parted the heavy mists that had enveloped the hills. This day Boromir did not walk ahead as he had done in previous days. He had well noticed that Kili had lost a lot of blood thanks to that gash in his side and so he kept to his companion’s side during their walk. Sometimes he marveled on the dwarf’s endurance, they truly were made from stone – unbreakable. “Those wolves,” he began when the clear morning light was upon them. “what are they?”

“Wargs,” Kili corrected. “They are a remnant of Angmar – or some say even Angband itself. The Orcs have some alliance with them and use them to ride and track. When you have them on your trail it is hard to shake them off – they find your smell. Their packs breed in the wilds north of the Ettenmoors – in the dark lands south of Carn Dum. I do not know why the eastern Orcs won’t use them.”

“An alliance? Are you saying these beasts think and speak?” Boromir did not doubt Kili knew what he was on about, but he wanted to learn all he could about this new foe and quickly. Who knew how much aid and auxiliaries Barad Dur would be able to summon from the North?

“They do, they are Draugluin’s children after all. Wargs come by tribes united under one leader – at least at times. The white warg held all the tribes in thrall. They have been fractured for decades after the White Warg fell… but recently there have been rumors of a new Wolfking having risen up north. Bad tidings if it proves true.”

“Are they in league with Mordor?” Boromir regretted speaking the name at once for a cold gust of fell wind swooped over them. He shivered. Had the dark Lord’s reach grown that long already?

“No one knows for sure but all evil creatures are drawn there. It wouldn’t surprise me.” Kili stopped suddenly his eyes on the ridge west of them. Smoke curled above it, not the smoke of hearth fires but the black smoke of a much bigger blaze slowly burning out. Without wasting another moment Kili began running, Boromir following right behind. They made their way downhill and up the other side. There was a shepherd’s path up there and they quickly enough reached the hilltop. On the other side they could see the settlement – or what was left of it. Black smoke rose from the building, the wind smelled of fire, ash and burned flesh.

Raising his arm Boromir shielded his eyes from the smoke the wind drove towards them. “Could he have fled this?” he felt sure it had to be the reason why that nameless youth had run into the night. Why the Orcs had been after him.

Kili did not respond but went on towards the smoldering ruins. Yet he did not enter them but stopped at the path leading towards them just outside the former village and squatted down. Boromir understood at once what Kili was doing and was extra careful to not step into any tracks. The dwarf rose after a few moments looking left and right, returning back to the path eventually. “Orcs and Warg-riders – at least fifty likely more,” he said. “Most of them came from the east and circled the village. And one rider on a horse” he pointed on the muddy path. “he met with three Warg-riders here. The Orc leaders most likely. They dismounted and…”

Boromir saw Kili’s puzzled glance go to some larger forms in the mud. “They threw themselves into the mud,” he observed. “they were afraid of something – or they showed their submission. Orcs will do that when faced with fearsome power.” The Orcs of Mordor’s legions would be made do that before their Haradrim Captains. 

“I have never seen them do something like that.” Kili frowned, his eyes still on the tracks. “they rose and turned…”

“Back to their troops and attacking the village. Whoever the rider was he ordered them to attack.” Boromir could see that clearly. He asked himself what sick man or creature had loosened the Orcs on a human settlement but the tracks clearly said what had happened. “Let’s look for survivors – it’s all we can do now.”

The buildings were still sweltering, small fires still aglow in between glowing timbers and still smoking ashes. There were bodies inside, badly burned bodies of people who had been trapped inside their burning homes. Others lay outside cut down by Orc sabers and axes. A few seemed to have been dragged to the center of the village square where at least one of them had been nailed to the village tree. When Boromir headed that way Kili stopped him. “Don’t,” he said softly. “you don’t want to see that. They always have their sport if they can have it.”

For a moment Boromir wanted to shake off the hand on his arm and tell Kili to stop patronizing him but the expression in the dwarf’s eyes stopped him. The pained, haunted look that shone in Kili’s eyes told him the dwarf knew all too well what he was speaking of – of horrors he had seen and survived. He did not mean to patronize but protect a friend. “I have seen horrors before, Kili,” Boromir said calmer. “no one lives on the dark land’s borders and hasn’t.”

It was a nightmare, like a tale of horrors that was whispered about in the dark of night, not quite believed yet not quite disregarded either. Boromir had known the Orcs would have tortured the villagers, for information and for fun, they were cruel beings but this… he only understood what Kili had meant with “their sport” when he saw some of the bodies. He shuddered, not wanting to think what these people had gone through before they had been permitted to die. And then there was the fireplace… had the Orcs truly roasted some of their captives over the fires and eaten them? He had heard that they sometimes would eat their own kind. In the heat still emanating from the buildings the smell of the burned bodies hung all the heavier. There were no survivors here whether this was cruelty or mercy was not to be said. Their departure from this world had already been needlessly brutal.

“Boromir, over here,”

He was grateful for Kili’s call. The dwarf stood at the other side of the square, beside one building that had been built from stone and was less damaged. He was already moving aside some timbers that had fallen from the neighboring house and were blocking access. “That’s Bran’s forge,” Kili explained. “if he was still inside when the burning began…”

It was a sensible thing to build a forge from stone and there might be someone alive inside Boromir would admit. If the Orcs had not searched the place beforehand. Nevertheless he helped Kili to clear away the timbers. The dwarf was far less uncomfortable between the fires and the hot ash, he often would grab still glowing timbers and move them without the slightest fear.

From the inside they could hear a low grown, the first sound of a living being in this wretched place. They worked faster and soon they could enter what had been the main forge. Leaning against the back wall sat a broad-shouldered man, a spear through the shoulder nailing him to the wall, his face pale. Two dead orcs lay inside the forge as well, the blacksmith had not been taken without a fight.

“Bran!” Kili exclaimed hurrying to his side.

“Kili…” the man coughed. “whom are your bringing? You usually don’t run in the company of Rangers.” His eyes pointing towards Boromir who had entered after Kili.

“Oh shut up, Bran, and hold still. I’m going to pull that spear out. Boromir, we need to bandage him quickly or he’ll bleed to death.”

“Too late,” Bran groaned as the spear was pulled out in one go. Boromir pressed the bandage cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding but the black blood seeping from the wound soaked it quickly. “The spear was poisoned,” Bran panted. “they did not want survivors. We had not seen them… and still they wanted no survivors.”

Kili too saw the black blood on the bandage and met Boromir’s eyes. The quiet shake of his head was all it needed to tell Boromir that it was exactly as the man had already feared.

“Can’t we do anything?” Boromir asked still. “Cauterize the wound? Clean it?” Even if the man lost his arm it might help saving him from the spreading poison. The healers of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith had saved Boromir a couple of times from Orc poisons, even from a poisoned Southron arrow once but he had always been in their reach and had never asked how they had managed to pull him back from the brink of death.

“Had we found him within an hour or two of the injury maybe.” Kili stated grimly, “Now I doubt even an elven healer could save him.”

“It’s too late for me, Kili,” Bran looked at the dwarf. “it’s like you to come here to help at the first sign of trouble. But this time it’s truly too late. I… I wouldn’t want to live when all my people have been butchered.” A shiver ran through his body herald if a cold creeping into his bones. “But we truly did not see them.”

“See whom?” Kili asked, seeing how Bran’s mind went back to what had happened again and again. The dwarf hated to be unable to do anything, to having to sit here and watch the blacksmith die. He had been one of the few truly friendly people in this place and Kili had liked him well.

“A rider came here two days ago,” Bran whispered. “he came from Archet, following some people who had been seen there. He searched for them. We had not seen anyone on the Archet road in days and days. He did not believe us, in the night he brought the Orcs down on us.”

“Who was the rider?” Boromir asked remembering the tracks outside the village. Somewhere in his heart an unrest grew like he should recognize something, something that was obvious but that he still was missing.

“I don’t know. Black horse… black cloak, strange voice,” Bran coughted again his entire body shaking. He grasped Boromir’s hand with the desperate strength of a man on the threshold of death. “I swear we did not see anyone. No one. We have not seen Baggins.”

“Baggins?!” Kili nearly shouted the word, his eyes going wide.

“They are searching for Baggins,” Bran’s words fell to a whisper, his breathing became a hiss before his body sacked to the side and death followed swiftly.

Chapter Text

With two strokes of his mighty axe Kili cut through the beams still supporting the roof collapsing the failing rooftop on the building. The only grave he could give Bran, the only grave pressing time would permit. Ashes flared up when the building collapsed, but Kili paid it no heed. He picked up his pack and set off west, where the path to Archet wound through the vale’s. He did not follow it but chose the shorter if harder route uphill.

Boromir followed him swiftly. He did not know where Kili was going but did not ask. He had seen the expression in Kili’s face when the word “Baggins” was mentioned. He had no idea what a Baggins was – a thing, a creature, maybe a place even. But he had recognized the fear in Kili’s eyes. It was a well familiar fear when someone suddenly realized someone or someplace close was in danger from the enemy. Under almost any other circumstances he would have asked his companion for directions to continue to Rivendell and given his own quest priority. But not now. For one he owed Kili his life for the rescue in the caves and on the other… the burned village still haunted his mind. This land was wild, there was no one, no king nor steward to send troops to drive of the pillaging orcs, there was no city to flee to or find aid at. These people were standing on their own, on what little strength they could muster and Boromir felt compelled of at least not allowing more harm to come of this.

As the day wore on Kili did not slow down the least. Boromir had believed that the dwarf had been marching at quick speed before but now Kili truly made haste and seemed to know little exhaustion. Only when night fell Boromir began to guess why. They had reached another hill dale like so many others they had crossed before. But this too held a settlement. Small though it was it held a number of low sturdy stone buildings and some other buildings that reminded him of a crushing mill. He spotted a dark hole in the hillside. A mine!

When they came down the hillside towards where a path led past the two outermost buildings into the settlement itself; they were suddenly cut off by two small armed figures. They were not quite five foot tall, axes in hand. Their bearded faces and thick hair left little doubt of what kind they were and for a moment they looked at all ready to cut them down on the spot. But they relaxed visibly when they saw Boromir’s companion. “Kili.” One spoke in a deep gravelly voice. “it is good to see you.”

“Nari, well met indeed.” Kili greeted the other dwarf, he clearly knew these people. “I wish I were bringing less grim tidings. Watchhill was burned by Orcs only last night. I need to speak to Bofur right away.”

“So that’s why you travel with a ranger,” Nari observed grimly. “go down to his house, I’ll send word for him. He may still be downhole.”

“Thank you, Nari. And be on your guard – these Orcs were searching for something.”

They headed down into the settlement. Boromir paid close attention what he saw as they passed through. Grey field stones had been used to pave the main ways of the village and all buildings were built from the same grey stone material. The houses were not beautiful, not even nice, but they were sturdy, thickwalled, with stone roofs and small windows. They had been built with defense in mind. Other buildings belonged clearly to the settlement’s operation. He saw a mine, crushing mill, a smeltery, he could see the tip was on the other side of the dale. “A copper mine?” he asked seeing some of the material at the crushing mill.

“Iron mostly,” Kili replied.

It made sense, most iron mines had a fair chance to prosper as iron was always in demand. While they walked Boromir could not help to notice the many different dwarves he spotted at work all around. There must be a good thirty or forty of them and only very few looked the drawings he recalled from Faramir’s books. None looked quite like Kili either. They all seemed to have propensity for hair though – thick, wild, sometimes braided, mingling with long beards. Most of them conversed in a language Boromir did not understand, dwarven speech he concluded.

When they reached the quarter stone houses that seemed to be the miner’s homes another dwarf came rushing at them. He was nearly five foot high and whore a remarkable grey moustache. His hair must have been dark once but now was all grey. “Kili!” He called out as he reached them.

Both dwarves greeted with a hug. “Kili,” the new arrival repeated. “I… you get more similar with your Uncle with every passing year.” he clasped Kili’s shoulder. “a bit of fur here and you’d look much like him. When I just saw you stride in here I could have sworn it was him.”

Kili’s smile was a soft one, holding past fondness and sadness as well. “Dwalin said the same once, Bofur.” He said. “I wish I was just here to talk of old times.”

“Nari’s message said there was trouble afoot,” Bofur said. “but who’s your companion, a Ranger?”

“No, he is Boromir of Gondor, who is on his way to Imladris.”

The dwarf bowed deeply. “Bofur at your service.”

Boromir recalled Kili having done the same at their first meeting, so it had to be some kind of dwarven politeness. “And yours,” he replied with a light bow of his own.

It seemed to satisfy propriety because Bofur’s attention shifted back to Kili. “What happened? Nari said something about Watchhill.”

“It was burned by Orcs last night, Bofur. They left no one alive. Their leader – a rider upon a black horse – is searching for Baggins.” Kili quickly recounted all they had found in the burned village.

“Baggins… oh no.” It was clear to Boromir that this dwarf too knew that word. Could it be a Dwarven name? Or maybe some kind of Dwarven homestead? “Do you know why?”

“No. Bran told me what he could before he died. It was not more than what I just shared.”

Bofur’s face set in a determined expression. “You will need a fast horse and someone to bring your friend to Rivendell. I’ll send my son with him, Bladvila knows the way.” He announced.

Now Boromir understood why Kili had headed here so fast. It was for help and for keeping his word to Boromir. “There will be no need of that,” he spoke up. “I will go with Kili and help to thwart whatever these Orcs are planning.”

Now both dwarves looked at him surprise. “Kili’s kin always claimed the people of Gondor were a proud and noble kind,” Bofur stated when Kili did not react at once. “they were right. Do you dare to stay for the night or will you press on?”

“I’d be most grateful for a place to sleep for a few hours, Bofur before we head on.” Kili told him. “We have had little rest these last days.”

They sat by the fire in Bofur’s home, the soup and bread had been good as was the warmth of the fireplace. “Baggins…” Bofur said softly, shaking his head. “after all these years. I still don’t understand it, Kili. Halflings keep to themselves. Bilbo was the great exception to come with us and… why would the Orcs hunt him now? Of all who were there the day Azog fell – they certainly came for you and I am sure they tried Dwalin a few times… but Bilbo?”

“So Baggins is a person?” Boromir asked, when Kili did not respond directly to Bofur’s words. It was easy enough to tell that Kili was worried, truly worried. So Baggins was a name and he might know the person attached to it. Any person being hunted by Orcs and someone able to command Orcs was someone to be worried for, Boromir agreed.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bofur confirmed. “he came with us to the Lonely Mountain when Thorin led us back there. Bilbo was a burglar an expert treasure hunter, our Hobbit.” The last words were spoken with a great deal of warmth and fondness. 

“A Halfling,” Kili provided seeing Boromir’s confusion at the word “Hobbit.”

This made Boromir sit up straight all tiredness gone. He had heard that word before, in the dream Faramir had related to him, the very dream that had send him on the search for Imladris.

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

He did not know what those words meant but suddenly he was sure that all of this was no coincidence. Somehow a Halfling was tied into the prophetic dream of Boromir’s brother and somehow now one of them was hunted by the servants of the enemy. There could be no doubt. Still, he had no clue was a Hobbit actually was. “A Halfling?” Boromir therefore asked. Not even Faramir had been able to make much sense of the word, except linking it to a fairy tale from Rohan. “Like Holbytla? The hill people from Rohan’s fairy tales?”

“They are hill dwellers, true but fairy tales they are not. They live to the west, south of the Ered Luin.” Bofur provided. “they are farmers, gardeners and as kind and as peaceful a people as you’ll find left in this world. They also can be exceptionally brave. Bilbo saved our hides a few times, freed us from the dungeons in Mirkwood, scouted a dragon’s lair…”

“And he saved my life after the Battle of the Five Armies. I was only found so quickly thanks to him.” Kili added, interrupting Bofur’s flow of words.

It was easy to see that there was a whole tale about that, Boromir wished they had more time and less pressing needs at hand so he could hear it. “What made him come with you?” he asked. “If he was no dwarf he would not have held any loyalty to your kingdom, did he?”

“No.” Bofur said. “but you see, Thorin had agreed to let Gandalf chose the fourteenth member of our company. And he chose Bilbo.”

It was not the mention of the wizard that made Boromir frown. “Wait – you went with barely more than a dozen men to reclaim a kingdom and to face down a dragon? That is brave beyond imagining. But… why then do you still live here in the west?”

Suddenly Bofur seemed uneasy. “That’s a long story Boromir and you will want to ride by first light.” He said. “I can’t offer you much more than a place before the fire to sleep, but you will want any rest you can get. Kili…”

It was still dark when Boromir heard the steps approaching. By the sounds it was Bofur even as dawn should at least be another two hours away. “Kili,” Bofur slightly shook Kili by the shoulder. “Kili… wake up. Something is going on.”

Kili sat up, grabbing his sword. “Attackers?” He asked softly, at once ready to fight.

“No, but Bladvila just alerted me that something strange is happening south. You should come see.” Bofur held a small shielded lamp in one hand and his mining hammer in the other. He led them outside and up the stairs outside another home which stood somewhat elevated and served as a lookout post.

Standing atop the sturdy stone platform Bofur pointed south where lightning was ripping apart the night sky. At first one might easily be fooled to think of it as a late autumn thunderstorm but Boromir quickly noticed that it was too localized. The lightning occurred only in one spot as did other lights. “That must be Weathertop,” Kili observed.

“Aye, I was thinking the same,” Bofur agreed. “but what does it mean Kili? It’s not a storm nor is it firelight.”

“They searched for Baggins on the Archet road,” Boromir said slowly, putting together the disjointed pieces of information like he was working out what the reported enemy movements meant. “you said Archet was to the southwest of us. What if Baggins – or whatever they believe for Baggins – gave them slip and headed straight west instead of northwest? And now they are back on their trail?”

The two dwarves exchanged a glance and there was little doubt they both agreed. They hurried down the stairs again and Bofur already send someone to wake his son to have the horses readied. Kili went back to the house to quickly gather up their packs. Boromir saw Bofur still stare south, hand on his huge mining hammer. “Tis’ like a storm is brewing,” the dwarf said in a low voice. “like soon we’ll have to put aside the tools and take up the axes again. I should have spoken to Dwalin.” He suddenly woke from his reverie and looked at Boromir, realizing he had heard. “I’m sorry…” he began.

“No,” Boromir said. “you are right. There is a darkness gathering even here and seeing your people ready for it is more than prudent a thought.” He did not know what else to say. At least the Orcs would not find easy pickings in this settlement.

***

The third evening hence found Boromir and Kili still riding south, they had passed through Rhudaur, passed by the trollshaws and now approached the weatherhills from the east. Pressed for time they had only allowed for breaks such as their horses would need. Boromir was not quite sure what he should call his mount, it was taller than a normal pony but most certainly closely related to a cart horse but not quite as tall. Yet it had carried him speedily uphill and downhill across bad grounds and barely passable paths, what it lacked in looks it made up with its sturdy qualities. Kili’s horse was in the same vein, only that it was nearly too tall for him.

The day had been a cold and windy one and now as the sun set her fiery rays touched upon the largest hill ahead, crowned by some ruins of sorts. Boromir was not sure he liked it. His initially fascination with the ruins of Anor had faded and made room for a healthy weariness. It seemed that such places either held bad memories, were haunted by things better unnamed or had become dens for all kinds of creatures. He knew it would take him a while so see any ruin as something else than a place of dangers when he returned home. “That ruin – is that weathertop?” he asked, the first time in the three days they spoke something beyond the barest necessity.

Kili peered ahead. “Watchtower of Amon Sul, called Weathertop these days. Not a place I particularly like – the Orcs and Goblins have been using it as a lookout as much as any other might in this land. Bilbo would know better than to camp at a location that exposed.” They had allowed their horses a short stop in the shadow of some rocks, not a real rest, just a short stop.

Boromir studied the grounds ahead of them. Some miles were still left and grounds did not look easy either, if they pressed on they might reach the tower before midnight. He bit back a yawn that wanted to sneak up on him. They both had hardly had more than five hours sleep each during the last days. It was nothing to Boromir, he had gone without sleep or rest for longer times before.

Suddenly he felt Kili’s strong hand on his arm. “Don’t move, don’t break cover,” the dwarf whispered, his eyes peering past the rock and south.

Boromir was careful to not get out of the cover the rocks provided as he ducked slightly to have a look as well. Past the rock he could see the hills falling more and more towards a road running west. Far away, touched by the last rays of sunlight he could see a rider on the rode. One rider on a dark horse. He could not make out much more it was too far away but he felt a warning fear clasp his heart like an icy clutch. Danger was here… the hunt was on.

“They are still searching, means they have not caught him yet.” Kili whispered, tension clear in his voice.

Boromir had to agree with the dwarf’s pragmatic view. He pushed aside the doubt gnawing at him. Since when did he listen to fears and superstitions? Boromir had never had the luxury to listen to his fears or speak of them. He had to be strong for those he led and thus he ignored the feeling of fear entirely. “Let’s wait until night falls,” he said calmly. “we leave the horses here and move on foot. Less chance they will see us. If they want to go up there we can flank them.”

“Agreed.” The sun faded from the skies and dusk settled upon them, Boromir could never quite tell when the rider had vanished from the road. Yet all of sudden he was gone.

It was a stormy autumn night that the two companions approached Weathertop. A pale moon shone down from clear skies bathing the land in an eerie light, casting long shadows across the rugged landscape. Each bush shaking in the gales, each tree bending to the wind caused wild movements in the dark until not even the sharpest eye could tell what was there. Sometimes Boromir had a hard time to still spot Kili who went ahead of him, ducked the dwarf moved through what once might have been a trench of sorts. Even while they moved swiftly it took them hours to cross the rough grounds. Sometime in the dead of night they had believed to see light on Weathertop again and heard fell voices over the wind but both had been short-lived.

Now that the silent hours before dawn were upon them they finally reached the path that wound up Weathertop. Kili ducked behind a rock, peering ahead. Boromir caught up with him, squatting down to take cover. “What is it?” he whispered.

“I believed to see a glow in the den below the tower, where we saw the light earlier.” Kili responded. “it flickered up and out.”

“In that moonlight it could be anything,” Boromir had not seen the light but with the moon playing constant pranks on their eyes he had stopped even trying to notice. Better to overlook something than to be driven mad by things that were not there.

“Aye, let us approach the den first and then go up the tower.” Kili rose and took the lead again. There was a very narrow path winding up the side of the rock, for Boromir it was not hard to guess that these once had been stairs leading up to the tower’s postern. What once had been a small but well defendable set of stairs was now a broken path hardly broad enough to allow them passage. Often enough they had to go with their backs to the rock and in the constant danger of falling. The stairs led to a dead end right under the den. Kili simply reached up with one hand, grabbing the ledge above and deftly climbed up. For taller Boromir it was easier to follow him up there. To his surprise they emerged right in front of something that once might have been a cellar of the tower and now was an open den facing outward from the hill.

A gust of wind blowing into the hole revealed another flicker of light and suddenly Boromir understood. “Someone made a fire in this cave and did not extinguish it fully. The embers are still glowing.” He hurried over and found it as he had guessed. The fire was nearly dead but a few remaining embers were sill aglow. Kili had followed him bringing a branch to light on the dying embers. The warm light of the torch filled the cave, the glow softly shining.

“Several people camped here,” it was easy to see the traces of that but another detail quickly drew Boromir’s attention. "they went barefeet.”

“Hobbits do not wear shoes,” Kili replied, his eyes shining. “there were several of them. At least he’s not alone. But they left… going up to the tower.”

They followed up a narrow stairwell that left to the broken tower’s remains. Not that there was much, a round place with several stone arches. Whatever glory the Tower of Amon Sûl once may have had, it was long gone leaving only crumbling ruins behind. Kili placed the torch on a broken pillar so it would lend then some light and not burn out. Not that there was much to see. There were no tracks to read on the stone ground of the tower nor any hints of what might have transpired here.

Following what made most sense to him Boromir approached the broad stone arch that once had held the main gate. If someone had left the tower towards the road it would have been through this one. Maybe that was what the halflings had done moving on before dawn.

When he stepped out under the wide stone arch he saw a movement in the darkness, like the darkness itself moving, rippling. Only moments late he saw the rider. One rider on a black horse, a black cloak enveloping the whole figure stood on the pathway leading up to the tower. A cold wave washed over Boromir when a familiar fear touched his heart. It could not be, not here… not in this place… not two thousand leagues west of Minas Morgul, not when he had made himself forget all that had transpired only a few mortal years ago in that accursed place. The Rider raised one armored hand pointing at him, but Boromir did not move – he did not see the road or the rider any more, he saw darkness – the darkness under Minas Morgul reaching for him, washing up memories and pain.

Kili saw Boromir freeze where he stood, eyes on the figure outside on the road. He too felt the fear wash over him like a branding wave. But it was met with all the fierce stubbornness the dwarf could muster. He reached to his back to draw his sword, the white polished hilt of the blade felt warm under his hands like something of Smaug’s horrible fire was still in the dragon’s tooth. “Drakhûn caî Nargûn! Azór Nargûn!” (Victory and Death!) Kili charged past Boromir and at the rider whatever that creature had done to enchant the human warrior he’d not allow him to get any further. The first hit was for the horse, depriving the creature of his mount would ease the fight.

The rider was startled by the sudden wild charge, he turned his horse and drew his sword. His first attack tossed the dwarf across the field like he was nothing more than an annoying cat to be tossed out of the window. Landing hard on the ground Kili was up the same moment, attacking again. This time he did not charge in a straight line but flanked the enemy. Their blades clashed and a cold fire seemed to run up Kili’s arms from the simple contact, like something horrible and deadly was touching him even through the contact of the steel.

It was the grim battle-cry that shook Boromir from his shock. “Drakhûn caî Nargûn! Azór Nargûn!” He did not understand the words but they rang like a clarion in his mind driving away the darkness. Still shocked he saw Kili charge past him heedless for the danger, heedless for his own safety. A white light seemed to shine from the hilt of his sword as he attacked the Black Rider. Boromir saw all this like through a veil, his sight getting clearer and clearer with any passing moment. What he saw horrified him. Time and again Kili was tossed back by the Rider’s attacks only to come back for another round. He stood no chance and Boromir knew it. No one stood a chance against Mordor’s fell messengers.

Breaking the last of the spell holding him Boromir went back inside the tower for the only thing to safe them – the torch. It was still burning on the pillar where Kili had left it. When he came outside again he saw Kili duck under the Rider’s cover his blade striking home. Striking nothing as Boromir knew all too well but still the Rider’s shriek ripped through the night like a fiery whip. The Rider’s counterattack was fearsome, actually tossing Kili against the wall of the tower.

Boromir had waited, now that his mind was free he acted with icy cool. He knew he had only one chance to do this, one chance was all he and Kili had left. When the Rider tossed Kili fully focused on his erstwhile adversary Boromir saw his chance he too charged at the Rider, only instead of using a sword he used the torch. The first strikes of the torch touched the Rider’s cloak setting it aflame, the second and third half hit the horse which was all equal to Boromir as the beast feared fire as much as it’s cruel master. And truly the horse shrieked in pain with the burning and shrieking creature on his back.

Boromir picked up the sword Kili had dropped with the left hand, using both the torch and the blade against the Rider. But the horses’ panic was enough – trapped between a torch and a burning rider it bolted, carrying its bruning master off into the night.

Turning back to the tower Boromir hurried towards where Kili had fallen after the last attack. For a moment he feared that his friend had paid with death for his bravery but when he came close Kili already struggled back to his feet. Boromir reached for his arm helping him up. “That was the single most stupid and brave thing I ever saw anyone do and survive.”

Chapter Text

“That was the single most stupid and brave thing I ever saw anyone do and survive.”

Kili leaned his arm against the crumbling wall, supporting his shaky stand. “You saved my life there, Boromir,” his eyes went into the night where the rider had vanished. “that thing was too strong for me.”

“It was too strong for either of us.” Now that it was over and the darkness receded Boromir felt he could breathe freely once more. “They are deadly. How could you even think of charging him like that?” In the eyes of his comrade Boromir saw an incredibly stubborn expression, an iron will that was not easily broken or deterred.

“When things get darkest do not let fear guide you – there is always hope if we only are strong enough to see it.” Kili sounded like he was quoting someone. Again he pushed himself up, away from the wall. He stood slowly and still not very firm on his feet but he stood on his own.

In the light of the slowly fading torch Boromir saw how pale Kili was. “Did he injure you? Any cut by his blade…” he knew that soldiers injured from those blades died within a short while and their death was a cruel one.

“No, no cuts. Just bruises and that cold fire… each time our blades touched.” Kili growled. “It won’t slow me down. Wherever they halflings fled, it seems these riders are still searching for them.”

These riders… Boromir’s eyes widened. “Don’t you know what they are?” he asked, realizing that Kili might not even have recognized them for what they were. It did not diminish his bravery; few had the nerve or strength to stand under the shadow’s wings and fight. He saw the dwarf simply shake his head and went on: “They are the Nine, Kili. His fell messengers…”

“The Witch King’s fair brethren, I’m getting it.” Kili’s words did not quite hide the shock in his eyes. “Bilbo… we need to reach him Boromir, if they are after him…”

Boromir silently agreed. This was no coincidence any more. The verse in Faramir’s dream had spoken of a Halfling and now the Nazgul were hunting one. They’d have to reach him quick. Yet… he was not blind or easily deceived either. “You can hardly stand on your own.” He did not know what Kili meant with the cold fire but Boromir had never been crazy or desperate enough to cross blades with a Nazgul.

“I’ll manage. The warmth in my bones will return all the faster with running.”

Warmth, that reminded Boromir of the sword he had picked up and was still carrying. The hilt radiated a strange warmth. He raised it to hand it back. It was an unusual weapon. The hilt was made from a white polished tooth, framed with silvery steel to support the guard. Runes had been carved into the hilt, shining in a cool light in the darkness. The blade was two-edged and fairly long for someone of Kili’s stature. “Maybe this can help,” Boromir handed the blade back. “I picked it up when it fell.”

Kili took the blade with the ease of someone long familiar with a weapon. Some more runes shone aglow when he touched the hilt but they all faded on a word of him.

“Are those… magic?” Boromir had heard of enchanted blades, mostly in legends of the elves but some stories of dwarves would also claim them able to create magical things.

“Those you see in the dark – yes. The ones you see by light are for memory.” Kili said, it truly seemed that the blade’s fire had given him strength again or driven off the cold at least. “We need to get our horses and find where Bilbo went before they can get him. I think…” Kili’s eyes widened. “Rivendell… where else would he seek shelter if not with the Elves?”

By dawn they found the first tracks, fleeting tracks leading away from Weathertop and down to the great east road. They followed along the road whatever else that night had wrought it had given their horses a much needed rest; they were fresh and ran with new vigor. It was about noon that they reached the bridge, Boromir dismounted to check for tracks. There was not much to tell but he spotted the hoofs of a pony, the same that the halflings seemed to have with them.

When he looked up he saw that a Raven had landed on Kili’s hand, the dwarf spoke to it in soft whispers. A moment later the bird flew off and into the east. “Anything?” Kili asked.

“Not much, they must be making horrible haste – they crossed the bridge hours ago and that without horses.” Boromir told him. “if they fled all night they will have to stop for the next. If we press on hard we may reach them then.”

They did press on hard the whole afternoon passed on the road. The land changed a little, it became rockier, with higher rocks and more woods. Boromir spotted less ruins here too. So he was startled when he saw one around dawn – it was not much. Probably the remains of a farmhouse abandoned decades ago.

The sigh of the ruined farmhouse brought a light to Kili’s eyes. “Of course… we used to camp there the night the trolls ambushed us. I think… I think I may know where they went.” He dismounted his pony and led it up the woody hill. They passed through a narrow passage of rocks and suddenly stood beside a broken barrier under which was indeed a small fire.

Three small figures scrambled to their feet, drawing swords, while a fourth rose more slowly. “Stay where you are!” one of them bellowed. “or I’ll gut you whole.” He was a stout Halfling and the way he wielded the sword made Boromir cringe.

“We mean you no harm,” Kili had stopped where he stood not so much for the threat than to not startle the stout Halfling not any further. “we are not the ones that hunt you.”

The fourth Halfling stepped forward; he looked deadly pale and tired. Two of the others tried to hinder him, but he insisted. His eyes went up to Kili’s face, like searching for something. “You were one of Uncle Bilbo’s companions where you? Kili, right?”

Now Kili was surprised. “Kili, son of Dari at your service,” he bowed slightly.

“Frodo Baggins at yours.” The hobbit stumbled, near collapsing quickly caught by the stout hobbit.

Kili moved past the other two to help. “Is he injured?” he asked, worried.

“He was injured by the Black Riders, Strider went to find something for him.” The other two Hobbits replied, worry and fear on their faces.

Kili looked up. “Boromir – you said something about these wounds this very morning?”

“Only that they are dangerous,” Boromir did not find it in his heart to say outright that those wounds were lethal. There was nothing that could be done about them. That the Halfling still lived was remarkable and bespoke a strength few men had. A strength that would not save him, though. He saw a movement in the shadows – not more than when Faramir had been sneaking up on him – and drew his sword. Coming about he found himself face to face with a man, who two was ready to fight.

“Strider!” One of the Hobbits announced.

The man – Strider – frowned at Boromir and Kili. “Sam – what has happened here? Who are they?”

“It is alright, Mister Strider,” the stout Hobbit spoke at once. “they are old friends of Master Bilbo. Kili the dwarf… now he was on that painting in BagEnd. He was younger on it of course, beggin’ your pardon.” The last was directed at Kili.

There was still distrust in Strider’s eyes yet he sheathed his sword and hurried to Frodo, to take care of his injury. “How did you find us?” he asked all the same.

“Orcs burned Watchhill a few nights ago aiding someone searching for Baggins,” Kili recounted the events quickly. “we followed your trail to Weathertop and then here. In these parts I’d not be surprised if other things than the riders would join the hunt all too soon.”

Strider tossed something into the boiling water on the fire and a sweet smell rose from the water. “Of you I will believe that, son of Dari,” he said, not stopping his work to tend to Frodo’s injury. “Halbarad spoke highly of you and so did Elrohir, little that I know how you met him. But your companion is…”

“…is here to help you get these four out of danger.” Boromir said impatiently. “you have the Nine after you. The enemy wants them. And what the enemy wants I’ll deny him if I can – no matter who or what it might be.”

It was a tense evening. Frodo seemed somewhat better after the treatment he had received. It made Boromir nearly believe that the Elven healers might be able to help him. Nearly. A part of him doubted the darkness could be vanquished so easily. He and the Ranger had taken to sit on opposite sides on the outer edge of the camp, keeping a watchful eye on the darkness outside while the Hobbits huddled closer to the fire. It did not take much knowledge of any being to see they all were afraid. And they had every right to be afraid with what as chasing after them. It puzzled Boromir what the enemy might want with them but he put that question aside firmly. There would be time for that when they all were safely in Rivendell. Now and then a watchful glance passed between him and Strider. They both knew who the other was and while they both trusted each other to not side with the enemy, there was little other reason for trust here. Up till now Boromir had taken his father’s stories of Thorongil with some caution, he knew his father to be a judgmental man and not always to be fair. He had hoped that there might be to that man, because this man’s strength one day might be the hope of Gondor. Boromir had never liked that idea but he could not outright deny it either. Yet, meeting Thorongil in person the doubts came back all the more strongly and his father’s grim words on the Ranger of the North seemed not so unjust after all.

“These must be the trolls old Bilbo encountered on his journey.” One of the younger Halflings said. “Are they, Frodo?”

“I think so,” Frodo looked across the fire to Kili. “Uncle Bilbo never quite told all of the tale – except that they argued on how to cook dwarves.”

Kili smiled. “They did… but there was more to that…” and with that he launched into a tale of stolen ponies, scouting after trolls, fighting them and getting captured.

Boromir could not help but listen with some amusement and fascination to the story Kili was relating. Some aspects of the tale touched the warrior – how Thorin, the dwarf leader, was willing to rather die than sacrifice one of his men, it was something noble and foolish all at once, yet Boromir found it hard to fault the brave dwarf for it. Kili related the debate between Bilbo and Trolls so lively; he even made Frodo laugh and Strider chuckle. For a moment the darkness drawing so close retreated a little.

Night passed in blessed quiet. Strider and Boromir shifted watch with Kili taking the dog’s watch in the early hours before dawn. They woke the Hobbits once the first cold mists crept up and the first grey light graced the eastern horizon and broke camp little after. Their path led through the last of the woods and towards far more open grounds. Boromir did not like that at all. In the woods they at least had some cover.

They just had left the forest fence behind them when a fierce howl rose into the cold light of morning. More howls joined in from the south, it was hard to tell how many but dozens at the very least. “Warg-packs,” Kili reached for his bow as the howls rose behind them too.

Boromir stopped, there was little doubt what was happening here. “Kili – is there a way to make them mad enough to attack?”

“Surely, but why?”

“Do it.” Boromir handed the reins of his horse to Strider. “Get the halflings out of here, we’ll buy you time.”

Strider shook his head. “You won’t survive that, there’s too many of them.”

A stern glare rose in Boromir’s eyes as he looked at Strider like on one disobedient soldier. “I said – go. Don’t waste time on debates.” He snapped. “They need you.”

Kili put Merry and Pippin on his pony, with Frodo on the other, Boromir’s horse remained for Strider and Sam. The three horses galloped off east, the only way still open to them. The howls rose again louder this time, Wargs appearing on the tree-line and south of them. Dozens and all mounted with Orcs.

“Enough for both of us,” Kili drew his sword, ready to fight. Boromir shot him a grin, glad for this companion. He knew full well that he had committed them to a battle to the death most likely and he knew the dwarf would walk that path with him unflinchingly. Back to back they stood at the hilltop, facing the enemy. And the Wargs swooped down on them.

***

The wargs came swooping down at them; the loud war cries of their riders ripped the silence of the autumn day apart. Before they came close they showered a dozen arrows down on them. Boromir ducked, the black feathered arrows missing him. Kili’s blade whirled in a shining circle knocking several arrows out of their path. When the full attack began, it was Orcs on foot at first storming from the woods uphill at them. Three at once attacked Boromir. He moved aside, let one run into the wrong direction, attacking the other swiftly, while the third one landed a hit that was caught by Boromir’s chain mail. With a deadly grace Boromir evaded the next attack, turning fast and slashing the Goblin’s head from the bone-deformed shoulders. The quick turn had given what strength was needed to cut clear through the heavy armor. Hardly did he have the time to bring up his blade when the two next came at him; he blocked the first one’s attack. The other fell from a strike from side, Kili had gotten him. With a nod Boromir acknowledged the help. The human warrior fought like an angry lion, his blade dealing death and pain to those daring to come close. His attacks came down like a hailstorm on the Orcs, he did not count how many there were. Moving so fast the Goblins had a hard time keeping up with him, nearly any new strike of his sword found its target. He knew Kili had his back and that there were as many Orcs falling from the dwarf’s ever angry blade.

Kili was the one to kill the last Goblin who tried to run from the fighting field, the last who thought it wise to run back to the circle of warg riders. Over his shoulder the dwarf checked on Boromir. The human warrior was still standing, sword ready in his hands; before him lay a number of dead orcs strewn all over yellow grass.

It was the warg riders that came next, their huge beasts did not easily lend themselves for group attacks but they too come in groups of four or five at once. Boromir did not need to know them well to know he had to keep their fangs at a distance. The first that made the mistake to try and bite him, found several of its ugly teeth shattered. The beast roared and broke off, ending with Boromir’s blade buried in its thick neck. He did not stop but attacked the next one, not counting how many more there might be. Boromir fights, one after the next, one beast and rider and more. The warrior hardly felt the injuries, the cuts and bruises he sustained. He knew that any moment they tied those wolves down, each moment those monsters have to waste on killing them, Thorongil and the halflings get closer to Rivendell. It’s all he needs to find his strength time and again, to hold out no matter what – others rely on him to stand. And thus the Captain of Gondor stands and fights. He knows a friend at his back, one to hold off whatever tries to get in Boromir’s back and they hold out.

The shadows were growing longer as the sun wandered more and more west. The hill had long become a dark morass of dark corpses, mud and blood. The yellow autumn grass tainted red and black. The attack ceased for the moment, but still the warg riders held the ring around their two adversaries.

Boromir leant back and tried to catch his breath. Judging by the leaden feeling in his arms and his muscles the skirmish must have lasted for hours. His arms were numb and his left leg was bleeding from a surface wound. He felt warm by now, but he knew that his was the heat of fighting and would be gone soon to be replaced by cold. His eyes surveyed the enemy ranks. The wolf circles had grown thin, but not yet thin enough for them to try and break it. He glanced over his shoulder. “Kili?”

“Still standing,” The dwarf’s face was marred with a bloody smear where he had made hard contact with a warg snout. His sword was dark with blood, the blade gory but the hilt seemed eerily clean still. Kili too had turned his head, the same checking glance like Boromir had employed. “you alright?” he asked.

“Never better,” Boromir joked grimly. His eyes went back the ring of Orcs surrounding them. “what are they waiting for?” Orcs only stopped like this when waiting for their Harad or Easterling captains to issue new orders. And that only worked if their commander was well feared and cruel enough to make them obey him. But these pale goblin creatures would have neither the discipline nor an Easterling commander.

“Their leader most likely,” Kili pointed out, surveying their ranks for the appearance of that one. “he’ll want a go at us just for himself.”

Boromir heard the tension in Kili’s voice, the dwarf hid it well but it was there. He knew something of what was coming, maybe knew something of this Orc leader. Having long lived in his land he was probably as familiar with their kind as Boromir was with the different garrison commanders along Gondor’s eastern borders. “Then we’ll kill him too.”

“Will you?” A deep, hard voice answered his statement. There was unrest rising the in the Orc ranks as they moved aside making room.

Boromir looked south from whence the voice had come. A single huge warg with thick grey fur had appeared there, mounted by a tall, heavily armoured Orc. He seemed bigger than most of his kind, who made room for him.

“Bolg,” Kili’s voice had fallen to only a whisper. Of course he remembered this creature – Bolg, son of Azog, who fought at the battle of the five armies. It had been decades that Kili had run into the Orc leader and he did not need to guess that the huge warg Bolg is riding on is actually the much rumoured great wolf of the wargs.

The Orc growled with something like a cruel grin on his face. “Dwarf-scum. I have long waited for this, little coward. I remember you… Kili unda Thorin.” He pointed his blade down at them in challenge.

There was an enmity in the air that could not be denied. Boromir could not even begin to guess what kind of history was between his dwarven companion and the huge Orc. There was something in the way Kili spoke the name of the Orc that told Boromir more than any explanation. Even while he tried to hide it there is a wealth of hate and pain in that one word. Strangely the Orc also had used Kili’s name incorrect. Kili unda Thorin instead of Kili unda Dari, but who knew what that stupid beast was thinking? “Maybe you should come here and find out, Mountain-Maggot!” he shouted the challenge to the enemy. He did not speak that much Orcish but enough to understand their orders when happening to overhear them – excepting a few choice expletives and insults he had learned in dark places and he was liberal to add them. Boromir could not know that he had chosen the worst insult the Orcs used for the Goblins of the mountains.

Bolg angrily growled and raised his sabre. “I’ll gut you, scum. Your dwarfling has not seen a friend die in too long.” He spurned his warg, it raced down the hill and at them, huge paws clawing the slippery ground.

Boromir saw the huge warg rush at him and he advanced at the creature, facing the beast without fear – without any anger or eagerness either. All those emotions had burned to ash inside him; he faced this new adversary with an icy, unflinching cold. A few paces away from him the warg jumps at him. Boromir had seen that coming, few warg riders have dared to do it in these uneven grounds but it did come as no surprise that the largest of them would try. Boromir waited him out until the huge wolf was up in the air then he deftly dropped to his knee and brought up his sword, the blade fully hitting the warg’s belly.

The wolf howled in pain as its jump broke and the beast crashed to the ground. The sword was nearly ripped from Boromir’s hand by the powerful movement. He managed to keep it and swiftly was back at his feet. Not one moment too soon – Bolg had dismounted and raced at him with a howl as the angry screams of his dying warg.

The parry in their encounter Boromir does know that he can’t keep this up for very long. The huge Orc was stronger than nearly any of their ugly kind he had ever encountered and his weapon was heavy. So Boromir went for the one thing that beast lacked – speed. He began to make the Orc run, evading attacks and never standing in one place. It is a dangerous tactic because either way this fight is eating up more strength than he could afford.

One glance to the side told Boromir that Kili was surrounded by several Orcs, having to fight them off.  They must have rushed him the moment Bolg attacked. The dwarf was surrounded, having no one to cover his back he was at a disadvantage but he fought with a fierce determination.

Another pass, longsword and orcblade colliding, steel was shrieking under the heavy impact. Boromir pushed off the bladelock and advanced again at his foe. Valar, that creature was powerful. A graze hit his leg but what armor he had still held off the worst. Boromir brought down two heavy attacks on Bolg but found both easily parried. He got thrown backwards again and just so parried a fierce hit. He’d never win this conventionally. A grim grin lit up Boromir’s eyes. He pretended to stumble, letting the next attack purposefully hit him, a searing pain rose from his shoulder but for a moment Bolg’s blade was at an odd angle. Boromir brought up his sword and in one thrust made use of the Orc’s open cover. His blade hit home straight into the exposed throat, black blood spluttered from the throat wound. The huge orc fell to the ground, Boromir ripped his sword from the wound, making the few steps uphill to reach Kili again. The dwarf had disposed of his attackers but he too was exhausted.

“You did it – you killed him.” There was a fierce grin on his face at these words. “you destroyed Bolg.”

“Aye,” They turned again standing back to back. Both were tired, injury and exhaustion draining at what was left of their strength. For a moment there was silence, the Orcs seemed stunned by the fall of their leader and only for this one moment Boromir hoped they might retreat. But then did a shrill shriek rip through the silence and one of the Warg riders raised his spear. Bolg’s whole force began to move, driven by sheer anger all that remained of the Orc troop attacked at once.

Chapter Text

Boromir’s sword was ripped from his hand by a forceful attack, the Orc axe hooking right behind the guard and flinging the blade across the field. He used his equally battered shield to knock back the enemy, he cast a glance around, any still serviceable orc saber would do.

“Boromir – catch!” Kili had reached to his back grabbing his axe.

Boromir had long noticed the dwarf carried an axe additionally to the sword, but had never paid closer attention to that detail. He saw Kili throw the weapon it whirled through the air actually cleaving a goblin’s skull. Deftly Boromir picked up the weapon and turned towards the next Orc to fight on but before he could even hit him the Orc was felled by a spear from behind. Riders had appeared south of them charging right into their battle. Spears cut down Orcs and arrows got those who had the sense to try and run. The riders swooped around the hill clearing the area thoroughly.

Exchanging a quick glance with his comrade Boromir closed ranks with Kili once again. He noticed the dwarf was not surprised but seemed relieved. “Friendly?” he asked softly, wanting to know whether this would mean they got rescued from the frying pan and tossed into the fire or not.

“Elves,” Kili replied, exhaustion and relief warring in his voice. “and yes – they are friendly.”

“If you claimed otherwise, son of Dari, I’d have to remind you that we are not our esteemed kin over in Mirkwood,” one rider had broken ranks from the troop and approached them, his pale grey horse having no troubles to climb the slippery hillside.

Boromir studied the rider quietly. He was elven, there could be no doubt of that, the stature, armor and his long flowing black hair left little doubt of his ancestry, not to mention the ears.

Kili bowed slightly. “I apologize, Elrohir son of Elrond, I would not imply that you were a wood elf.”

Elrohir dismounted, humor actually sparkling in his eyes. “And they would take grave offense if you did, Kili.” Getting more serious he surveyed the hill they were standing on. “It seems we came just in time - had your Raven friend not found me when he did, I doubt we could have been here as soon.”

“I hardly dared to hope there would be any help coming,” Kili said with blunt honesty. “Did the others make it?”

“My sister was the one who went for them; they should be safe in Rivendell by now.” Again his eyes strayed to the battle marred hill. “you two made the Orcs pay a dear price for hunting four hobbits in the wild. And… is this indeed Bolg and his foul mount?”

“Boromir slew him.” Kili knew that Elrohir’s hate of Orcs was just a great as that any dwarf could feel, only colder. Elven vengeance was something that could freeze the fires of the greatest forge to eternal ice. Still, he remembered it was time to mind their manners. “Elrohir, may I introduce my companion – this is Boromir of Gondor. He was on his way to your father’s court when all this began. Boromir, this is Elrohir, son of Elrond of Rivendell.”

“It must be something desperate that brings the Captain of Gondor so far north in times like these.” Elrohir acknowledged, but did not make up more formalities. This was a battlefield, not his father’s court. “Our healers will see to your injuries. Then we will ride back to Rivendell.”

The elves had chosen the next hilltop for their makeshift camp. Half their riders remained mounted, circling the hill in watchful guard. Boromir was still glad to sit down on a rock, now that the head of battle was fading from him, he became fully aware of his injuries and of the exhaustion settling in. “Raven?” he asked Kili, who had dropped down right beside him. He had seen that Raven on Kili’s hand two days before at the bridge, but not believed it to be of any significance.

“Kili’s family is one of the rare houses among dwarves that speak the language of the Ravens,” Elrohir replied instead of Kili.

The elven healer joined them; he was an elf with hair as pale as sea-foam and eyes like the wide seas on a stormy winter day. Boromir gestured him off. “Kili first, he took the worst…”

The elf’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Which is the same he says of you, Boromir of Gondor and I will have no argument out of any of you.”

Boromir did not argue any further, no warrior in his right sense tried arguing with a healer. He let the elf do his task and continued the conversation instead. “But how did you find us so swiftly?” he asked Elrohir. “Even with the Raven being some kind of sign…”

“It was not a sign – Arioc told me of your situation, all that Kili had told him to tell me and all he had observed on his own, which gave me a good idea where you should be. Once we closed in on you it was a simple matter of following the warg howls.”

So the Raven had spoken... Boromir recalled stories of his childhood that claimed that birds had a language of their own and that elves could speak to all animals. Fairy tales to tell children and yet, here they were in the flesh.

“What exactly happened?” Elrohir asked. “what got the wargs on your trail?”

The way he asked was familiar to Boromir, this was a captain speaking, wanting a report what had happened on his border. He would have asked the very same thing, ignoring the healer’s glare. “We found the four halflings and Thorongil…” He hesitated, no that was not the name the man used here. “Strider, in a vale off the road, near some stone trolls.” He began, quickly summing up the events from that moment to the hunt and the fight with the warg troop. “The rest you saw.” He finished.

“They were searching for Baggins.” Kili added to Boromir’s report of events.

“Baggins,” Elrohir shook his head. “it seems that much greater things than just a dragon where set in motion all those years ago, when your Uncle led your people back to the mountain home, Kili. Do not fear, Bilbo is safe. He has been in Rivendell for quite some time.”

“I am glad to hear that. I knew he had planned to leave the Shire as he grew older, he spoke of that the last time we met.” Kili said. “Had I know he was in such danger, I’d have offered to accompany him.”

“Do you have any idea what would bring that many orcs, not speaking of the Nine on one halfling’s trail?” Boromir asked, he had noticed Elrohir inferring that it was something connected with the dwarf quests decades ago. It was a story he’d have liked to know in full, thirteen brave setting out to restore a kingdom and them succeeding, made for a good tale. But with the fragments Kili had mentioned so far, he could not guess what the enemy might want.

Elrohir raised his hands in a gesture of not knowing. “I do not know. It seems strange that the enemy would hunt a Halfling. Yet, Gandalf rarely pays attention to something or someone of no significance, whether others may see that or not.”

There was no doubt on Boromir’s mind that the elf was sincere. Maybe it was because Elrohir was another warrior that Boromir was able to trust him more easily, but he could not detect any hint of secrecy on the elf. Yet, he saw a very thoughtful expression on Kili’s face. “Kili?”

“A thought only… and none that I would dare to speak out loud in any place such as this.” The dwarf replied, his eyes staring far off.

“So it is truly something from your quest!” Elrohir said amazed. “Something that neither of you ever mentioned – or we all overlooked.”

“Overlooked,” Kili rose, unable to sit any longer. “and I am not sure of it either. Let us not speak of it here. Let us not speak of it at all – a spellsmith’s guess might prove as wrong as any soothsayers guess.”

“Only that your craft has the more keen eye for artifacts – and you saw Smaug’s hoard with your own eyes.” Elrohir let the topic go, seeing the dwarf would not say more. But it made him ponder. Dwarven spellsmiths were nearly as good and as rare as were the great elven smiths of old. And like their elven counterparts they remembered the lore of all the great and terrible artifacts forged throughout the history of middle earth. What had that dragon possessed?

The healer realized Boromir from his care. “They can ride, Elrohir, I have them a draught to get them till Rivendell, but they need rest soon. They were very lucky as it was.” He pointed out.

The elven horses were tall, nearly taller than the horses of Rohan. The troop had had no spare horses, so two of their warriors shared to free up two horses. Boromir cast a wondering glance at Kili, he knew the dwarf knew how to ride but these horses were too tall for him. Even if he could mount, and many children of the same height could already do that, would he be able to control the beast?

The dwarf must have sensed his gaze. “You’d wonder what skills you learn living among men,” he said, before mounting the horse quickly and with a skill that betrayed some practice.

“You seem to have wandered among my people a lot,” Boromir observed as they started their ride into the night.

“Aye,” Kili confirmed. “though I never saw the white city itself. The one time I came close I was met by a message from a dear friend, asking me to return north.”

Night was fully upon them when they reached the Bruinen ford, the waters were running high, a pale moon mirrored in the rushing flood. Elrohir gestured them to keep close behind him as they rode through the ford. The water seemed to part for them, allowing them passage. Behind the ford they found a path that led down into the hidden valley. A silver moon bathed the whole valley in its light, making the elven houses and towers shimmer pale before the darkness.

“They valley of Imladris,” Kili said with a small smile, looking about. The horses were already being led away by some of the elven warriors. “I hope you find what you sought here.”

Suddenly Boromir realized this was goodbye. Kili had done as promised and led him to the hidden kingdom of the elves. During the last days he had grown accustomed to the dwarf’s stalwart company. “You have my thanks for your aid, Kili son of Dari,” he said a bit more formal than ever before. “if your wanderings ever take you back to Gondor, you will be very welcome there.”

Kili bowed slightly, politely acknowledging the thanks. Then he took his axe from his back, handing it to Boromir. “A long time ago my king gave me this to defend the mountain home; it brought me through a terrible battle and saved my life more than once. They say that luck itself was forged into the Raven’s wing.” he said. “I do not have a kingdom to fight for anymore – but you do. And with the shadow rising your land will soon be under the tides of war. May it keep your safe in a thousand battles.”

Surprised and touched Boromir took the axe, he knew it to be a formidable weapon. In turn he drew the long dagger he wore alongside his sword. “Keep this, to remember a friend by,” he said, warriors often did this with close friends. “and… you may not have a kingdom any more to fight for, but there are places that would welcome a warrior like you.”

Kili understood the invitation it meant. He took the dagger with a smile. “Until we meet again, Boromir of Gondor.”

***

Most guests of Elrond’s house only knew the very heart of the valley, the court and very core of the small elven city. Yet, Rivendell was indeed a kingdom unto itself and far bigger than was easily visible. On the side opposite of the mighty waterfalls right in the shadow of the mountains lay what was known as the trader’s court. No kingdom, no matter how small or large could be quite without trade. Rivendell in particular only permitted those proven trustworthy to go there for trade and most of them came from the other elven kingdoms. Around the trader’s court lay the artisan’s halls, the workshops of elven craftspeople and the forges. Having been invited to stay for at least a while, Kili had found his way there. His weapons and armor were in dire need of repairs and Aelin, the elven swordsmith was usually willing to allow a dwarf into his forge. As a matter of fact he proved not the least bit surprised by Kili’s appearance. “I heard your name earlier this very day and then the name of Bolg mentioned in the same sentence,” he observed, inviting Kili with a gesture to join him in the workshop.

“Bolg is dead – he had the undeserved honor to fall from the hand of Boromir of Gondor,” Kili began with an examination of his gear. The chainmail had lost many rings, due to arrows and barely sustained hits; it would need a lot of work to repair each of the rifts. The sword had escaped most of the damage, it just needed sharpening. “He died as dimwitted as ever, though, calling me Kili unda Thorin.”

The dark haired elven smith laughed. “Tell me, Kili –since when do you expect Orcs to have a proper understanding of ancestry? They are lucky when they know their own breeding pits.” He cast a glance at the torn chainmail. “Throw that into the melting pit and start anew – it’s already been repaired several times too many. There’s material enough for you to start before long.”

“Aelin…” Kili tried to refuse the offer politely, but the elf simply arched an eyebrow.

“I need your help with some works that Lord Elrond wishes prepared quickly and I do not have a skilled apprentice at hand.”

They both had worked together before, there were very few true spellsmiths left in the world. The skill to create magical things, to work spells and runes into your forging had never been one that many possessed. But with the waning years it thinned out and there were fewer and fewer of them among all the races. Both their families looked back on a long tradition in the craft and thus their friendship had sprung even over the shadows history cast on both of their races.

Heavy footsteps outside interrupted their conversation. “Aye, this seems to be the forge.” A voice grumbled, there was little doubt a dwarf was speaking. In fact it was three of them approaching. “Master Smith our axes have grown blunt and dented by fighting our way across these mountains, we would see them repaired,” one of them said.

“Bah – what does an elf know of a dwarf’s axe?” A redheaded one snorted loudly. “We better do our own work.”

“And maybe you’d do well with more politeness.” Kili tried to keep his voice steady, he had recognized two of them right away and he wanted to forestall a full clash between them and Aelin, knowing the Noldor’s prideful streak all too well.

The dwarves turned towards him, their eyes widening. “Kili,” the younger one pushed past the others. “well met indeed.”

Kili’s heart sank, but he inclined his head in greeting. “Well met, Gimli, son of Gloin, Gloin, it is good to see you too. I assume King Dain send you here?”

The older dwarf looked uneasily at Kili. “He did indeed, wants to hear what these elves have to say. I doubt there’s much importance in it. They tried to feed us greens already. What brings you here, if I may ask?”

“Helping a friend, mostly.” Kili could read Gloin’s unease all over his demeanor. “Has your family been well?” he asked, trying to ease the situation. Gloin had been one of the company who had remained at Erebor, having familiar ties to Daín. Kili bore him no ill will for that, he had not wished for any of his former companions to choose the hardship of the second exile, though most had anyway.

“It would be of no concern to you,” Gloin turned and marched out of the forge, followed by his one companion. Gimli lingered still. He had not seen Kili since they both had been dwarflings in the Ered Luin. Once Kili and his brother had been taken by their Uncle on his journeys, their visits had been sporadic and Gimli had been deeply disappointed that he was not permitted to join them on the quest for Erebor.  “Please forgive him,” he grumbled. “the rift you caused has hurt many.”

“The rift I caused?” Kili asked sharper, the temper of his family coming through in his whole stance. “You’d do well to remember it was not my choice, Gimli.”

The elven blacksmith gestured towards the wide open way out. “You were not invited here,” he said coolly. “and you better take your leave.”

“That was unnecessary,” Kili observed, his eyes still following Gimli’s receding figure in the dark. “he is not at fault for all of this.”

“He does not know where his loyalties lie and there’s no worse vice than that.” Aelin said while they both set to work. “Either they are with Dain and would complain about your very presence here to Lord Elrond, or you are their Prince still, which means they live on the wrong side of the mountains.”

***

Boromir still felt a little awkward when he entered the wide balcony where the council was to be held. Rivendell had proven to be a very strange place during the last two days. At first he had not felt so ill at ease, but this had been while Kili had accompanied him. Somehow the company of the dwarven warrior had made things easier. But Kili had departed the moment he knew Boromir safe among Elrond’s guests and vanished to wherever the trader’s court was on the outskirts of the valley.  Indeed Boromir had been very grateful for Elrohir’s occasional company. The elf was someone he found easy to talk to and had explained more than a bit of the comings and goings surrounding this council.

Now, as Boromir entered the high aisle that was reserved for the council, he spotted Elrohir standing in the back, a few steps left of his royal father.  He looked around and studied the whole group of elves, men and dwarves as they assembled up here.  There was a number of elves present, representing their different kingdoms, the Grey Havens, Mirkwood and Rivendell. Boromir noticed the overt absence of any envoy from Lothlorien, but he guessed that even elves making haste might not have made that long journey in time. Or that there was an envoy of them present, just not openly announced.  The envoy of the Grey Havens seemed to be well known to the court, if the way he was greeted by Lord Elrond was any indication. The Mirkwood Elf appeared to be more of a stranger in Rivendell, though. Boromir knew very little of the woodland realm, except the grim and not exactly polite jokes Elrohir and Kili had shared at their expense. He wished Faramir was with him, he could have probably told him something about any of these elves and their esteemed ancestors.

A dwarven delegation was here too, coming from Erebor, the Kingdom under lonely mountain. After hearing Kili speak of the mountain home so often, Boromir had expected them to be much like his dwarven companion had been and was all the more surprised that they were much more of what any man would expect a dwarf to be: heavy armored, longbearded and bowing with their eternal ‘at your service’ before sitting down.  They were introduced as Gloin son of Groin, Gimli, son of Gloin and Arí son of Cardin. The only name that sounded familiar was Gloin of course; Kili had mentioned him in his story about the trolls. So he had been one of the thirteen brave.

Frodo looked ill at ease as he came in and sat down silently beside the wizard. He had recovered from being stabbed by a Morgul blade, an impressive feat even with elven healing involved. Boromir would have been inclined to see the young Halfling as weak and scarcely more than a child, but knowing what he had gone through and survived changed his perception quite a bit. And there had been the story about Frodo’s uncle who had joined thirteen dwarves on their great quest. There had to be more to these little people than appearances might show.

Boromir found his gaze drawn to the man sitting on the other side of the aisle. Thorongil, or rather: Aragorn, son of Arathron, leader of what remained of the men of Arnor. After what he had seen of Arnor’s remains Boromir’s opinion on them was undecided. He still despised that they had given up on their land so utterly, but after seeing what they had to contend with, he would admit that their fate was harder than most knew.

Hours passed with listening to the story of the ring and how it was found. Boromir wished the elves would be a bit less verbose in their relating of events. What got his attention was Lord Elrond’s descriptions of the last battle against Sauron when the ring was originally lost. But he frowned when Elrond suggested the outright destruction of this weapon. It was the first time Boromir spoke up at the council; he could immediately tell that his words were not well received. They acted out of fear and fearful people rarely had the guts to do what was necessary. His words were still not heard, they fell on deaf ears. With great effort Boromir reigned in his temper and sat down to listen again. But when Elrond said that the ring had to be brought to the cracks of doom at Orodruin he could no longer be silent.

“One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust, the very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly.” He looked at them, hoping they would hear him. They had no clue what they were planning here.

“Did you not hear what Lord Elrond said: the ring must be destroyed!” One of the elves exclaimed, Boromir failed to notice which of them.

“Boromir’s words are not without wisdom,” Aragorn said, gesturing Legolas to sit down again. “Mordor’s borders were always dangerous and we do not know what lurks there now when the enemy is gathering his armies there. And we will need the aid of those familiar with his defenses.”

It seemed an irony that it was Thorongil who spoke sense here. Their eyes met and Boromir could see the man understood – he knew what Mordor meant. His respect of the ranger grew. If only they’d see how desperate their plan was.

***

It was hours later before a decision was reached. Boromir had to admire that small Halfling who stood up to take the burden most men, elves and dwarves would not dare to touch. Frodo seemed so small and fragile to Boromir, to burden him with the fate of the world. No matter how resilient and strong his kind had proven in the past. No one should have to carry a burden like this, least of all someone so small. How was he to survive such a journey alone? He would need some good fighters to carve a path for him, someone to protect him from the foul creatures lurking in the wilderness. “I will go with you,” Seeing all eyes moving towards him, Boromir realized that he volunteered just the same moment as Aragorn had.

Again their eyes met and Aragorn nodded curtly. “It would be good to have you with us.”

Boromir could not bring himself to like Aragorn, but the fact that the ranger had volunteered for the task at once spoke of courage and Boromir had to admit that whatever else Isildur’s heir may be, he was brave.

He was not much astounded that Gimli, the dwarf offered to accompany them. From the impression Boromir had, the dwarf was a strong fighter and pigheaded as he might be would make a loyal companion. If Kili was an example to judge dwarves by, Gimli would prove an excellent addition to the company. When the wood elf volunteered Boromir wondered how to judge that. There were other elven warriors present, but as none of them felt they had to correct this decision, he decided to trust that the elf would prove a good addition as well.

The whirlwind of three more hobbits, one Sam, one the other two young ones interrupted the discussion and Elrond announced them Nine Walkers. Boromir’s glance wandered to the three hobbits beside Frodo. They seemed so young, so eager and so completely innocent. “That makes four to protect.” He said mostly to himself. From the corner of his eye he caught Aragorns glance and for the first time they knew themselves completely in agreement.

***

The fire at the forge was slowly burning down but the stones still radiated the heat into the cool autumn night. When Kili heard soft steps approach he thought for a moment that Aelin was returning early from court, but then a different voice spoke up.

 “That reminds me of the fire Bifur made from a chair and a harp – I did never dare to ask what else he used.” A small, greying figure stood in the entrance of the forge.

“Bilbo!” Kili rushed over, greeting the hobbit with a hug.

“Some friend you are,” the old hobbit chastised him. “helps to save my nephew but never manages to visit once!” He pretended to be very insulted.

“I thought you’d have your hands full with your nephew and three more hobbits in tow.” Kili replied, making room, so Bilbo could sit down on the three legged stool by the workbench. “I had certainly not expected you to come here.”

Bilbo watched Kili sit down on the ground, back to the wall. In the familiar surroundings of the old forge the dwarven warrior was more relaxed than usual. He felt at home here, letting his guard down. “I needed some fresh air,” Bilbo said. “and I wanted to see an old friend. Tell me of your travels.”

Thus every conversation between them had begun, whenever Kili’s journeys had brought him to the Shire. Smiling Kili began to tell of his travels, of all that had happened prior to his arrival in Rivendell. He knew Bilbo loved a good story. But this time Bilbo seemed distracted and getting more distraught the more Kili mentioned of the hunt. Eventually the dwarf broke off telling the story, rose and walked over to Bilbo. “Bilbo… what is it? Something is haunting you tonight.”

The old hobbit reached up to clasp Kili’s shoulder with one hand. “I left Frodo a terrible burden… a terrible legacy, Kili.” He said softly. “and now… he will have travel far, into the dark land itself, to set it right. I… I should have seen, have trusted my friends…”

Gently Kili hugged his old friend, pained to see him so distraught. “Bilbo, you did what you believed right. Sometimes… even the best intentions lead to dark results.” He pulled back looking at him. “Is there anything I can do help? Aid Frodo?”

Bilbo shook his head, not as an answer to the question but at Kili's very reaction to it. “You are so much like your family, Kili – always rushing into danger to protect your friends, never even asking how dangerous it is. You don’t even ask what the task is…”

“There is something the Dark Lord would want from you,” Kili said. “and as you never undertook big travels after meeting us, it must have happened during our journey. It certainly wasn’t something from Smaug’s hoard and I doubt the Troll hoard held anything of that significance. That leaves only the one time you were separated from us for a longer time: your adventure under the misty mountains.” Kili discounted the time in Thranduil’s palace. If Thranduil had anything that dangerous, some elves with more sense would hopefully have confiscated it long ago. Bilbo had told them of his encounter with Gollum and later during the spider fight in Mirkwood had revealed his means of getting invisible. “If one takes into account the great lore of the artifacts… that leaves one frightening possibility.”

Bilbo actually chuckled. “Why am I trying to slip something like that past a spellsmith – one of your line especially? Your house held the first of the seven, after all. I… I am just glad it was lost before you were old enough to feel its taint.”

Kili ducked his head, he had not wanted to make Bilbo uncomfortable. “Is there anything I can do to help Frodo?” he asked again. “Whatever is needed… just tell me.”

“No, Kili. I could not ask something like that of you.” The old Hobbit said warmly.

“Of course you could. We are friends,” Kili said firmly. “and friends help each other. Besides, I owe you my life. Twice. Once in the dungeons of Mirkwood and once at the Battle of the Five Armies. Had you not found me there, I’d be dead.” He had been close to bleeding out, without Bilbo he’d have died. “And… I never really thanked you for that, did I?”

“You all but wished you had died with them, Kili,” Bilbo’s eyes went past him, staring into the dark, into the past, nowhere. “You had been wounded more than in body. Your very soul had been scarred.” He looked up at him. “And I was glad when I saw that spark of life come back to your eyes months later. Whatever I did on the field that day, it was too little and too late.”

***

The morning was cold, the leaves were already drifting off the trees and the chill of the coming winter clung the morning mists. Elrohir knew the snows would be upon them all too soon. He had sent one of his men to find Kili but the messenger had returned without an answer and thus Elrohir made his way down to the forges himself. Although Aelin would never admit being friends with a dwarf, both were arcane smiths like there were few left in the world and when they worked together often forgot the world outside their forge. He counted himself lucky to not disturb them in the middle of some heavy work, but with repairs that looked mostly like work Elrohir’s own men would have dropped off there.

Kili excused himself from the sharpening wheel and came outside. “I apologize for not following your messenger, but he said it could wait.”

“Did he?” Elrohir could sense some light elven disapproval in that, the messenger would have assumed that anything Elrohir might want to tell the dwarf was unimportant. He shrugged, it was not important. “We may as well talk now.”

Following Elrohir away from the forge and on one of the lonelier paths of Rivendell, Kili could tell the Elven Prince was not in the mood for idle chatter, which meant something was up. Most likely it was something that had to do with Orc caves or former dwarven mines. Elves where great warriors but they were lousy finding their way below ground. “Someone was captured, I take it? How many and where? With Bolg dead Gundalbad will be up in arms.”

“I wish this was just me wanting your help poking around in some Orc den,” Elrohir replied, vividly recalling how he had first met Kili’s father and how often Kili had aided them in chasing the Orcs out of their dens all around the pass road. “but what I need to ask of you – what my father’s wishes to ask of you – is more dangerous than that.”

“Danger is everywhere these days, whether we seek it or not.” Kili wondered what may have happened. Elves hated asking help from strangers, and he usually tried to not make them ask, but simply offer. “I’ll do what I can.”

“The halflings you helped save will soon leave Rivendell,” Elrohir began speaking again. “theirs is a difficult journey, of a nature that I may not share with you. My father has send scouts ahead of them, to aid them and to find safe paths for them. But… one part of their journey remains largely uncovered.” His eyes went beyond the treeline to the chain of peaks they could see.

“The Mountain passage,” Kili gazed at the white peaks. “the paths will not be safe, the small paths will be worse, the gap of Rohan is fourty day’s marches away and Moria… is under shadow. There are no safe passages left, Elrohir. All are dangerous and with winter setting in, some will be closed soon enough.”

“Yes, but dwarves cross the mountains even in the worst weather, you know ways through these mountains no one else does. And… if needed it would be good to have scout ahead or lend aid when needed.”

“You have a number of Rangers who do too, and some elves that can’t keep their noses out of the deepest Orc dens,” Kili pointed out. “why me?”

Now the Elven Prince actually smiled. “Because you are already gone, Kili son of Dari. Your feet may trudge this path but your heart is already a thousand leagues south.” Grey eyes surveyed the dwarf closely. “Your friend Boromir is going with Frodo.”

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Kili studied the elf quizzically. “And you disapprove of that friendship?”

“No. He is a friend your house would choose – loyal, dedicated, prideful and stubborn. I am not surprised you find him worthy of friendship. But I know you, Kili – like I knew some of your line. You do not just live, you cannot sit in a forge and live your life." He pointed at the road yonder whence the company had left Rivendell eighty years ago.  "You  need a Cause, something to fight for. Your Uncle could not have sat idly; he fought for his people until the day he died.” Elrohir held the dwarf’s gaze evenly, unfazed. “You are the same, only that this course is barred for you. You can’t fight for your people any more; there is no place for you left. Even a prolonged stay of yours in Caldemir, in the Ered Luin would cause strife among your kind.” He could see he had touched a very sensitive point, even as Kili’s mien hardly changed, it closed becoming a façade. “but you fight well for your friends… and one of them fights for a great Cause, the greatest that may be left in Middle Earth. I know you, Kili. In your heart you are already on that journey south to assist him, be it on the field of battle or with your skills in crafting weapons. Deny it!”

Kili exhaled slowly, the elf had laid bare his entire situation in his short speech. All of what he said was true. “And as I am planning to go south anyway, I may as well be of use and scout ahead for your chosen ones?” He gave a curt nod. “you are right, it makes sense. And if I can help Frodo in any way, I will.”

Chapter Text

Boromir’s arrow struck down another rabbit. They were not exactly a fat animals but they’d do. The company was conserving their provisions by living off the land as much as possible, which was working out fairly well with them having several experienced hunters among their ranks. With both rabbits Boromir fell into a sharp pace and caught up to where Sam was leading the pony.

The hobbit took both of them to examine. “They look good, Boromir. Not so much like that dreadful old hare Gimli caught yesterday.”

Frodo, walking by Sam’s side actually laughed. “Bilbo always said that dwarven cooking was somewhat unpalatable. Except if Bombur did the cooking.”

“Bombur was one of the thirteen brave, was he?” Boromir asked, honestly interested in that story.

“I all but forgot that you came to Rivendell with Kili,” Frodo replied. “Bombur too was part of Thorin Oakenshield’s company, along with his brother Bofur and cousin Bifur. Gimli’s father was there too, Gloin.”

“Bombur... He isn’t that fat dwarven merchant in Bree, is he?” Sam inquired. “Master Bilbo introduced him to old Gaffer amongst others – he always paid good prices for our produce.”

“It seems a number of them did not stay at the mountain when it was retaken?” Boromir recalled Bofur’s reaction when he was asked about that.

Frodo sighed. “Bilbo rarely spoke of that – of all that happened in the battle of the Five Armies. He lost friends there. He only said that with the King under the Mountain dead there was some dispute about succession among the dwarves and that a number of Thorin’s companions did not like the outcome and chose not to stay at Erebor. Dwalin and Kili accompanied Bilbo on his journey home.” A small smile now lit up Frodo’s face. “Dwalin’s encounter with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins ruined Bilbo’s reputation forever and the old rascal so loved it.”

Suddenly, something shook the bushes off to their side. Boromir at once moved between the Hobbits and whatever was there, axe poised ready to strike.

The bushes shook again, branches cracked and broke as a cursing Gimli freed himself of the uncooperative undergrowth. He shook off the branches and tossed another rabbit at Sam. “There ya go laddie, something to cook stew with tonight.”

Relieved Boromir put down the weapon. “Gimli, you make enough of a racket for a dozen Orcs!”

The dwarf gave a snort for an answer. “Dwarves don’t make racket, they walk.” He grumbled, walking past them.When he brushed past the Gondorian captain though, his eyes caught the glint of the dwarven weapon. Gimli stopped, scrutinizing the sharp blade he saw glittering in the sunlight. “How did you come by that?” he demanded. “it can’t be yours. Where did you get it? Did you steal it? Rob the dead?” The dwarf’s temper flared in all but a moment and it was as hot as his forge.

“I am not answerable to you, Gimli.” Boromir would have told him but being accused of stealing or grave robbing was not something he was going to tolerate.

Aragorn, who had been walking at the head of the company, turned around. “Gimli, take point. We can discuss this tonight at camp, not in the middle of the march.”

The dwarf grumbled but did move ahead as he was told. “Dwarves and their treasures,” Legolas shook his head, heading off too to scout ahead.

They marched until nightfall to make camp in a small hill forest. There was enough dead wood to get a fire going quickly and Sam took to cooking immediately. Gimli had pointedly kept his distance from Boromir, but seemed all the more irritated by waiting.

Aragorn, sitting on a rock to the side, looked at him. “Gimli, why do you take issue with Boromir’s axe?” he asked. “It’s of dwarven make, but that does not say anything. Caldemir had been trading weapons and armor south for decades. I would not be surprised if a good number of their works ended up in Gondor’s armories.”

Gimli crossed his arms in front of his chest, but being asked reasonably did a lot to calm the dwarf. “It isn’t just an axe of any ordinay make, Aragorn,” he explained. “this one comes from the very treasury of Erebor itself! There are only three others of the same make. There are only three others of the same make. One of them was buried, while the other three should be in the hands of dwarves. It could not have come into the hands of any man except through theft.” He stared challengingly at Boromir.

Aragorn shook his head. “You are too easy to make this accusation, Gimli.” He pointed out.

“The axe was the gift of a friend,” Boromir said. “when we said goodbye we exchanged weapons, he gave me this axe, for luck in battle. His name was Kili.”

“They came to Rivendell together, Gimli.” Aragorn forestalled any direct answer by the dwarf. “Kili had that axe with him.”

The dwarf frowned deeply. “Very well then. But if this means you are taking issue with…”

“I do not take issue with anything, Gimli, son of Gloin.” Boromir said directly. “except with a certain dwarf implying I am a thief, or slandering my friends.”

“Bah,” Gimli turned and walked off ostensibly to gather more firewood.

Aragorn let out a slow breath. “His temper makes him speak harsher than he intends,” he said to Boromir. “and had I not seen you and Kili, I may have asked too. That axe is distinctive.”

“It’s a remarkable weapon,” Boromir agreed. “I have seen some fine works but none like this.” He sat down too on a rock, now that the argument was ended. “You said something about weapons from Caldemir being traded south, Aragorn. I know those but it’s not dwarves we buy them from.”

“Caldemir is a dwarven settlement in the Ered Luin, close to the ruins of one of their oldest kingdoms.” Aragorn explained. “their steelwork is among the best there is these days. I think they make use of some trader in Bree for their contracts.”

***

It was past midnight when they heard the first wolf. The howl was a sound echoing in the breeze, mingling with the eternal mourning of the whispering wind, sometimes becoming indistinct, and then returning tenfold. There were more wolves answering the first one, their voices travelled through the night, drawing closer and closer. Boromir, who had woken nearly at once, jumped to his feet and hurried to the remains of the fire. Tossing in some light wood, he rekindled the flames from the still very hot ashes. Aragorn came close to reading his mind, selecting the longest branches from the firewood lighting them as long torches, handing them to the hobbits. “They’ll be better than swords.”

The next moment, the wolves were upon them. Attacking form nearly every side, they clearly tried to reach the hobbits, who stayed close to the fire.

Boromir had not heard the wolf coming, but he saw the shadow moving from the corner of his eye. Drawing his sword, he thrust it upward, hitting the wolf’s belly as they hairy beast jumped at him. Letting go of the blade, he used the short moment he had to grab the axe. Swinging it he beheaded the next wolf in one clean stroke. Arrows hissed into the dark, Legolas shooting wolves on the other side of the camp, preventing them from coming close. Standing with their backs to the fire,  Gimli, Gandalf and Legolas defended the far side of the camp, while the two men held the other one. Boromir saw a wolf slide past Aragorn and turning to the ranger’s back, he broke flank and killed it before it could attack. The near same moment Aragorn killed one that had flanked Boromir in much similar fashion.

A scream made both men turn. One wolf had made it past Legolas and jumped at the Hobbits. Merry and Pippin both moved towards it, trying to keep it off Frodo as they brandished their swords at the unimpressed beast. Boromir winced. No swordsman could see that without feeling pain; those two were in desperate need of some lessons. Before he could tackle the wolf, Gimli had already buried his axe in the beast’s furry head. With a last furious howl the wolves backed off and fled into the night.

***

“One, two, three – good!” The smaller blade was easily caught by Boromir’s block, but the Hobbit was improving. It was the seventh night since the wolf attack, and each evening had been spent with giving some much needed sword lessons to Merry and Pippin. Both Halflings were eager to learn and once they learned to use their small stature to their advantage, they would become quite good in their own way. Much of the lessons had to take their height into account, but Boromir found he enjoyed the challenge teaching them presented.

“Move your feet!” Aragorn was watching the lesson again, often helping by showing the Hobbits the proper forms or giving advice. He put away his pipe to get up just as Merry lost his blade for the fourth time. Gracefully the Ranger picked the sword up, handing it back to Merry, who smiled ruefully. “Thanks so much, Strider. I never seem to get anywhere. Boromir is so strong.”

Aragorn hesitated a moment, before he squatted down, to talk to the hobbit. “That he is. But that does not make him invincible…”

Boromir did not catch what the Ranger whispered to the hobbit, he only saw that Merry returned back to the field more confident. “And again,” they went through the forms again; it was the first blocks, parries and thrusts that nearly all swordplay was built at. Merry managed to last through more repartees than before, and then he suddenly ducked and dodged one of Boromir’s attacks causing Boromir to overbalance and stumble. Quickly the Hobbit used the advantage he had to tackle the taller warrior and toss him down. “For the shire!”

Their scuffle only lasted moments before Boromir managed to grab the Hobbit and toss him off. He was careful to not toss him too hard though, as Merry had not yet learned to break a fall and would more than likely end up injured being thrown on the stony grounds. Getting to his feet, the tall warrior saw Aragorn grin and he realized he had just seen something that closely resembled a prank comrades may play on each other. His good humor was unfortunately disturbed by Gimli discussing the mines of Moria with Gandalf again.

“I have my doubts about that path,” Aragorn said softly. “Moria is a dark place.”

It was easy to hear the worry in Aragorn’s voice, but Legolas’ warning shout alerted all of them of the Crebain-swarm approaching quickly. They scrambled to hide under the bushes and branches as the crows swooped past them. And for the first time in weeks Boromir had the same feeling of being watched that he had felt when he first passed the gap of Rohan.

***

Frodo slipped on the snow on the icy pass, tumbling downwards. He was lucky that Aragorn caught him in time. Boromir had turned to assist, when he spotted something glitter in the snow. He reached down picking up the ring on the silver chain the Halfling wore. It glittered coldly in the sunlight, colder than the snow itself.

An icy hand seemed to brush Boromir’s back as a hot wind tousled his hair. He stood at the crossroads in Ithilien, facing towards the road to Minas Morgul. At his back an army, hardened fighters, survivors of countless battles, men of Gondor, Riders of Rohan, Rangers of North, waiting for his command, ready to march up that pass and retake Minas Ithil. They stood in silence, awaiting their Captain’s command, his command. He drew his sword, pointing it towards the pass…

“Boromir! Give the ring back to Frodo!”  Aragorn’s voice cut through the whispers, bringing Boromir back to the harsh realities, to the cold pass in the heart of the Misty Mountains.

Marshaling all control he had Boromir walked over, giving the ring back. “Surely. I care not.” He said, quickly ruffling Frodo’s hair. He could well see Aragorn’s hand on the weapon and Frodo’s gaze that all too clearly accused him of betrayal. Boromir turned quickly and headed on, evading their eyes.

***

The second avalanche nearly took two of the halflings. Boromir counted himself lucky he had managed to hold onto both of them as the tumbling snow nearly ripped them all into the chasm. Carefully he set them as close to the rock face as possible. “Boromir, are you alright?” Frodo shouted over the storm, pointing up at something.

Touching his face Boromir realised that an iceshard had cut him. The wound was already freezing over. “It is nothing, just a scratch.” He shouted back. “try to keep to the rock face.” As they marched on he tried to shelter and aid them best that he could, just as Aragorn was doing for Pippin and Sam.

The snowfall increased and the storm became stronger as they further advanced on the Redhorn pass. The third avalanche was not just snow, it was also rocks having come lose high above them. Boromir angrily shook off the snow. “Gandalf! We can’t go on. It’ll be the death of the little ones.” He snapped, angry at the wizard. Even Aragorn or Boromir would hardly last another day in these conditions. The halflings would be the first ones to freeze to death or fall with another cornice coming down. “We need to find shelter and wait the storm out.”

He was not sure that the wizard had heard him at all, but Gimli had and he pulled himself out of the snow he had been buried under. He and Legolas were still the easiest moving of the company. They moved ahead and it did not take that long for Legolas to come back reporting Gimli had found a cleft that they could find some shelter in.

The cleft proved to be the entrance to small cave, not very deep, yet enough to find some shelter from the wind. However they still needed Gandalf’s help to get a fire going. The warmth it gave seemed shallow in the icy breath from the storm outside, but it would keep them alive. “We cannot go back,” he heard Frodo say to Gandalf. “there must be another way.”

“We could go south,” Boromir spoke up. “split up in groups and sneak past the gap of Rohan unseen. Once we are in Rohan we reunite and go on. The Rohirrim are friends of Gondor and would give us aid to reach Minas Tirith.”

“The gap of Rohan is closed to us, Boromir, as long as Saruman holds Isengard.” Gandalf said. “there is yet another road we may try. I did not speak of it before – not before it was needful, for it is a dangerous path to choose.”

“No.” Aragorn spoke up. “we spoke of it before Gandalf. “it is not a road we should use unless all other options run out. Lord Elrond had send scouts ahead of us, one of the lower passes may still be open.”

The wizard shook his head. “No, Aragorn. The passes are closed to us, as surely as the gap of Rohan. The Mines or Moria are the one way that we still may take.”

Gimli nodded in agreement. “Some of my kin ventured there years ago, led by Balin. My Uncle Oin went with him too. They would lend us aid.”

Boromir cast a glance at Aragorn. Why was it that the Ranger was the one who usually talked sense in this group? “The one time Kili mentioned Moria, it was in dark words. He did not say much but, anything to bring such an expression to anyone’s eyes can’t be a good place.”

Now he had drawn Gimli’s attention. "It's dwarven politics, Boromir. Balin's decision to reclaim Moria broke the remaining exiles apart. With Kili's role among them, it most likely came as a bad blow for him to having disappointed Balin that much."

Aragorn raised his hand forestalling more words. “I agree with Boromir, the whispers I have heard of Moria in recent years were dark. No one dares to speak out loud of this place anymore.”

“Yet it is the road we must take.” Gandalf said more firmly. “we cannot go back and we have no other road forward.”

“We all are tired,” Frodo said eventually. “let us rest for the night and decide our new road in the light of another day.”

There was another piece of sense in this madness. “I take first watch,” Boromir volunteered, seeing the others were as exhausted as he was. After what had happened on the mountain it was the least he could do to make up for his fault. The others agreed and soon settled down close to the fire. Boromir stood, leaning against the wall of the cleft entrance, watching the storm raging outside. There was nothing but the dark and the whirling snow, yet now and then he thought he could hear fell voices over the wind.

“It’s calling to you, is it?” a small voice startled him, Frodo had gotten up again and sat down on a rock by the cleft’s narrow entrance.

Boromir cast down his proud eyes, feeling ashamed for what had transpired earlier on the pass. He knew that with any derision, with any slip up, he’d only do the enemy’s work. But it was hard to keep the gnawing doubts at bay. “I can only beg your forgiveness for what I nearly did,” he whispered.

A small hand reached for his, squeezing it. “No… I understand.” Frodo looked at him earnestly. “I feel it too. It whispers, it grows. It wants to leave me – it knows I am a prison to it. It longs for someone stronger, someone like you through whom it could achieve power.”

Freeing up his hand Boromir grabbed Frodo’s shoulder. “Promise me, when it happens again you will get away. You will run. Don’t look back – do not let me break the trust you so freely gave. Promise me.”

“You are stronger than that, Boromir,” Frodo replied. “I know you’d never allow yourself to betray us. You are too strong for that.”

***

The next morning the storm had not passed, merely lessened to a point that allowed them to make their way down the pass again. Aragorn and Boromir carried the Hobbits through the drifts of snow back towards safety. Boromir was not sure who was more surprised, himself or Aragorn, that Frodo choose to go with the Steward's son when it was his turn to be carried across the deep drifts When they were below the dreaded Redhorn gate a last avalanche came down, blocking any path back.

It seemed like a sign of sorts that the weather got better the further they got away from the passes. Eventually they were on snow-free grounds again and the wind was not so cold. Instead there was a darkness that began to hover over the land, like shadowy mists creeping from barren trees, growing stronger and stronger with any mile they got closer to Moria. Boromir could not help it. He felt a dread chill clasping his heart when the walls of Moria came in sight. Nothing good awaited them here.

Chapter Text

When the gates of Moria opened Boromir was not sure if he’d prefer the dark dank pool outside or the equally black gate into the mountain. He hardly heard Gimli speaking of the great kingdom of the dwarves, his eyes fixed on the blackness, trying to see anything except shadows and specks dancing in his vision. His foot caught hold of something hard and metallic, forcing him to look down. Bodies. There were bodies everywhere; rotting corpses, bones, full skeletons in plated armour strewn across the stairwell, each and every one of them smaller than a man.They were Dwarves, dead dwarves that had been massacred and left to rot in this accursed place. “This is no mine, it’s a tomb. We should never have come here.” 

A scream behind them made them turn around to see Frodo dragged off by a many armed creature from the lake. Neither Boromir nor Aragorn wasted any time, racing after Frodo, attacking its many arms. It roared hollowly, lashing out at them, the waters swirling as a dark mouth came up above the waterline, dirty teeth gnashing at the watcher's attackers. Boromir swung his sword at another arm as it erupted from the water, the creature trashing more wildly. He saw how Aragorn severed the arm that held Frodo. Boromir just had enough time move right and catch the falling Halfling. Behind them the creature became frenzied, rising from the water. An arrow of Legolas’ only pushed it back for a moment but it was all they needed to escape. They had to retreat into the open gate of the mine, the creature blocking off every other route, forcing them into the dark tunnels, its long arms pushed close the doors of Moria, rubble and stones crashing down. Darkness fell around them.

“We now have but once choice. We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard, there are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world. It is a four day journey to the other side. Let us hope our presence may go unnoticed." Gandalf’s voice cut through darkness as he lit the crystal on top of his staff to allow for some vague light.

Four days. That was a new thought for Boromir. He had often heard of the huge mines of the dwarves and of their underground kingdoms, and Faramir had certainly tried to instill some learned knowledge into his older brother, yet hearing that it would take them four days to cross these halls certainly drove the message home. Squinting a bit as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he looked around. The traces of a dire fight were all over the stairwells. Neither side had claimed the bodies of their dead; they lay where they had fallen, their bodies a silent recording of events. Boromir could read much of that skirmish in what he could see in passing. Still he was relieved when they were past the stairs and there were no new bodies in the halls they walked into.

They walked for hours and hours, Gandalf spoke in whispers of the mines, of the mithril found here and of the wealth of Moria. Boromir hardly listened, his eyes taking in the huge halls and wide walkways they passed. What a huge city – what a realm, a kingdom hidden from the eyes of all of Middle-Earth. How many generations had labored, expanding these halls, creating marvels that were still visible even in under the grime of ruin and defeat? How had a nation so strong and proud to create such a kingdom fallen so far? Had their numbers waned until their strength ran out and the Orcs numbered beyond counting? Had their fate been much similar of Gondor’s? To wane and dwindle, stemming the tide of darkness until the last strength broke? Had they too been forgotten and alone in their moments of despair?

“We should rest here,” Gandalf had stopped walking in a dark chamber with an empty well. “we have been walking for more than a day.” The whole company huddled against the walls, trying to rest as best as they could in the perpetual darkness around them.

Boromir leaned against the broken wall, closing his eyes. Pippin would wake him once it was time he relieved him of watch duty. Sleep came sooner than he’d hoped, its thick tendrils wrapping themselves around him and pulling him deep into its dark depths.

For long ago when lanterns burned

Until this day our hearts have yearned.

The Orc tumbled down the chasm, though Boromir did not waste any second glance at him, racing to catch up with the troops at the main hall. White lamps lit the huge dome of the ceiling. Kili turned around to him, a wild fire shining in his dark eyes. “You were right, their leader had no plan.” He said. “take your troops and sweep the stairs of Anulbar, Dwalin has the other side. We’ve got them on the run.”

“At once,” Boromir turned to his men. “Nari, right flank, Calin point with me!” They were winning this battle here and now.

“Fool of a Took, throw yourself down the next time and spare us the trouble.” Gandalf’s voice ripped Boromir from his dream just in time to hear something crash in the dark and a deep dum dum dum ring out from somewhere deep below them. “What happened?” He asked.

“You were the only one to sleep through that,” Aragorn responded somewhat amused. “Pippin tossed a stone down the well and it has been heard.”

“Do we keep moving or do we risk staying?” Boromir was already struggling back to his feet and the Ranger reached for his shoulder. “No, none of the others are up to another march. Let’s share watch duty between us and give the others some hours of rest.”

“Alright, I’ll take first watch.” The Gondorian Captain volunteered at once. He knew Thorongil was just as tired as they all were. He saw the grateful nod and moved to sit by the entrance to the room. Alone, with the others going to sleep, he wondered at the dream he had had. It was the strangest thing ever to invade his sleep. What could it mean? Why had he been fighting here, with Kili and other dwarves to retake Moria? Or was it just that he imagined things, because of the sadness this place exuded? He could not tell.

*-*

Their journey continued for another two days, with long walks all day and, for Boromir, restless nights. During the last day he thought he heard noises behind them; soft feet swishing on stone floors, arrows hissing in the dark and a strange shadow moving in the darkness, unseen. Something was following them. The Gondorian was even more watchful than before now, but he still found himself still distracted by the vast dwarfen city they travelled. While the place was sad and dark he found it less depressing than he had expected. For the first time he truly understood what fascinated his brother so much with the lore of the Elder races.

“'I have no memory of this place,” Gandalf had stopped them at a crossroads. There were several doorways leading on, but their guide was clearly unsure where to go.

The fellowship had settled down for a welcome break after three days’ worth of marches. Boromir chose to sit on the ledge, to keep an eye on the dark chasm beside them. The hobbits whispered softly amongst themselves, speculating on Gandalf being lost. It was Frodo who spotted the soft swishing feet somewhere down below them this time. “It’s Gollum, he has been following us for three days.” Gandalf appeared unfazed by their nightly stalker.

A squeal ripped through the silence of the darkness below them. “Nasty dwarfses… nasty…”

Gandalf leaped to his feet, extending his staff across the ledge, the light falling down on the ledge below, illuminating two figures standing on the edge. Or rather, one dwarf holding a thin, mangled creature in a chokehold above the chasm. Boromir’s eyes widened as he recognized the familiar figure of Kili down there. 

“Let him go!” Gandalf’s voice was clear and commanding. “Let him go, Kili son of Dari.”

The dwarf obeyed the command, flinging the mangled creature as far from himself as he could. Gollum fled into the darkness cursing him at least a dozen times.

“Kili, will we always meet in the depths of the mountains?” Boromir did not even want to know why the wizard had ordered the creature to be spared. “Can you come up here?” The ledge was too steep to climb and they had not rope.

The dwarven warrior glanced up. “You are at Tharnul crossing, I will be with you swiftly.” He reached down to grab his pack and set off into the darkness.

True to his word he appeared again from the same way they had come not long after. He moved in the darkness with the familiar ease of someone who lived underground by nature. Only Boromir saw the glowing jewel that Kili quickly put into a pouch at his belt when he had reached them. “I should have reached you quicker, but that little maggot cost me time.” He stated.

“Why are you following us at all?” Aragorn asked, having risen to his feet too.

Kili bowed lightly. “Gurth gothrim Tel' Mithrim,” he spoke the phrase carefully, lacking the same musical sound that elves would have had.

It did not need more, Aragorn recognized the phrase. “You are the scout for the mountain passes?” he asked. “I should have guessed, it was the obvious choice.”

“I spend some time catching up to you, had I not met that slimy thing I would have reached you yesterday when you came through the third hall of Darugnar.” He looked at them one after them. “It was a dangerous choice to come here, Moria is steeped in shadow.”

“You know that no one was alive here?” Gimli asked shocked.

“Aye,” Kili inclined his head. “I am sorry, Gimli. I know your Uncle was amongst those who came here. Balin… he paid a terrible price for entering Moria.”

Gimli pushed past Legolas facing off Kili. “If you knew, if you were here that begs the question how you survived! How would you have survived what killed all the others by the gates? What did you do to save your own skin?”

Boromir grabbed the angry dwarf at the shoulder and pulled him back. “Stop it, Gimli. I won’t have you always claim the worst where it comes to Kili. There are many ways to know of a doom without having been touched by it.” He could feel the glances of all the others on him; he had just taken a side but in what conflict was not quite clear to him yet.

“I think Kili should answer the question,” Gandalf spoke gravelly. “for no one knew of what had befallen Moria.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Gandalf, I came across Dwalin son of Fundin no less than two years ago in Bree. There must have been others who returned from this place. Maybe they left before it was too late.”

“You did see the massacre at the gate, no one escaped.” Gimli growled. “And he… he should explain well how he would know.” There was suspicion in Gimli’s eyes when he looked at the slightly older dwarf.

Boromir exchanged a quick glance with Thorongil, who tried to calm down the son of Gloin. The ranger shrugged, a gesture implying that he did not understand the dwarven anger but also that answers may be better. The Gondorian turned back to Kili, who had stood unmoving. It was easy to read in his eyes pain and sadness, this place held no good memories for him. “Kili?” he asked softly. “No one here believes these accusations, yet answers could shed the doubts from minds.”

Dark eyes met Boromir’s gaze. “I understand, my friend. It is a long tale.” He put down the pack he was carrying, only keeping the dragonblade on his back.

The Gondorian Captain led Kili towards the broken stones in the middle of the crossing where he could sit. Boromir remained standing close behind.

The dark haired dwarf drew up a leg, leaning on it with his arms. “I was in the south when Balin’s message found me, asking me to come to Moria. The journey took months and when I arrived I did not find my friend…”

*-*

The chisel nearly slipped from Kili’s fingers, cluttering on the stone beneath. Impatiently he grasped it more firmly, continuing the band of runes on the stone tomb. Beside it had placed the Winterwolf – the symbol of Balin’s family. The silence was pressing down only interrupted by the metallic song of the chisel as Kili completed the tomb inscription. His thoughts wandered years back while he worked. When Balin had spoken of taking Moria, Kili had tried to talk him out of it. Balin of all people was content with Life in the Ered Luin. He had never longed for riches or fame. But this time Kili had not reached him. It was neither for greed or gold that Balin would wage this venture. He wished to see the line of Durin restored to Moria. Hoping to dissuade him Kili had gone as far as to refuse joining him, praying Balin would abstain from the risky undertaking.

When the messenger had found him, the message had been enthusiastic, speaking of success. And Kili had not found it in his heart to disappoint his old friend’s wish. Thus he had ridden to Moria, four hundred leagues across wilds and plains. But when he arrived at the mines, the tides had turned. Khazad-dum was under attack of Orc hordes and Balin… dear, brave Balin, had been mortally wounded in the first battle. All that Kili could do was sit with him, saying his goodbye, thanking the old warrior for a life in loyalty to his family.

The last rune was finished, two clean lines between the ornaments. Kili wished he had the time to make this stone coffin into a fitting monument. But it was doubtful there would be enough time. His fingers traced the lines brushing away the splinters remaining from the work.

Here lies Balin, son of Fundin,

Lord of Moria

Kili had placed the title there, in spite of knowing that Balin had never wanted that crown for himself. He had wanted to see that crown to return to Thorin’s bloodline. Yet, Balin’s very deeds had earned no other title.

“He’d chide you, if he saw this.” He deep voice grumbled behind him. Kili did not need to look to know it was Dwalin. The huge warrior had taken command when Balin fell and he was the only one who had come here since… since Balin had been laid to rest.

“He was the one who led our people here and held Moria, even if it was only for a time. Anything less would make little of his accomplishments.” Kili turned to face Dwalin, he could well imagine the pain the older dwarf was going through. He was surprised to find Dwalin much more in control than he’d had expected. “How is the situation out there?” He was weary, tired, but he asked anyway, knowing that Dwalin had come here for that very reason.

“Tense. We are holding ourselves for now, but the Orcs are getting reinforcements. I pulled the troops back from the upper reaches and the great hall to Halling’s crossing and Dwenderhil passage; we can hold those points more easily against great numbers.” Dwalin reported, knowing that Kili knew the map of Moria better than he himself did maybe. “What we do now… depends on you.” He gave Kili a grave look.

Kili put aside the chisel, standing at the foot of the grave. He knew the time of decision had come; right here and now it was up to him, if the others would accept him. They were well led by the mighty son of Fundin, and yet the grim warrior expected a decision from Kili. “Will you be with me Dwalin?” he asked softly.

Dwalin’s eyes widened, like he was horrified that Kili should even ask. He drew his axe in one fluid move and went to one knee presenting the blade to Kili. “I, Dwalin, son of Fundin, make this oath under the eye of Mahal: that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Kili son of Dari of the House of Durin, that I shall be in the forefront of fierce battle, forging ahead with my lord and friend, coming to the war-call carrying my weapons; and when no battle causes the war-horn to blow, I shall not forget my duties, but will offer wise counsel as I may. And though I had rather lay down my life than see harm come to my lord, still should the poisoned point or aged edge strike him down, then I shall not flee a single footlength from the field, but rather shall advance into the enemy army, slaying as I might, to avenge the protector of the people. And by Mahal, and by Eru's gift, may this axe smite me upon which my hand rests, may my own edge twist and turn against me should I fail to keep this oath.”

Kili’s first reflex would have been to hinder Dwalin kneeling down but he couldn’t and he knew he could never rebuke that oath, given in honest loyalty. It would deeply hurt his old friend, if he so did. So he straightened up and placed his hand on Dwalin’s bare head. “I have heard your oath, as have the forefathers. Hear you then my vow to you: no loyalty shall be forgotten, if to the lawcourt you are called, in legal tangles twisted and tied, then I and all of my kin shall stand as oath-helpers if you should need this; and finally, my sword shall stand between you and your enemies, my strength beside you boldly, for bare is a brotherless back.” It was a shortened version of the full oath, the only promise Kili was able to give and uphold still, with his house in exile any other promise would have been hollow.

When the oath was spoken he touched Dwalin’s shoulders, pulling him up and into an embrace, deeply moved by the loyalty the mighty warrior had shown him. After a moment Dwalin stepped back, clearing his throat. “What now, my Prince?”

“Gather all that are willing to follow me, we are leaving Moria.” Kili said firmly.

“We lost the gates.” Dwalin pointed out.

“There are ways, Dwalin, secret passages through Moria, hidden doors only known to the House of Durin himself.” Kili explained. “We will need to go deeper, as it is the only way to evade the Orcs pouring up to fight us. But if we move swiftly and fearlessly we shall pass through the shadow before they can reach us.”

The broad-shouldered warrior’s eyes went to his brother’s tomb and Kili could well understand how the man felt. Kili’s own brother slept in a similar grave thousand leagues from here. “Your brother’s dream was noble and brave, Dwalin,” the dwarven Prince said softly. “and I wish with all my heart that he had succeeded. That he was with us still. But he fell and we stand no chance to fight this out. He would never forgive me for seeing your lives sacrificed for nothing.” A great sadness echoed in Kili’s voice, he was not ashamed to show the pain at losing one of his oldest friends. “Even if we conquer these Orcs, there still is Durin’s bane to contend with and he won’t sleep for long when Durin’s blood walks these halls.”

If no other argument reached Dwalin, the last did. “I will call for them.” He said, turning to get down to business.

“You can’t just do that, you have no right.” Ori was enraged, as was Oin and a number of others. “You betray all Balin dreamed off.”

Kili squared his shoulders. “Balin never advocated to waste lives on cold gold and jewels, he believed in life and in making good use of the time that we have.” He said passionately. “and I feel in my heart that he would not wish us to waste even one man to defend a tomb. Not even one as beloved as his.” Many dwarves joined Kili’s side, lining up behind where Dwalin stood by his side. Others remained undecided.

“I am staying.” Oin announced. “I will not give up Moria easily, even if Durin’s blood has lost the will to fight.”

Kili had to prevent Dwalin from striking down Oin for these words, but the ill was done, the split became a rift. Half the dwaves joined Kili, the rest remained.

Three nights and the darkest journey of his life later Kili was the last of two hundred dwarves to climb out of one of the old watchtowers in the flank of Zirakzigil. Behind them night fell upon Moria.

*-*

“We left Moria for the Ered Luin the morning after,” Kili finished the tale that been much painful to tell. “Dwalin and I agreed on fortifying Caldemir and making it our true city… I could not stay, for reasons most of you will know.” He did not need to explain that his very presence there caused too much strife with dwarves from other kingdoms and would inevitably lead to more hardship for his followers. “I do not know what happened after we left. But it is not hard to guess.”

Silence fell upon the group assembled there. Gimli had bowed his head, saddened by what he had heard and maybe shaken by it too. Gandalf shook his head but offered neither comfort nor council. Boromir had not moved from his spot but still observed Kili with surprise. He knew little of dwarves, had learned most of them during the last weeks, but to find his friend, his comrade, an exiled Prince of their kind was something he had not expected. “Kili,” he spoke up. “if your house does know Moria so well, can you guide us out of here?”

Chapter Text

Boromir’s question startled Kili out of the dark thoughts and memories he had been drowning in. Looking at the Gondorian Captain he was glad to be pulled from the memories of the past. “I can and I will.” He rose to his feet and took his pack. “It is one and a half day to the other side and we will have to be careful.”

“I thought we were down here for more than three days already.” Boromir observed, following Kili towards the upper doorway. “And we have not been slow to walk.”

“Were we to stick to the direct way, across the Hall of Wisdom, Hall of Records and right towards the Guard’s gateway we could make it in less than ten hours,” Kili agreed. “but whichever one of you tossed something down the old watcher’s well, woke too many things…” He raised his hand forestalling words from Boromir. Somewhere from deep down they could hear the same tap tap dum dum again. Drums in the deep. “I have heard those drums before,” The dwarf’s voice was grim.

“Would a shorter way not make more sense?” The Gondorian Captain was not easily deterred. “The quicker we get out of here, the less chance they have to get us.”

“We don’t have much of a headstart and they can easily scale steep walls.” Kili replied. “We need to avoid the great halls, in small tunnels and narrow passages they have less of a chance to bring their numbers to bear.”

That made sense to Boromir. A small tunnel could be held against an army of attackers much easier than encirclement would be broken. He followed Kili into the tunnel leading downwards, the others were following behind.

It was a different journey that now began. It was not just that their guide moved through the vast underground city with the ease and familiarity of someone who’d call this place home, the very paths were different. Small tunnels, steep ledges hidden high above walls and doors none of them could have spotted, let alone known the right words for. At Boromir’s questions Kili  would sometimes explain in whispers that they were passing the former pewterer’s stairs, the lantern makers cantlet or the armorer’s well. The first time they had to risk a greater hall, it was one filled with constructions. No less than twelve huge hammers with long arms were hanging from the ceiling.

“What are those?” Boromir asked in a hush as they slipped along the wall of the room.

“First well of Hammers, often called the First Hammer,” Kili peered up. “they used to be driven by water and their main purpose was to hammer sheet metal.”

Again hours later, after passing through smelter’s deeps and the lapidary’s reaches, Aragorn called them to stop. “We need to rest, the Halflings are all but dropping from exhaustion. We do not all possess Boromir’s steely condition.”

The Steward’s son arched an eyebrow. He was as tired as the others but had registered it less while they passed through the most fascinating city and mining operation he had ever seen. He simply had not thought of his exhaustion for hours. “He is right, Kili. I cannot even begin to tell for how many hours we have walked.”

“There is an old watchpost not far from here,” their guide said after a moment’s thought. “we should be safe enough there.”

And indeed it was not far. The watchpost lay above the normal level they walked, only available through a hidden stairwell. While it only consisted of two empty stone rooms, it was enough. There was a kind of window carved into the wall opposite of the entrance which Kili had immediately gone to, gesturing Boromir to follow him over. The tall man joined him, quite glad for the opening, as it made him feel less trapped under the low ceiling. But Kili pointed outside. There was a light, faint but clearly visible coming from somewhere in the darkness, sometimes flaring up stronger for moments. It took Boromir a while to understand that there must be a shaft allowing daylight to fall into a mighty cavern and that sometimes the rays of light were caught and amplified by a crystal under the ceiling.

Again the crystal caught the rays of light and this time a bright beam filled the seemingly endless blackness of the cavern. In the sudden light Boromir saw across a huge domed hall towards a city – a whole city built into the mountain itself; roads, houses and towers, crowned by a palace shaped like a fireblossom growing from stone itself. “The city of Khazad-dum, that your people called Dwarrowdelf,” Kili whispered.

Darkness dropped again taking away the vision of the huge heart of Moria… Dwarrowdelf, but Boromir smiled. He’d never forget what he had just seen.

                                                                              .               .               .

When Boromir woke from deep and surprisingly restful sleep he heard Gandalf debate with Kili. “We have shaken them off, thanks to your guidance,” the old wizard just said. “and I suggest we go to the bridge and leave Moria quickly. The longer we tarry the greater the risk they will find us again.”

“The bridge is risky, it’s the best known way out, Gandalf,” Kili was standing with his back to the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest. “and if they have archers it’ll be a death walk.”

“There is nothing in this mine that is not a deathtrap. I did not accept your guidance to have us remain here longer than we have to.” The wizard was clearly angered.

“Very well, we will go your way.” There was no doubt that Kili was unhappy with the decision and the way he glared at Gandalf left little doubt there.

“Spare me the stubbornness of your kind,” Gandalf’s temper was sorely tested. “you have all the pride and stubbornness of your Uncle.” Suddenly both became aware that not only Boromir was awake and stopped their discussion.

They set out again, climbing up several long stairwells until finally coming out into a much wider set of stairs leading through a huge chasm. There was fire burning somewhere below, red light shining on the powerful columns supporting the stairs. When they came out of the cover the walls had offered several arrows hissed past them. Legolas reacted swiftest of all, shooting several orcs from their vantage points. “Kili!” he called for the dwarf, who followed his example, focusing on the other side of the hall, where Orcs were hiding on a ledge above them.

Aragorn and Boromir took point, seeing a number of Orcs coming up the stairs at them. Side by side the Ranger and the Captain cut through their attackers. Each step down the long stairs was hard fought for, bodies began to litter the ancient stone steps and black blood ran down the pillars in rivers. Neither man could say how long they had fought when they finally reached the bottom of the long staircase and came through another archway that led into a hall. They ran, hoping to shake off the Orcs still hunting after them.

But when they came into the great hall at the bridge, the whole hall was aflame, fires burning up along the pillars, tongues of flame licking at the walls like they were timbers. A roar rose above the fires and out of the fire’s dancing shadows a pair of wings took flight.

“What is this new devilry?” Boromir did not know how he could still ask, how he could still think, the dread coming from those flames and shadows was worse than anything he had ever known. But his heart refused to stop, nor would his mind or limbs freeze up. Somewhere inside him was something that would not quit, nor give in.

“Durin’s Bane…” Kili’s eyes had widened, all colour drained from his face.

“A Balrog. A demon of the ancient world.” Gandalf suddenly sounded so very tired. “this is a foe beyond any of you. Run!”

What happened next was something none of the companions would ever forget; something that would haunt them for many years to come. The black wings swooped down, blowing them to the side effortlessly as the Balrog landed in front of Gandalf, a fiery blade appearing in its dark claws. Gandalf’s staff glowed in a terrible bright light. “I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Arnor. The dark fire will not avail you, Flame of Udûn!” he shouted raising his sword. Elven steel met the fiery blade and flames shot from the short impact of weapons in all directions. The very ground shook under them. Another pass broke a large chunk off the ceiling, it came crashing down and smashed the bridge, trapping them on the wrong side of the chasm.

Gandalf raised his staff, a ray of sheer light throwing the Balrog back a few steps. The wizard turned his ashen face to the companions. “Run, you fools! Swords are no use here.”

Aragorn reacted swiftest. “Kili – is there another way out of here?” He asked the dwarf, who had just struggled back to his feet after being smashed into one of the pillars.

The dwarf prince was pale, but whatever fear he felt was under control. “Follow me,” he said in a toneless voice.

They had to cross the hall, an undertaking of deadly proportions because the battle of the Balrog and the wizard had just begun and both were not using their power sparingly. On the other side of the hall there was a small flight of stairs leading up the very walls of the hall to a gateway above. They ran up, but just as they reached the top of the stairs they saw the Balrog’s whip grab Gandalf. However, the dark creature had overextended its own reach and both fighters fell into the chasm, the Balrog’s dark wings whirling to break the deadly impact. They both vanished into darkness and the flames died down.

Shrieks echoed from the fresh shadows as Orcs poured out of their holes. The friends raced through the gateway and down another tunnel. It was a horrible flight through the darkness, they barely saw where they were going, Orcs behind them and danger ahead in any step they took. More than an hour they did not know where Kili was leading them until their path led them directly into a dark wall, the Orcs closing in from three sides. “It’s a dead end!” Legolas’ turned to shoot the first Orcs.

“It isn’t.” Kili put his hands on the wall, whispering words none of them understood and suddenly a glowing door way opened before them. “Hurry! There is no time.” They hastened through the doorway, stumbling out in another tunnel, a tunnel with the faint light of day on its very end. If there was anything to give them strength again, it was the sight of real daylight. They ran up the tunnel and out of the dark gate of Moria.

                                                                              .               .               .

The light of midday bathed the vale beyond the gates of Moria, saving the fellowship from the orcs still down in the tunnels underground. They all were tired, exhausted beyond anything but Aragorn would not allow them to rest. “Come nightfall these hill will be swarming with orcs.” He said, a gesture asking Boromir to look out that they did not lose any of the Hobbits. For two hours they hurried on until the valley lay behind them and they saw a forest edge ahead of them. Here, the Ranger stopped, allowing them to catch their breath and to take care of their injuries. It was necessary. None of the Hobbits were able to walk much further.

“Where now?” Kili asked, bandaging up a fresh cut on his arm where an Orc arrow had grazed him.

Aragorn came over to help. “You performed the task Lord Elrond gave you well, Kili.” He said. “We may have suffered a grave loss but you helped us to get out at all.”

The dwarf frowned. “Such praise comes with a hook, does it, Aragorn?” he asked quietly.

“Your task ends here, Kili. You were asked to aid us get over the mountains. From here on it is best that you do not know where we are going or why. Our errand cannot, must not be shared with anyone. You have my thanks for all you did. If you cross the river before nightfall you should be able to shake off the Orcs. They will go after us.”

“Aragorn, we could well use another warrior,” Boromir opposed that decision. “things will get harder the further we come south until we reach Minas Tirith. Another fighter should be a welcome addition.”

The Dunedain cast him a calm, stern glance. “Our destination is not Minas Tirith and with all that has happened, I doubt it would be wise to go anywhere near the city. We will be safer choosing a path through the wilds.”  His tone made clear he would not debate this issue.

Boromir knew an order when he heard one and bit back the impulse to argue. “Kili, a word please.” He said to the dwarf.

They walked a few steps away from the company. “You have to return to your city, do you?” Kili asked. “Gondor can’t spare their Captain indefinitely.”

The Gondorian Captain confirmed that with a curt nod. It had always been clear that he would have to do so. They had assumed it would keep their paths together for most of the journey. “I will bring them as far as I can. But on the borders of Rohan I will have to leave them, if they insist on doing what Aragorn just said.”

“Alone across the plains and the white mountains? That will not be an easy journey, especially with Isengard so close.” Kili pointed out. Their eyes met and Boromir found the help he so greatly needed being offered to him. “Where shall I meet up with you?” Kili simply asked.

Boromir wondered how Kili was able to do that; know what others needed of him and then offer it without a second thought. “There is an ancient lookout close to the Anduin waterfalls…”

“Amon Hen. I know the place of which you speak. I will camp in the ruins of the old overlook.” The dwarf promised. “If you do not show up in a reasonable time, I’ll find you.”

                                                                              .               .               .

Aragorn’s eyes where following the dwarf’s figure as he vanished quickly into the shadows of the mountains again. The Ranger was sure Kili could take care of himself. He gave a grateful nod to Boromir, who rejoined them. “Thank you, I hated arguing with him.”

The Steward’s son shrugged. “Sometimes a diversion is preferable to a confrontation.” He looked to the Hobbits. “Are they better?”

“Well enough to move on for a few more hours.” Aragorn replied. “By nightfall we should be safe.”

                                                                               .               .               .                                                                                                                           

Entering the elven kingdom of Lothlorien was very different from arriving in Rivendell, Boromir quickly found out. The elven guard was not quite sure if they wished to welcome strangers or shoot them where they stood, and then there was the city itself… Rivendell for all its elven beauty was something solidly tied to this world. Lothlórien was like a dream, a place of otherworldly grace and ethereal beauty; something that might have existed when the world was younger before the shadow came. They were led to an audience with the Lady of the Golden Woods in her very halls. Boromir had never believed all the tales the riders of Rohan would tell of her, most of them less than friendly, nor did he take Gimli’s statement about the elf-witch quite seriously, yet when Galadriel’s eyes touched his gaze he felt she was looking right inside him, inside his mind.

Again he stood at the crossroads of Ithilien, his army at his back, raising his sword to order them to advance, to storm Minas Morgul, to drive the shadow out of Minas Ithil.

Blinking hard, the Gondorian fought against the vision that would intrude on his mind, the sweet promise of defeating the shadow, the hope he must not believe. He tried to cast down his eyes, avoid Galadriel’s piercing gaze but he found he could not.

Once again he was fighting under the silvery lamps of Moria, side by side with Kili and Dwalin, the Orcs on the run…

“Strange your dreams are, Boromir of Gondor.” The lady’s voice whispered in his mind. “Beware of them, for some may lead you astray.”

He tried to shut out the voice, tried not to hear her words of hope, of not giving up. What did she know of the fading hopes of men? He could not trust any whispers wandering his mind. When she finally took mercy on him and looked away he felt like he’d been interrogated for hours.

                                                                               .               .               .                                                                                            

“I will not sleep peacefully in this place,” Boromir walked away from the others. Why had he even tried to speak of his fears, of his hopes to Aragorn? Had the Ranger any idea how much Gondor’s hold on the borders was slipping, how desperate the last decades had been? Gondor had known no peace and little respite for most of Boromir’s life and Thorongil did not even see how much hope he could have given the war-besieged nation. Pained, he thought of his father, the old man in the white city. Denethor’s rule was failing. It had been for years, and Boromir had felt the hopes and responsibilities of his people on his shoulders from a very young age. Sometimes he wished that the man who held a claim to that throne would actually take up the mantle and share the crushing weight. Frustrated Boromir lay down under a tree away from the others. He was tired in mind and body, yet he dreaded sleep because the dreams would come again. No sooner had he settled down that sleep crept up on him, drawing him into the dark webs of dreams.

A whirling wind swept ashes over the pass road, flames rose to the skies, lighting the darkest night in their bright fire. Minas Morgul was burning, the dark walls broken apart by a terrible bright flame. Boromir stood atop the high pass, arms crossed in front of his chest. He did not mourn the burning of Minas Ithil’s desecrated remains, the fire would cleanse it all away. A new citadel would be built here, a white citadel, with towering walls and watchful towers, a fortress that no enemy would raze again.

Hasty steps approached him, he did not turn around. Gone were the days when he had to fear assassins at his back, there was no man in this army that would not die for him and deem it an honor. “My captain,” It was Veryan of Dol Amroth, once the youngest son of their house, then a banished man and now one of Boromir’s most trusted officers. He had dropped to one knee, waiting to be acknowledged.

The Captain turned around, gesturing him to rise. Veryan was injured, blood marring the swan knight’s armor. “How stands the vanguard?” Boromir asked.

“We have secured the plains of Udûn and the gates,” Veryan reported. “half the legions have made it across the pass and into the positions we secured. By tomorrow we shall be ready to advance.”

“Only by tomorrow?” The Captain’s voice sunk dangerously low. “I had expected more, especially of you.”

Veryan paled slightly, his blue eyes cast down avoiding Boromir’s gaze. “It was my failing, Captain. I insisted on a slower passage through the pass to keep the troops from exhausting too quickly.”

“See that you have them ready to storm the tower by morning.” The Captain growled. “I do not wish to wait any longer.”

The Swan knight bowed deeply and turned to leave. Boromir went after him, his armored hand reaching for Veryan’s shoulder. “Have that wound looked at first, Veryan.” he said in gentler tones. “I can’t have you die on me.”

On the armored hand, resting on the Swan Knight’s shoulder the ring burned brightly…

Boromir woke shaking, more exhausted than he had been before. The moon still shone low through the branches. He could not have slept more than two hours. Rising he found a well, drinking a few sips of the cool water. Those dreams… how could he resist them? Could he stop to believe in any hope to not allow the enemy to use his hopes against him? How could a man give up all that made him go on every day? He sat down beside the well, leaning his back against the stone basin. He felt watched, haunted, even here within these well-guarded borders. He took the axe, placing it over his knees, like he did on travels. It may offend the elves, but it would make him feel better. Sleep came again on soft feet, carrying him away into dreams.

“That’ll send them all running home to Gundabad mount,” Dwalin laughed uproariously. The old warrior was more than pleased with the outcome of the recent battle. Fighting their way through the halls and caverns had been a tough task, but the Orcs were leaderless and whatever they could mount as a resistance was not enough to deter the dwarves. The bare-headed warrior grinned up at him. “You aren't half bad. We'll make a dwarf of you yet!”

Boromir laughed. “I’d prefer to not be cut in half, Dwalin.” He sheathed his sword and followed the dwarven war-leader through the freshly cleansed halls. “Where are we going?”

“The city proper,” Dwalin explained. “no one has been in there since Khazad-dum fell. Only Durin’s blood may open these gates. Moria is more than just mines and a maze of workshops.”

“Dwarrowdelf,” Boromir preferred the human name to the elven word Moria. Moria would always remind him of dark things, but Dwarrowdelf… Dwarrowdelf was something else entirely. “I recall when I saw that place from afar, only for a moment reflected in the light of a broken crystal lamp.”

“Aye, he mentioned that once,” Dwalin replied. They walked through halls where lamps had been relit or torches replaced them for the time being.

On the grand circular hall domed by a ceiling so high it was hardly visible in the firelights, dwarven troops were still cleaning away Orc corpses, later the population would follow the warriors in their advance and clean away the filth and rubbish the goblins had left behind.  Boromir could well imagine what Brea, daughter of Briga, the acting speaker of the populace would say. It would most likely involve water, sand and scrubbing until the Orc stench was gone.

“Dwalin, Boromir,” Kili who had spoken with the aforementioned dwarf lady, turned and walked up to them. “I feared we had another Orc pocket on our hands when you did not come.”

“They ran like rabbits,” Dwalin grinned. “I had to find our Gondorian friend here first.” He gave Boromir an affectionate slap on the back.

The three of them walked up to the huge stone wall north of the hall. When he stood before the seemingly empty wall, Kili turned around to them. “We’re here, Lad,” Dwalin’s voice held a wealth of warmth. After the long way he had gone with Kili's family this moment meant much to him. With Dwalin and Boromir at his side Kili spoke the secret words to open the forgotten gates of Dwarrowdelf.

“Boromir, Boromir, wake up!” A voice from afar called him back to the waking world. Tiredly the Gondorian blinked, seeing it was Aragorn who had woken him. “Thorongil… what happened? Attack?” He pushed himself up, forcing the sleep back to wake up fully.

If the Ranger was irritated by Boromir’s use of that name, he did not show it. “No, there is no danger here. Merry found you, you were restless in your sleep, speaking of Dwarrowdelf.” The Dunedain’s gaze softened. “We all have bad dreams of that place, Boromir. But Gandalf would not wish for us to break down in mourning.”

“Neither hopes nor dreams attend a wounded animal,” The Captain did not know why he had quoted one of his best friends at home. He should not have quoted Veryan, not after these dreams. He quickly tried to push away these thoughts. “Aragorn, has there ever been another attempt to retake Moria?” He asked. “One other than Balin’s I mean?”

The Ranger sat down on the grass beside Boromir, thinking. “King Thror tried to reclaim Moria,” he said after a moment, telling the tale of Thror, the pale orc and Thorin Oakenshield, like it was remembered in Rivendell.

“Has Kili any connection to that battle?” The Gondorian asked eventually.

“Kili? No. He must have been but a child at the time. His Uncle, Thorin Oakenshield was there of course, and King Thror would have been his great-grandfather. I believe Kili’s father, Dari, fell in that battle, fighting by Thorin’s side.” Aragorn looked at his comrade; he could tell that the tale of bravery, of great deeds in war, appealed to the captain, whose own life had been dominated by war. Many soldiers were like that. “Meeting Kili impressed you, did it?”

“He is an impressive fighter,” Boromir answered. “I have rarely seen someone with the stubbornness and the courage to even charge at a Nazgul, knowing he has no chance and still trying to protect his friends. I had not thought he was of a high dwarven house, but now that I do, I think I should have seen it, he has this air about him…”

“You should have seen his Uncle,” Strider relaxed, he actually smiled. “I was a mere boy when Thorin Oakenshield and his companions came to Rivendell. During the night I snuck out to see them. I had never seen dwarves before. Thorin was impressive, cold, aloof and like one of the old dwarven kings of legend. A warrior. Kili and his brother were with him, they were young too, barely adults by dwarven reckoning.”

Settling back against the stone basin Boromir listened to Aragorn telling him of the past, glad to allow his mind to be distracted from dark memories and restless dreams.

Chapter Text

Leaving Lothlórien came as more of a relief than Boromir wished to show. The elves had allowed them to heal, to rest and to enjoy some safety, yet he had never felt save inside their enchanted borders. He knew that their stay inside the golden woods had also allowed them to wait out the worst weather, the Anduin valley was rarely cold long and what little snow there came in winter should be passed by now. Of course there had been discussions on how to continue their journey. It had quickly become clear that the others were set against going to Gondor, favoring a path across the wilds to enter Mordor from a less guarded side. There was little doubt on Boromir’s mind that this was a bad plan, but they had been adamant on that point.

A little contention had arisen when Aragorn mentioned that at least one of them should go with Boromir to Gondor, that no one should travel alone. None of the others had wished to join him and the Gondorian had relieved them of further debate by stating that he’d be well able to do on his own until he met the first border patrols of Rohan. Inwardly Boromir was glad he knew that he’d not be alone once he left the company, which would be upon the falls of Rauros. He had not shared that fact with the others. He could not quite say why but he hoarded the knowledge that a friend was awaiting him downriver like a treasure.

The boats the elves gave them were a most thoughtful aid, sparing the halflings a lot of long weary marches on the cold riverbanks. For several grey days they followed the Anduin, winter had fled the land but spring was reluctant to grace the northern vale of the great river. For the first few nights Boromir’s dreams had been troubled, but the dreams had been short and he had finished them by simply sleeping less. Often he would rise from his nightmares and relieve whoever was at watch to stand guard over his comrades until dawn came. On the sixth evening of their journey he was so exhausted that the others noticed.

Merry and Pippin actually tried to help him drag the boat ashore. “You need to rest, Boromir,” Merry said with a worried expression. “I mean, I love to sleep through the night and not to have stand watch but you need to rest too.” He had already conspired with Pippin and spoken to Strider, who had decided that Boromir should not have a watch hour this night to get some rest.

Exhausted that he was Boromir fell asleep the moment he had lain down on the cold ground. But the sleep brought dreams, creeping from the shadows like monsters.

The Plateau of Gorgoroth was ablaze with fire and battle. Orc legions had poured down from Lithlad in one last attempt to stop men’s advance into the land of shadow. Standing upon a high hill, Boromir watched the battle unfold. His troops were doing well, as well they should. The great Captain did not hold with fools or cowards. This army was the best the world of men had ever mustered and it was slicing the shadow like a ray of light would part the clouds.

What still stood of the Orc center was amassed at the very bridges of Barad-Dûr. Boromir saw how his legions split apart, Veryan for sure leading the center attack, while Beregond and Caradmir respectively took flank command, moving the legions to flank the enemy to encircle them again. The fighting at the center was vicious, Barad-Dûr pouring out its remaining Elite troops. Of the Nazgul, the three remaining where in the field, the others Boromir had ripped apart in Minas Morgul.

He could well see the Nazgul taking command of the center, closing the orc ranks. Their counterattack was terrible, cutting through Veryan's troops, pushing them back from the bridge. The Captain sighed. He could not leave that to Veryan. Or rather, he could, but it would mean the death of the man. Boromir still held some lingering affection for the valiant swan knight, he reveled in the adoration he saw in the other man’s eyes and he relied on his absolute loyalty. Veryan would be the first permitted to swear fealty to the new king, once this was all over.

Boromir drew his sword, the ring aglow like fire on his gauntlet. He did not call for any troops nor personal guard, he did not need these petty trappings of weak kings. Without anyone supporting him he cut through the enemy ranks effortlessly, Orcs and Harad-men fell before him, crushed by his sword. He reached the center of the battle to see Veryan having actually managed to gain a foothold on Barad-Dûr’s very bridge. The Captain smiled, the swan knight rarely failed him and he sometimes managed to surprise. There he was: on the very bridge, fighting a Nazgul, not giving ground with a fierce courage that made Boromir all the more proud. This was the strength of men, the shining beacon of light that would end a darkness neither elves nor valar had cared to destroy.

Seeing that the Swan knight could not hold out much longer Boromir rushed the bridge, effortlessly cleaning away the few orcs still daring to hold out. He slipped past faltering Veryan and with one fierce strike flung the Nazgul blade into the chasm under the bridge. A second strike destroyed the creature entirely, a golden band falling from the ghostly appearance and cluttered on the stone. Boromir picked it up, putting it with the other six rings in the pouch on his belt.

Extending a hand he grabbed Veryan’s arm and helped him up. “That was brave… and could have killed you. I told you not to die on me.”

“I do my best, my Lord.” Veryan might be tired and injured but he stood at once again, ready to fight.

“It’s Captain, I told you to leave those pretentious titles to old men and doddering fools.” Boromir chided him, it was something he had to remind them of a lot, lately. He saw Veryan’s smile, the adoration in the blue eyes and felt a warmth rise inside him. They’d follow him to the very end of the world. In that moment Boromir decided that Veryan would be the one to wear the ring of the witchking once this battle was over.

                                                               .                              .                              .

In the morning Boromir woke even more exhausted then the evening before. He felt like his whole body had been trashed through a battle, he found no appetite to eat even a bite of the breakfast Sam had prepared and he hardly noticed the glances the others cast him. “Merry, Pippin, come on, we don’t have all day.” He chased up his two Hobbits, sending them to the boat. Neither of them were particularly happy, but they did not talk back. Small favors indeed. He pushed the boat off the shore and out on the river.

While steering the boat downriver Boromir pondered what to do. What could he do? One day and a night he told himself, he had to hold out for that long. They were approaching Rauros Falls, from there they’d go their separate ways. He could hold out that long. Once he had seen them well on their way, he would meet up with Kili and go on, preferring to be remembered as the one who left the quest than becoming a traitor. The very idea of that made Boromir feel sick, even as the whispers continued…

The tower was an appalling maze of spiky stairwells and twisting hallways leading nowhere, an abomination that only a sorcerer could think up in his twisted mind. Followed by Veryan, Beregond and Caradmir, the Captain approached the throne hall of the tower. Here it would end. The night would end.

The doors were guarded by the last Nazgul and the few remaining Orcs. None of Boromir’s men hesitated. “For the Lord of the Morning!” It was Caradmir who had minted that battle-cry, it had quickly taken hold with the Legions and while Boromir often reminded his troops of not calling him Lord, he was secretly pleased with the title. He charged ahead, cutting down the very last Nazgul. They were pathetic. As pathetic as the kings that they once had been. Sauron’s judgment in strength for his ringwearers had been as appalling as everything else in his reign.

The gates opened and Boromir faced the shadow, fire hailing down on him, a fiery whip trashing at him, but he stood, his faithful standing with him. The ring burning in golden light as Boromir’s blade sliced the shadow, destroying what was left of the Dark Lord. The shadow fell with a last shriek of a fell voice that should not be heard again in this age of the world.

Still breathing hard he turned around, to find Veryan, Beregond and Caladmir, who had kept Sauron’s guard at bay but the Easterling guard had now retreated to the walls, shocked by the fall of their master. Veryan bent down and picked something up. When he approached Boromir, the other two followed behind. Two steps from Boromir who stood on the stairs of the Obsidian Throne, Veryan stopped and dropped to one knee, presenting the black crown to his Lord…

Boromir jerked awake by a heavier movement of the boat. He found he held no oar any longer. Merry stood behind him balancing on the boat’s narrow sides and used the oar to steer. “Don’t worry, Boromir,” he said with a grin. “I can steer a boar, I am a Brandybuck you know. I must have done this dozens of times on Brandywine River.”

“No, I should not have fallen asleep,” The Captain took the oar and helped Merry to get back to the middle of the boat. He then brought them up with the other two boars in a few powerful strokes, like he could leave the dreams behind that way. This day and maybe the night, he reminded himself. Maybe he should leave the camp this night already.

“Look!” Pippin pointed forward, where two gigantic stone statues stood high above the waters. Their faces were made in semblance of the Kings of old. It was with great relief Boromir saw those stone kings, not for what they depicted or what they meant in the history of his people, it meant he had nearly done it. A little more and he’d make it without becoming a traitor to anyone.

                                                                              .               .               .

They landed the boats on the riverbank, dragging them up to hide. “We’ll cross the lake after nightfall,” Aragorn told the others. “hide the boats and continue on foot.”

”Oh, yes?!” Gimli grumbled sarcastically, “It's just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil? An impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rocks! And after that, it gets even better! A festering, stinking marshlands, far as the eye can see!”

“That is our road. I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf,” The ranger told him, he turned to look for Boromir. If their friend was truly set on leaving them here, he better say it now. But as Aragorn quickly surveyed the camp, he did not spot the Gondorian anywhere, nor his pack and things.

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Frodo had seen Boromir take off right after the boats had been secured. He had taken his pack and weapons and slipped away into the woods. His behavior deeply troubled the Hobbit, who could not imagine Boromir to be someone to slink away like that. Yet he had noticed a certain… aloofness the others sometimes displayed to the Gondorian Captain ever since the incident on the pass. Quickly Frodo set down his pack with the others and slipped away following where he had seen Boromir vanish into the woods. While the young Baggins was in no way a tracker he had the keen eyes and quick senses of his people, thus finding it not so hard to find his way up the hill and deeper into the woods. He could neither see nor hear Boromir move through the forest, but soon discovered a set of overgrown, moss-stained stairs leading towards a ruined overlook.

Frodo raced up the stairs and to his own surprise found himself in a well hidden small camp. Someone must have been camping here for days, if the ash in the fire pit was any indication.

“You should not sneak around where you are not invited. Few people like strangers wandering into their camps.” Boromir’s voice startled Frodo, the Hobbit turned around and saw the Captain had arrived just after him.

“That would be true for you too – we should tell the others that someone his here.” He replied.

“No.” Boromir put down his pack. “It won’t be necessary. By nightfall Aragorn will have you all on the other side of the river. This is nothing that concerns him.”

“So you know who is camping here!” Frodo exclaimed. “You are meeting someone here. Why are you keeping it secret?”

“Secret? You would know about secrets best, wouldn't you Halfling.” Boromir’s anger rose. “You carry something you have no right to. If anyone has a right to it, then it is men, not halflings or elves.”

Remembering the warning Boromir had given him weeks ago Frodo retreated, yet he knew he could never outrun the tall man. All of sudden he felt a hand on his shoulder, someone pushing him aside, standing between him and Boromir.

“You will not harm him.” Kili said firmly.

The rage was still upon Boromir. “Do not interfere, dwarf,” he spat. “You may have resigned yourself to be a king in rags on the road, but I will not see my people fall like yours did.” He tried to push the dwarven warrior out of the way, but Kili managed to grasp both of Boromir’s wrists, his hands strong as the thongs in a forge.

“I will not let you,” he said, his voice firm and stern. “Boromir, it is not you speaking. You hear it call, you feel the curse reach for you. I have seen that before.” Deep dark eyes found Boromir’s gaze, holding it. “Thorin, he fell under the spell of the dragon’s gold. Driven by greed and fear he became a shadow of himself.”

Boromir tried to break free, cursing, but the dwarf was much stronger than he had ever thought. The voice came from afar but it penetrated the red haze.

“I had to stand by and watch him slip away, day by day until only the curse remained and when he broke free all that remained for him was death in battle.” Kili did not let go, no matter how much Boromir tried to break out of his grip. “Death. Death. Death. That was all that remained. He died bravely; atoning for his weakness… he was hacked to pieces by Orcs, his breaking eyes not seeing victory, only darkness. Do you want to end like that?”

“No.” Boromir’s voice was hoarse. “No… I will not end like that, I will not break my word. Never.”

Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew you were stronger than that.” He said softly, knowing it had been a very close call.

The Captain hardly heard the words of vindication, of forgiveness – his eyes went past his friends to the other side of the ruin. Orcs, unusually tall Orcs marked by the white hand of Saruman had appeared there. “Frodo, run.” Boromir drew his sword. “run and don’t look back.”

With Kili by his side the Captain of Gondor charged into battle. Behind him he knew Frodo was racing towards the river. They needed to buy time.

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Frodo ran downhill towards the water, he heard the sounds of fierce fighting behind him and to either side. When he reached the landing he was only found by Sam. None of their friends was there – they too were fighting in the forest. Orcs were everywhere, their numbers overwhelming. Frodo did not hesitate, behind him he knew that several of his friends were probably laying down their lives to buy him time. He and Sam took one of the boats and pushed off the hidden landing, not daring to listen back.

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The fight was brutal from the very beginning, the Uruk-hai of Isengard were taller and stronger than their mountain-bred brethren, with numbers on their side. Kili and Boromir kept their ground in the middle of the ruin, even though it was a tough battle. Kili was capable to cover a wide area of ground, fighting in an aggressive, almost wild style. Wielding his blade in the right and a blazing torch in his left hand, he was a whirlwind of power as he leapt and whirled and spun, always in swift motion, always in attack, always hacking, stabbing and slashing, piling the corpses of Uruk-hai on the ground. Boromir had his hands full in taking on all those Orcs who would come in his back. And, by the fathers of Gondor, this was necessary. Kili seemed not to care much about his back, or about those opponents who slipped by him. Or perhaps he just trusted Boromir to guard his back closely. When the orcs eventually broke off, the ground around the two fighters was littered with stinking dark carcasses. Trying to catch his breath, Boromir leaned on his blade, startled to hear the strangest sound of all; Kili was laughing, his deep voice echoing past the running Orcs. Boromir turned towards the dwarven warrior who stood as he had fought; his sword in one hand and a torch in the other. His bright eyes blazed like fires as he raised his torch towards Boromir in a gesture of victory. 

The moment of hope was short-lived. More Orcs came, from both sides of the ruin this time. The woods must have been crawling with them. Boromir closed ranks with Kili, ready to fight them. The ring was leaving. It had left scars on Boromir’s soul but now that it was fading. He would stand. Frodo needed him to hold out and thus the Captain of Gondor would stand.

Chapter Text

Uruk-hai were swarming the woods of Amon Hen. They had split up into several companies, each of them going after one desired target. The main bulk of their force was focused on the ruins uphill though, where their scouts had seen the Halfling. The two fighters up there stood their ground At first the Orcs attacked in small groups, trying to flank and separate the two defenders. In the next wave their groups got larger, trying force where tactics had failed. The third wave had archers to back them up, however, most of them got picked off their vantage points by the dwarf and his bow. By the time the seventh wave was storming the ruin, the piles of their own dead created obstacles for them. But the Uruk-hai were cunning; they had the vile skills of their mountain-bred brethren and the greater strength. While some of them fought the two stubborn defenders, some others crept under the ruin, into what was left of the cellars.

The ground was shaking and with a horrible sound, parts of the ruin were broken apart. Kili, reacting with the natural reflexes of all dwarves who live with the dangers of cave-ins and mine collapses, jumped out of the first collapse zone, he rolled over the hard ground and was pushed into a mass of orcs when more rubble came lose. Boromir had not reacted as swiftly. He was thrown the other way by the underground explosion and an avalanche of mud and stone threw him down the hill and into the forest.

When the Captain of Gondor got to his feet, he was bruised and batter but still alive. Unfortunately he was not alone. The Uruk-hai were not far, only they had another target for now. On a slope of the forest they had cornered strider who fought a valiant battle against overwhelming numbers, trying to protect Merry and Pippin. So far he was holding out, but Boromir saw one tall Uruk-hai draw his bow with a wicked smile, intending to shoot the man who dared to stand in the face of Isengard.

Like a brush of hot wind whispering from afar, Boromir again felt the voice of the ring in his mind. He would just need to let Aragorn fight his own battle and there would be no King of Gondor. No man to claim the empty throne and Gondor would be free of the shadow the empty throne had cast on the land. “No,” Boromir spat. “I will not do the enemy’s work.” He’d not deprive Gondor of hope, of a King who might save it, no matter how much the thought hurt Boromir’s own pride. He dropped his shattered sword and took the axe as he charged at the Uruk, knocking the arrow out of its path; it missed Aragorn and hit one of the Uruk-hai instead.

With an angry snarl, Lurtz whirled around and dropped the bow, his crude blade in his hand he attacked the man who had dared to tackle him.

It was the strongest Orc Boromir had ever faced; not even Mordor’s Elite were that powerful. Boromir went at him aggressively, the axe coming down in deadly crescents, each hit battering away the thick armor, cutting into the Uruk-hai’s flesh. Black blood smeared the silvery axe blade. When the Uruk stumbled Boromir swung the axe with both hands beheading the terrible creature. He did not stop or pause, going for the next of them, cutting them down.

Howling in rage more Orcs swarmed the man who had slain their leader. Boromir stood his ground, back to a tree.  He did not see their numbers, nor did he know how many he had killed. His heart was beyond feeling, beyond dread, he hardly felt the wounds he received. He had denied them another prey; they won’t slay a king here, and that’s a victory.

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Aragorn pushed through the ranks of the Orcs, trying to clear a path for the two Hobbits with him, without Boromir’s brave interference he’d not be standing any more. He knew that. And he could do nothing to help the brave captain, who bore the brunt of the Orc’s rage, for he too was barely was able to fend off the Uruk-hai. And thus comes the moment Merry and Pippin try to support him and fight. The Uruk-hai quickly grab them, carrying them off, leaving just enough of them behind to hinder the Ranger from reaching his friends.

It is thus that Gimli and Legolas find him – still fighting, against the last of the retreating Uruk-hai. Both friends were marked by the fierce battle in the woods, the dwarf much more so than the elf. 

“Aragorn, are you injured?” Legolas is the first to reach the Ranger’s side, nearly casually shooting the two last Orcs still standing.

“Only lightly,” Aragorn panted. “Merry and Pippin, they were captured.” His eyes followed the trail of the Uruk’s leading south.

“They were marked by the white hand.” Gimli pointed out. “Saruman. That wizard is worse than a treacherous dragon. Aragorn, we need to rescue the Halflings.”

Mutely Aragorn nodded. “We need to find our friends first, Gimli. Boromir saved me during the fight and I have seen neither Frodo nor Sam since we landed.”

They headed back to the landing, much as they may worry about their comrades; the ringbearer’s fate was the first they needed to ascertain. But on the landing they found only two boats and two packs missing. Thoughtfully Aragorn viewed the traces on the ground. “Frodo was running from something, from what I do not know.” He had thoughts of his own on that, for both Boromir and Frodo had been gone from their camp prior to the battle starting.

Finding Boromir proved more difficult than finding Frodo’s fleeing tracks. The Orcs had not yet fully left the woods and the friends had to confront several pockets of them while they searched the hillside where Aragorn had last seen Boromir. They found the hollow under the oak trees, where the Gondorian captain had slain the Orc leader. Many dead orcs were piled around the tree, the ground was stomped and muddy from their black blood. But there was no sign of Boromir at the scene, only dead orcs.

“A mighty battle he fought,” Gimli’s eyes surveyed the scene, taking in the numbers that lay dead on the dirty grounds. “worthy of song.”

“I’d rather find him,” Aragorn bent down trying to make any sense of the tracks but in the mess of Orc corpses, fallen weapons and the deep tracks their ironclad feet had made, it was all but impossible to read anything from those muds.

“His sword,” Legolas picked up the hilt with the shattered blade. “he’d never leave that behind.”

“There,” Gimli pointed uphill, the observant eyes of the dwarf had spotted the broken stones of the overlook. He scrambled uphill, finding the destroyed ruin and more corpses. “he fought like a hero, but where did he go?” The dwarf mused. “Or did they take him too?”

Aragorn paled at the thought. No matter how things between him and Boromir stood, the Steward’s son would be too great a price for Saruman to claim. The white wizard already held power with Denethor of Gondor and the old Steward would do anything to save his beloved son. “We need to free them.” He said. “The Ring… has passed beyond our reach. But we cannot give up our friends to torture and captivity.”

Neither dwarf nor elf had any words against his decision. They hurried down to the landing site and grabbed their packs, in a hurry to take up the chase. Leaving last, Legolas glanced back at the riverbank, the fine elven senses told him that there was something he had overlooked, but at Aragon’s call he headed on and joined his friends as they set out to rescue their friends.

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Kili had retreated from the hilltop, drawing those Orcs he had collided with after the explosion after him. Their fight had been a short but tough in the shadow of the broken ruin. There had been no new orcs to come after him; they did not care for his existence beyond the disruption he had been for their plans. Once he was clear of them Kili returned to the field to search for Boromir. The sounds of fierce battle in the woods giving him directions where to go, but when he came to the den under the oaks he too could only see dead Orcs. The snarling call of a crow made him look up. A battered stormcrow was sitting on a branch above him, cawing at him. He understood only half their words but still enough.

“I thank thee,” he said in the tongue of the Ravens, quickly racing down the hill towards the water. He came across the five Orcs dragging the wounded Captain away closely by the river. They were not of the white hand, their helmets were marked with the Red Eye. The dwarven warrior scowled. Sauron and Saruman, a dragon and a serpent, both dangerous and both vile. The world was a sorry place to having to contend with both.

The Orcs were clearly trying to get away unnoticed and meet with their troop, they were not prepared for another attack. And while they stood five to one, they had not counted on Boromir getting up again to fight. The Gondorian was wounded, bleeding and dazed from a hit to the head but he was not out yet. But when the last of the five Orcs fell, the captain all but collapsed against a tree.

“Boromir,” Kili knelt down behind his friend. It took no second glance to see that Boromir had been severely injured. He was bleeding badly, several Orc weapons had hacked through his chainmail. “We need to stop that bleeding, or it will be your death.”

The wounded man was hardly in any shape to argue, but he felt himself slipping away more and more as Kili did what he could to at least stop the bleeding. “Kili,” Boromir coughed, he felt so cold, even the pain seemed to dull. “you need to help the others. Aragorn… Gondor will need him. If I don’t come back…”

The dwarven Prince clasped Boromir’s hand. “Listen, my friend, you will come home. You will fight for your beloved city again. By the blood of Durin, I swear I will bring you home.” Or die trying.  Kili could see how the Gondorian Captain was getting weaker, the cold was settling in too quickly as the fingers of death were beginning to pull him into the everlasting sleep.

“We need time,” The dwarf whispered. Carefully he drew his sword, the hilt shimmering white in the dark. When Kili had received the dragon’s tooth from Bard he had not known what to do with it, but remembering the elven sword his Uncle had wielded, he had decided to make it into a sword hilt, only to discover that no small amount of Smaug’s magic had remained in the material. It took nearly twenty years, and some long travels, until Kili had acquired the skills and knowledge to shape the powers of the material according to his will. And some of the runes and spells crafted into the weapon were untried or dangerous. One he had learned from that one-handed arcane smith he had met high up North, beyond the reaches of Carn Dum. One day, the dark haired man had said you will stand on a field of blood and wish for one to live who is dying. And then you will recall what I showed you to carve into that dragon’s tooth. It will take a price from you, make no mistake. No man, or elf, I knew has dared to make use of it twice. But knowing you like I do now, I think you have the heart for it, dwarf.  And now that time had come. Balin had been too far gone by the time Kili had reached him, and his mother had died alone in a dark winter night, with her son a thousand miles away.

Carefully, Kili put the white hilt into Boromir’s hands. “You will hold onto this sword, and you will not let go, Captain, until I tell you otherwise.” It was an order, one that bore no discussions.

And the Gondorian understood. “Aye,” he said softly, his voice weak but he was not yet gone. His hands closed around the warm hilt, and he felt a bit of warmth seeping back into him.

Kili put his strong, calloused hands above Boromir’s and he began to whisper the words the one handed one had taught him. Runes shone in the hilt, waking from the depth of the dragon’s fang, their light cold and terrible but beautiful to behold. A surge of pain rose through the dwarf, his whole body wracked not only with the same pain Boromir bore, but with something deeper, like life itself was being ripped from him and into the blade. And then the dark came; a cool, soothing emptiness that stretched under the earth and beyond the stars. Kili gasped, trying to hold on. A spark rose in the darkness, a fire, a forge… a huge forge, like none he had ever seen. The man at the anvil put down the hammer and turned around, like a master to an unruly apprentice. Fear and awe warred in Kili’s chest, even as the once glance of the great smith might smite him to pieces and leave nothing but dust.

He awoke in the dark by the riverbank. Boromir was deeply asleep and while his wounds were not fully healed he was better, not bleeding any more. He was healing. Barely able to move his weary bones, Kili got up and checked their surroundings. Silence had fallen on the woods. The Orcs had moved off in the hours that had passed and night had fallen. He used Boromir’s elven cloak to hide the sleeping warrior, while he went to search what had happened to the others. But he found no traces of them; they had left, either not finding or not searching for the Gondorian warrior.

Carefully Kili approached the landing site. He found two boats and a few discarded things, but nothing else. Boromir’s comrades had truly left. The boats gave him an idea. He inspected them and chose the larger one, packing the remaining oars inside before bringing it down to the place near the water where he had hidden Boromir. The warrior was still asleep and Kili somehow knew that he would not wake this night. Making use of the blankets and the elven cloak, the dwarf moved the wounded captain into the boat, carefully securing their packs in the boat as well. He even discarded his own armor and boots, securing them at the bottom of the boat as well. He had to trust the elven craftsmanship to do what he was trying now. But it was the best, if not only, way to get out of here before the orcs could return.

Clad with only his tunic and breeches, Kili knelt down at the end of the boat, taking one oar and steering it out on the river… and towards the waterfalls. He could hear the hollow roar of the waters in the darkness and the moon cast white light on the foaming rim, the abyss beyond that rim was a black shadow. Quickly they gained speed, the dwarf careful to get the boat towards the middle rush, where the water would be deepest above the rocks. The rushing waters grabbed the boat tossing them down into the deeps, the first steps they made with minimal damage but at the second step the falling waters ripped Kili from the boat, tossed into the whirling flood, the dwarf’s body was pulled deep.

Icy water caught Kili’s falling body, the feeling so intense that it made him shiver. It was very dark down here; he barely perceived the boat, sailing rapidly but upright on the surface. Exerting all his strength into his swimming, Kili fought his way through the whirling nightmare that tried to drown him. He was tossed deep, into the dark waters, an endless blackness swallowing him up. He could not see anything but the black flood around him. He had to marshal all his willpower to conquer the panic blossoming in his soul. Nevertheless, he swam even faster to escape this damned dark pool. A painful burning erupted from his chest and slowly extended towards his strained lungs. Kili conquered the panic by concentrating on swimming as fast as he could, the icy water cooled down his muscles slowing him down even more. He came up, right before the third step of the waterfalls, barely able to gasp for air.

Like a shadow out of dark water he followed the boat as they were tossed over the last ledge and into more deeps below. The water was whirling here like a gullet and pulled him down between narrow rocks, nearly trapping him under the stones. The walls were very narrow, pressing so close, often hindering his fast movements. He barely managed to slip through this place. The burning in his lungs turned into a hard, painful hammering staccato. Somewhere between the shadows of the black waters a light glittered beyond the dark pit. The wish to breathe became almost unbearable as he approached the faint light of the surface with what was left of his strength. A long knife seemed to slice through his lungs as he slipped beneath the last rock barrier and saw the light above drawing close. Barely suppressing a pained scream, Kili broke through the surface of the water. His breath was rattling in his chest and he had to force himself to breathe slowly.

As the boat drifted gently along the water’s surface, Kili slowly swam over and grabbed the stern of the boat, gaining a measure of control over the craft. The elven miracle had made it across the waterfalls, not only without capsizing, but also without even taking water or losing any of the loads. Leaning his head against the rough wood, Kili felt the exhaustion wash over him. From somewhere, he did not know where, he heard an amused yet ancient voice whisper; I am he that buries his friends alive and drowns them and draws them alive again from the water. It reminded him of another half drowned journey, of arriving in Laketown, and suddenly Kili laughed, his exhausted body shaking with mirth. He had not felt so alive in a long long time. Pulling it together he swam towards the shore, guiding the boat towards a riverbank. They both needed to rest. The waterfalls lay behind them and the river could carry them back to Gondor after some well-deserved sleep.

Chapter Text

The boat had lain hidden in the murky delta of the Entwash for almost the whole day. The high reeds and bushes were so thick that Kili had even dared to make a dwarven fire to keep them warm. Boromir slept deeply at first, giving Kili the chance to treat the wounds with what he had in his pack. He could tell that Boromir was well on the way of recovering but the healing took some strength out of the man. The morning came and the sun rose high above the river. There was some of the first fleeting warmth in her rays, not enough to call it spring already but enough to remind the world that neither cold nor winter were perpetual. Kili had allowed himself to doze off during the early morning hours, but it was more of a nap than real sleep, the warrior woke at the slightest noise.

Around noon, Boromir’s sleep had become more troubled. He came close to waking two times, whispering hoarsely of dreams; of nightmares. There was little Kili could do about the nightmares; he had neither dreambane nor whiteroot at hand to brew something that could alleviate evil dreams. So he simply sat down beside the sleeping man and spoke to him, trying to calm him. It seemed to help, for the Gondorian went back to deep slumber.

As night fell, Kili gently moved him back to the boat, carefully bedding him on the blankets. The dwarf sat down on the boat’s stern again and pushed off from shore. Under the cover of the night there was less of a chance to be spotted. During the night Boromir would sometimes grow restless again. At one time he nearly screamed in his sleep. To calm him Kili began to sing softly; songs from his childhood, dwarven songs of mines and treasures, of battles and wars. The tunes never failed to calm the sleeping man.

By morning they were past the Entwash and Kili hid the boat on the southern river shore again. This time it was a small landing under deep reaches of a number of weeping willows. Although the dwarf was tired he found some wood to light a dwarven fire, they both needed to eat and some stew would be good for his healing comrade. Boromir had been semi-awake when Kili made camp but drifted off to sleep again. Kili could only assume that Boromir's unnatural deep and long slumber was an effect of the healing. He did not know for sure, even as he felt the effects that using the spell had wrought on himself.

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Boromir’s sleep was heavy like a leaden blanket weighing him down. He felt warm, like lying beside a fire as its heat kept him safe as he rested. Sometimes the pain would bring him back to the surface of sleep from the depths of the welcomed oblivion and dreams would intrude on his slumber. But someone was there in the darkness standing guard, for whenever the dreams began a voice would chase them off; a deep baritone voice, humming foreign songs and Boromir would drift off into dreamless sleep again. Eventually the sleep would recede and he realized that the voice was real. He did not understand a word of the song but he knew the tune, it was one ballad that was an often times favorite in warcamps.

Under the weeping willow tree

My heart shall be buried beside thee,

Under the very willow tree

Where my warrior promised

His heart to me…

Boromir groaned, blinking awake, finding the fire as real as it had been in his dreams. He saw movement at the edge of his vision range as someone approached him. “Boromir! Mahal be praised, you are awake!” A familiar voice said.

The Gondorian warrior pushed himself up to sit. “Kili?” He recognized the dwarf, it must have been the dwarf’s voice he had heard in his sleep.

“Aye. How are you feeling?” There was worry in the dwarf’s voice. “I began to worry when you did not wake at all.”

The question directed Boromir’s attention at his own shape. “Well enough, surprising as that is. What happened? The last I remember is you finding me after…” It all came back to him, Amon Hen, Frodo and the Orcs. “The others… did they make it? Kili, what happened to them?”

“I can’t say for certain.” Kili replied honestly. “by the time I found you, they were gone. I did not find any trace of them at your landing, except that they had come to collect their packs. I do not know where they went.”

“But they went by themselves, that’s good news.” Boromir was relieved to hear as much. “You… you did not find any of them dead, did you?” he asked, wanting to be sure.

Kili quickly averted his gaze, for the fact that they had left him behind, Boromir worried a lot for his comrades. “No, a lot of dead orcs but none of your companions. Wherever they went they left on their own volition.” Kili had seen the tracks on the landing and was sure about that.

“Good. They have to get on with the mission,” the Gondorian Captain was well satisfied with hearing that. He looked at the dwarf, whose face was half hidden by the long hair obscuring it. “You saved my life there, Kili,” he spoke up. “and after what I said to you back at the overlook…”

“You were struggling to fight off a spell,” his companion cut off any apologies. “Whatever you said, it was not you speaking. Breaking such enchantment takes an enormous strength of will; you proved your true strength when you did.”

Boromir thought of what Kili had said back then, about his Uncle and how Thorin had died in battle. “Still… you were there again to save me.”

“That’s what friends do for each other. Warbrothers owe each other their lives and they’d not have it any other way.” Kili replied, and it was clear that there was nothing more to say about it.

About an hour later Boromir had managed to wash up in the river, with the wounds freshly bandaged and the blood off his skin, he felt almost human again. The stew Kili had cooked helped a lot too. Lost in thought Boromir’s eyes wandered to the hilt of Kili’s sword, lying on the ground beside the fire. Under the clear sunlight there were some runes, darkly shining on the hilt. He remembered the hilt aglow with blue fire, but could not place that memory, or why he recalled it so vividly. “These runes, what do they say? You once said they were memories.”

Kili took the weapon up, his fingers tracing the runes. “They are names. Thorin Oakenshield, Fili son of Dari, Balin, son of Fundin.” He translated them to Boromir.

He had carved the names of his lost family, or close friends, into the blade, to remember them, a reminder when he went to battle again. It made the Captain remember the dreams about Moria, had the stories he had heard about Kili’s family maybe intruded his dreams? It would explain a lot.

The dwarf got to his feet. “It will soon be dark,” he said, beginning to pack up camp. “once night falls we’ll continue on the river. So far we have remained unseen.” While he was working he again began to hum the tune Boromir had heard when he woke up.

The Gondorian was slightly amused. “I did not know that this dreadful ballad was even known amongst the dwarves. Or did you hear from men?” The Willow tree ballad was one you’d hear in any warcamp at times.

“I had no idea it was even known to men,” Kili replied surprised. “what does it say in your tongue?”

“It tells the old silly story of a Princess and a common warrior falling on love and marrying. Her warrior then goes to war and dies and she is eventually buried under the same willow tree where they first met.” Boromir summed it up. “The kind of story the bards will always dreg up when the tavern mood gets too dour. Ah yes… the warrior dies defending his king of course.” He stopped when he saw Kili’s frown. “you know the story then?”

“It is my parent’s story,” Kili swiftly packed up what remained of their camp. “my father fell fighting beside King Thror in Azanulbizar.”

“Forgive me, Kili, I had no idea.” Boromir had always believed the story to be hopelessly embellished, but hearing that it was a story closely relating to his friend made him wonder.

“If you apologize one more time tonight I will really begin to wonder if I have somehow managed to attain my Uncle’s presence. He was good at making people uneasy with on glance.” Kili replied, his eyes warming. “And not all memories are sad ones, if we forget the good things we’ll break our souls before time.”

Again the boat moved out on the river. After a few hours Boromir became tired again and Kili suggested he lie down and sleep some more. Boromir settled down and was quickly asleep, hearing Kili’s voice singing a song about a journey across the Misty Mountains from afar.

The predawn hours brought rising mists and the river rushing more quickly. A shadow emerged ahead of them from the dark, like the shape of a ship approaching harbor in the dead of night. Cair Andos’ high cliffs towered them as the boat shot through the banks of fog. The moon came out to cast an eerie light on the mists. Kili had gone silent, steering them quickly past the dangerous passage, hoping that no overeager archer spotted them. But nothing happened, the boat shot quickly clear of the passage. Not looking back the dwarf did not see the lone figure standing on the rocks by the shore watching the boat until it vanished in the darkness.

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Far away from the running waters of the nightly river, in the white city of Minas Tirith, an old man emerged late from the ancient libraries where he had poured over writings and texts of old. Denethor waved away the servant bringing him food and refreshments, as he wished for neither. Taking a single torch he ordered the servant to leave and walked towards one of the towers. This very tower of the citadel had stood unused and empty for most of the Steward’s tenure. The lower levels had been used for storage now and then when space had been scarce but it was suffice to say that the tower itself had not been put to any reasonable use in centuries.

Not that anyone questioned Lord Denethor’s decision to enter the tower. A few centuries ago whispers may have sprung from the steward’s visit to the Tower of Kings. Nowadays however even the name was barely remembered, and neither guard not council would bother to wonder why this tower had been left alone for so long.

Denethor opened the tower’s door with an ancient iron key, carefully closing it behind him. There was dust on the stairwells inside and the air was heavy and stale. The steward gave no attention to the tower’s condition and quickly mounted the long flight of stairs that led up towards the tower’s topmost level. The old man walked briskly and he arrived at the upper door within a short time. Breathing deeply he used another key – a silver key that had long rested unmarked in a box in the old treasury – to open this door.

The room behind the door was stark, no gold, no treasures, not even ornaments or art justifying the precautions taken to keep it sealed. In the very heart of the room was a single stone table, holding a large, midnight blue orb that shone with an inner light. Two chairs made of stone were placed left and right of the table. Other than that the only remarkable things about the room were the four large windows, allowing view in all directions.

Denethor put the torch into the stone torch-holder by the door and approached the table. Long had he sought to unravel the mystery of this and longer even to acquire the writings necessary to understand what he was dealing with. He smiled. The maker of these had left no writings intelligible by the eyes of men, but those who had made use of this for more than an age had written instructions for it. Carefully hidden secret writings that showed how much of the so-called powers of the Numenorán Kings had been trickery and use of artifacts left by a race much elder than them.

Secrets that he was about to make his own. He and his house would gain the powers that were so revered in the old Kings, the powers people believed marked them true. Putting both hands beside the orb, Denethor began to speak the words he had found in the secret writings, words to awaken the orb, to master it. A spark rose from the deeps of midnight blue globe, a spark like red fire.

                               .                                                              .                                              .

Faramir stood on the rocks above the waterline of Cair Andos. He had been unable to sleep all night, a great restlessness having settled over him during the waning hours of the past day. Eventually, when sleep continued to elude him he had gone out to watch the river. How often had it calmed his mind to watch the rushing waters of Anduin? But not tonight. This night a deep, heart-wrenching sadness settled upon him as he stood at the shore. Mists arose; pale silvery mists emerging from the dark water below, veiling the river in their silken wisps. The barren trees on the other side of the river seemed like dark dangerous apparitions, pale vapor hanging on their very branches.  Why did everything in this night seem to weigh him down heavily?

Something on the water made him look down. Was something out there? Sneaking past the island? He narrowed his eyes, gazing into the mist. The moon came up from behind a cloud shedding silver light on the river as the lazy breeze parted the mists for a few moments. Down in the silver light Faramir saw a boat drifting by, and his brother lying in that boat like dead. Only a dark ferryman was with him, an obscured figure in a dark cloak. Pain clamped down on Faramir’s heart when he saw the boat vanish. Oh brother…

He did not know how long he had stood by the river, the pain washing over him like a fierce storm. What he had seen still burning in his mind. It was the pale light of the new day rising when approaching steps pulled him from his reverie. “Faramir?”

It had not needed the gentle voice to tell him who it was. Veryan of Dol Amroth, one of his brother’s friends and most trusted lieutenants. Hastily Faramir swiped his hand over his eyes, trying to hide the tears that had come to his eyes and traced his cheeks. It was exactly the gesture that gave him away.

“Faramir, what happened?” Veryan stepped up to him, putting a hand on Faramir’s shoulder.

Closing his eyes, Faramir tried to push away that vision. “My brother…” he whispered in a voice devoid of life. “I saw him, Veryan. Dead. A boat carrying him to the sea.” The pain and sadness clamped down on him again, much more fiercely this time.

“A boat, are you sure, Faramir?” Veryan asked. “in these mists…”

“I know what I saw, my friend, a boat drifting by, driven by a dark ferryman.” Faramir allowed himself to lean on Veryan for a moment. He only could because he knew his friend would not use that weakness against him.

The Swan Knight frowned. “Faramir, where there is a ferryman, there is a boat and there is a person. If they passed us in the night, they will hit upon the broken bridge soon. That should force the boat ashore.”

Something in Veryan’s firm dedication broke through Faramir’s sadness, like a ray of light will break the clouds. “You think we can find them?”

“We will. If he is really dead, he shall be buried with honor. If not… then someone is playing tricks on your mind and will answer for them.”

Not an hour later Faramir left Cair Andos with a few riders, all of them Veryan’s men. Whatever this was, Faramir knew the Swan Knights would keep their silence on strange findings and not spread wild rumours among the troops. Faramir waved for Veryan to catch up with him, the swan knight spurning his horse and quickly arriving beside him. “Lord Faramir?” Like always once they were not alone, Veryan would fall back into formalities, never allowing his close friendship with the Steward’s sons to undermine the proper respect.

Faramir waved it off. “Not today, Veryan, please. On this day I need a friend by my side, not a servant.” It was a friendship that had only been made possible by the fact that they were related by blood through Findulas of Dol Amroth, Faramir’s mother, who had been the sister of Veryan’s father.

“As you wish,” Veryan inclined his head, accepting what had been said. They were interrupted by one of their scouts returning. “We have spotted a camp right above the broken bridge, they even have the nerves to have a nice fire going.” The scout reported somewhat indignated that someone had the nerve to traipse around inside the borders of Gondor.

Dismounting, Faramir gestured Veryan to follow him, a camp and a fire did not fit the dreadful vision of the past night. He wanted to get closer and see for himself what was going on. It was not very far, the broken bridges had long been destroyed creating a blockade in Anduin’s flow shortly above Osgiliath. Like a shadow gliding through the forest Faramir approached the camp through the hillside above. It was quite true they had made a fire right by the ruins of the old bridgehead.

The first he saw was a short man clad in armor, returning to the camp. He had a bow slung over his shoulder and the wildest mane of dark, if slightly greying, hair Faramir had ever seen. Did he actually wear braids like a girl? The Ithilien Ranger frowned deeply, what strange folk had come to this place. “I got him,” the man spoke in a deep baritone voice. “one less orc to spy on the river. A scout by the looks of it.”

“Did he follow us or did he come from the east?” A familiar voice asked, as a man rose from the shadows of the broken bridgehead. Faramir’s heart clenched painfully. There stood the brother whom he had feared dead. Pale though he may be, he was alive.

Chapter Text

Boromir! Faramir’s heart skipped painfully in his chest. His brother was alive, he had not lain dead in that drifting boat, and whoever his dark ferryman was, he looked much less frightening in the broad light of day. Biting down a smile, Faramir gestured his men to move down, encircle the camp the way they would with strangers. They were halfway down the hillside, when the short man jumped to his feet and grabbed his sword. “There’s more crawling through these woods,” he said, getting ready to fight.

Faramir left the cover of a tree that he had used, realizing that they had been heard. “There is more in this land than Orcs, stranger.” He said, striding into their small camp. His brother was standing too, wielding an axe of all things. He too was clearly expecting a fight.

When he recognized his brother, Boromir lowered his weapon. “Faramir!” The brothers embraced, glad to find each other alive and reasonably well. “I had not hoped to meet you so soon,” the older brother eventually said, pulling back from their hug. “we had planned on reaching Osgiliath before next nightfall.”

“We?” Faramir asked, gently reminding his brother that whatever else there may be, he had brought a stranger into Gondor’s borders. The Captain of Gondor of course had the right to grant a stranger permission to remain inside their borders for a time, even a long time in some cases, but in the end only the Steward could confirm such a permit. And their father had always been parsimonious with such things.

Turning to his companion, Boromir gestured him to join them. The short man approached and bowed deeply. “Kili, son of Dari, at your service.”

It was not a man at all, but a dwarf. It had to be. Faramir had read about them and their customs. He looked different than the dwarves drawn in the old books, but still… Hastily he bowed in turn. “Faramir, son of Denethor, at yours and your families.” He replied as was proper. Seeing the glint in his brother’s eye, the amused sparkle, he realized that his brother had rarely bothered to learn such things.

Faramir’s troop had brought some extra horses for Boromir and Kili. “We were on our way back to Osgiliath as well,” Faramir told his brother. “I had been inspecting Cair Andros. But now that you are here, that would be your duty.”

“No time for such games, brother. A storm is upon us and we need to be prepared. Have a rider dispatched to carry my message to our father. He must know I have returned and will take command of Osgiliath immediately.” Boromir mounted the horse, he was still a bit stiff from healing and from the long time in the boat.

“Our father will be overjoyed to hear of your return,” Faramir replied honestly, knowing that Denethor had been waiting long for his favorite son to return home. “but do you not wish to return to Minas Tirith? Osgiliath is…”

“…is the point where the enemy will strike first and we have little time to get ready. Which of the provinces have been mustered and are ready to march?”

There was a fierce energy in Boromir. Faramir knew his brother; he had seen this strength in the past but it seemed whatever he had seen on his journey had renewed his strength and will to fight. “None,” he admitted. “our father does not permit it. I argued and…”

“… and he said nay, like always.” Boromir shook his head. “We have no time for this.” He turned on his horse, a short survey of the riders with Faramir. “Send Arglond to Belfalas, Ergon to Lebeninn, Thardir to Morthrond. They are to muster immediately and commit their troops. Belfalas is to man the coast, Lebeninn and Morthrond march on Minas Tirith and…” Boromir paled for a moment when he found the man whom he had looking for. Veryan’s image reminded him vividly of his dreams, nevertheless he waved him forward to join them.

Seeing the blood drain from his brother’s face as he spotted Veryan, Faramir wondered what might make Boromir react so strongly to his presence. But he had no time to even think about it further, because Boromir was already issuing orders to the man.

“Veryan, I will need you to ride to Lossarnach. Track down Cesiar of Lossarnarch and make him commit all his troops to Osgiliath. Be as arrogant as you need to but get me his best men swiftly. If he does not want to come, leave him and his warmaster at home, we want the troops not their Lord.”

Veryan bowed. “It shall be done, my Captain.” He turned his horse at once to carry out the orders he had been given.

“The Lord of Lorssarnach will not be happy,” Faramir pointed out diplomatically. Boromir had never cared with politeness where a good barked order would do as well but alienating the nobles was not a wise thing. And using Veryan’s status to do it would only anger Imrahil of Dol Amroth sooner or later.

“He is welcome to it; I will keep him a warm spot in the front ranks if he insists to come.” Boromir told him. “I don’t assume we have called for Rohan already? No… how could we. We’d need father’s seal for that. So it will have to wait.”

Most of the ride to Osgiliath was with planning; provisions had to be secured at Osgiliath and at Minas Tirith, the villages in Ithilien had to be mustered for anyone able to bear weapons and all settlements beyond the river were to retreat across the Anduin. They arrived in Osgiliath as the afternoon sun announced the fourth hour past midday. Faramir winced when he saw the way Boromir’s eyes quickly scanned the fortifications. To his surprise his brother did not turn to him with another set of orders, but to his companion who had silently ridden with the troop so far. “Kili, are you as good in finding tunnels and rat holes in foreign buildings as you are in mines?” he asked.

The dwarf looked around. “Not totally foreign, Boromir, but yes, there is little dwarves don’t find in a stone building.”

“Good, we need to find any hole and tunnel that leads inside our fortifications and block it.” Boromir said. With a quick look along the walls he found whom he was looking for. “Anarion, gather your men and go with Kili. See that any gap he finds is closed. Listen to him about that.” He told the young Ranger, who bowed and quickly went to follow the orders he had been given.

“Brother…” Faramir gently led his Captain out of the yard and towards one of the ramparts where they may talk unobserved by the others. “what has happened to you? Your journey? The dream that send you north? What did it mean?”

“It meant that the Shadow is now rising, beyond doubt, beyond holding back. Brother, war, true war is upon us. The enemy is gathering his forces. It was orcs of the eye that nearly captured me at Amon Hen.”

“Orcs capturing you at Amon Hen?” Faramir asked horrified. “How…?”

Leaning against the wall, Boromir told his brother of the last leg of their quest. There was no time for a full tale, so he told him of the Orc attack that had shattered the group and how he had nearly fallen into enemy hands.  “Without Kili’s timely interference I’d be in the hands of the enemy by now.” He finished. “And I know our time is running out. The world’s time running short. We must be ready to face the shadow.”

Amazed, Faramir looked at his brother. Boromir had always been a great leader, a true Captain but he had grown on this journey. Through danger and pain he had grown to new strength. Something had happened to kindle the flames of war in him again to a burning blaze. “Then we will stand ready.” He replied.

                                               .                                              .                                                              .

Night was falling on Osgiliath. A cold wind had begun to blow from the east, as if to remind them that there was a storm about to rise. Faramir walked through the ruined arches near the outer wall. Within half a day the whole garrison had changed. The soldiers were… different, there was no denying it. They were more confident, hopeful and determined; their captain had returned and with him they’d hold out against the end itself. Faramir knew he did not inspire quite the same kind of loyalty in the troops. They trusted him, fought well for him but they’d never march to their certain doom for him, nor did he want them to.

He saw Anarion squatted on the rim of one of the ancient wells that had long sat unused in the ruined parts of the former city. “There, grab my hand,” he said, reaching down.

Faramir stopped, none of the soldiers would have been so clumsy to fall into one of the wells. He walked over to see what was happening. He spotted a large, strong hand grab the rim of the well and moments later Kili climbed from the dark shaft. He had shed his armor, only wearing tunic and breeches and he was soaked. Sitting down on the rim of the well, Kili pushed his wet locks out of his face. “It goes right down to the river, Anarion, much like the other one.”

The young Ranger’s face was grim. “Is it passable for Orcs?” he asked.

“I made it through to the river and back, so I’d say yes.” Kili hopped off the well’s rim. “We need to block this rat hole.” His eyes went to the rubble of a former building under the next arch. “That stone slab there will just do nicely, at least for the night.” The entire troop went to move a heavy stone slab towards the well. It was easy to see that the dwarf was one of the strongest among them, but what impressed Faramir more were the instructions: how to make use of levers to ease the stone off its position, the ropes to be used for lifting it up. Within half an hour the broken chunk of a former ceiling rested firmly on the well hole.

“I think that’s it for the night, Anarion.” Kili said. “you look ready to drop where you stand. See your men get some rest, I’ll report back to the Captain.”

Faramir saw Anarion’s insecure gaze and gave him a quick nod to proceed. “You can give your first report to me,” he said to Kili.

The dwarf inclined his head. “Lord Faramir,” he acknowledged the younger of the Steward’s sons. “We’ve found a number of passages through the walls, some simply hidden tunnels, some old wells or tunnels below the waterline, most of the eastern side is searched and we blocked what we found. We’ll proceed with Southern part of the fortifications at dawn.”

“You have my thanks for putting yourself to the task like this,” Faramir replied. “Yet, you may wish to be careful, for my father is not a man to appreciate someone deeming a task finished without having orders to do so.” The latter was said in light tones, indicating a friendly warning about a man luckily not here at the moment.

“I may be able to see in the dark nearly as well as in daylight,” Kili replied. “but your men don’t, and they are tired. A few hours’ worth of lifting rocks and rubble on top of a fully days’ watch… they’ll be more use after some rest and food. They are good men but they are not used to that kind of work.”

“And you are?” For the first time Faramir took the chance to really study the dwarf. He had read books about dwarves and their history, seeing drawings of them as well. He also had met a few dwarven mercenaries, though he would not base his judgment of dwarves on their kind. Kili was taller than many of his kind but not quite as stocky, he had the strong shoulders and hands that were so often described in his people but Faramir would have thought him a warrior more than a laborer.

“I’ve worked in quarries before,” Kili shrugged. “and working at the anvil all day will teach you endurance.”

There now was something that seemed to go with any story of dwarves: the forge. Faramir smiled. “Be this as it may, you too deserve your rest, Master Dwarf. I shall take your report to my brother. Anarion will show you to where you may rest.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

There was no real garrison in Osgiliath; the quarters used by the troops were in buildings fixed up enough to serve such purpose. Anarion had shown Kili where he could camp down among them and where the cistern was to get cleaned after a long day. Kili had taken the chance of the latter gladly. Scrubbing the dirt off his skin was good. He also used the time to put a comb through his dark mane. Looking at his reflection in the water he could for the first time see the changes, how the using the spell had affected him. He had sported some iron-grey streaks in his dark hair for years now, but over-night a number of silvery streaks had appeared, mingling with his dark locks. He was well aware that it was the price of the spell – what the enchantment in the dragon’s tooth had taken out of him to fan Boromir's fleeting lifespark into a burning a flame was more than strength of momentary energy – it had fed on Kili’s very essence and shaved off some of his own life. He did not regret it the least. He had known that this would be the consequence; the One-handed One had warned him against it. Having cleaned up the dwarf quickly took some of the pale streaks, intertwining them with the darker ones in two braids, attaching the steel clasps with the raven on both ends.

When Kili returned to the makeshift barracks one of the young rangers handed him some bread and cheese. “You must be hungry, sir.” He said. Kili studied the face, needing only a moment to recall the name. “Thank you, Aglaran.” He sat down with the troop, slowly eating some of the bread. He noticed the stares he got from the troop. It was nothing totally new to him, dwarves did attract a good amount of attention among humans, even those who, like himself, had learned to blend in and reduce the inevitable tell-tale signs. “What is it?” he eventually asked.

Aglaran was startled by the question. “I apologize, Kili, it simply seems strange and wondrous that a stranger would return with Lord Boromir and… a dwarf at that.”

Kili could hear the thinly veiled questions behind that comment. He was a stranger who had been assigned to the troop of Rangers and they tried to assess him. It was a normal thing, dwarf bands worked on the same principle. “You can blame the Orcs for that,” he began speaking, deciding to regale them with a tale or two of Boromir’s heroics on their journey.

                                               .                                              .                                                              .

Faramir had found Boromir in the makeshift place that served as their quarters. It was not much better than any other place in the ruined city, the only luxury it afforded was a small amount or privacy. “Kili stopped the search for more tunnels for the night,” he said. “he felt they’d not be able to see well enough to continue and that Anarion’s men were too exhausted. Although he does not give my men enough credit for their skills of sight, I would agree that they have been worked very hard today. The Rangers are not stonemasons; they are not used to heavy lifting.”

“You disapprove?” Boromir had set aside his vambraces, revealing a bandage on his left forearm.

“Why would I? He is really very skilled, finding more tunnels than we ever we ever could have.” Faramir said quietly. “But I wonder how the dwarf could still stand and work like that; he must have been more tired than our men.”

“I’d not be sure about that,” Boromir replied, inspecting the bandage on his arm impatiently. “his people lost their home a long time ago and in exile they had to take whatever work they could find. No matter how high or low; they have worked in forges, roadworks and…”

“Quarries? Yes... He mentioned having.... worked in a quarry in the past. Still…” He noticed Boromir trying to check the bandage. “Brother… what are you doing?”

“I need to change those dressings, to see which are still necessary.” Boromir replied, stopping for a moment to  to inspect the covering. “Faramir… Kili has come through this land before, as a youth working with his Uncle in the forge. I would not be surprised if even knew this city from a time before our birth.”

The Ranger ignored the attempt at distraction. “Let me take a look at those bandages, brother. You will only make it worse, and I would prefer to have you free of fevers.” With a resigned glance, Boromir set down and allowed his brother to inspect his various injuries.

In his life as a Ranger and Soldier of Gondor, Faramir had seen a great number of injuries, receiving quite a few too himself, but the more he saw of the traces on his brother’s body, the more horrified he became. It was true, most of the wounds were closed already or even scarring over, but they must have been horrible when freshly received. “Boromir… how did you even survive this?” he asked, seeing the fresh scars the bandages revealed all over. It seemed some of the wounds only recently had fully closed and the scars were still angrily red. “How could you travel with such wounds… when did this happen?”

It was the first time Boromir could really inspect his own shape. “Rauros,” he said softly. “It happened there…” He touched a scar on his chest that had been a bad hit from an Orc axe. “I…  I don’t know Faramir. I remember lying on the ground, bleeding out. Kili was there and… I knew I was dying. It was all cold and dark…” He frowned, remembering the darkness creeping in, the cold.

“But when did it happen? How long ago?” Faramir asked, a little impatiently, seeing his brother was dodging the question.

“Four… maybe five days ago,” Boromir was not sure how long they had been at the river,  or how long he had slept.

Faramir's eyes widened. "But that's... That's just not possible!"

Boromir looked down at the scars, he could see the many marks on his body and he knew his brother was right, he should not be so well healed.

“By rights you should have died,” Faramir observed. “I doubt even the healers could have saved you in time. Not with so many deep wounds. Tis a miracle that you lived and healed at all.” He saw the absent expression in Boromir’s eyes. “You know what happened?” He saw his brother’s eyes darken and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

Boromir looked up. “I was dying, Faramir, bleeding out. We had fought off the last Orcs that had captured me and Kili tried to stop the bleeding but… you are right, not even the healers could have done anything. I knew it was the end, Fari.” Breathlessly Faramir listened, he could see that his brother’s mind was far away, back in that riverbank. “I tried to tell Kili to go but he… he put his sword right into my hands, it burned like fire in my grasp. I still can hear his voice: “You will hold onto this sword, and you will not let go, Captain, until I tell you otherwise.” Boromir shivered, remembering the blue fire. “I'm not sure what happened next... It seemed like a blue flame chased the darkness... When I woke the next time we were on the riverbank close to Cair Andos and I was healed.”

Faramir could not speak, too moved was he by that tale. Now that he realized how close he had come to losing his brother forever, he was all the more grateful he had been returned to them. “I shall send someone for your friend still, he has used some salve I do not know on your bandages and I would not risk your recovery through my ignorance.” He said firmly.

“Most if it seems healed well enough,” Boromir said. “and you were right, he well deserves some rest. I doubt he got much while he took care of me.”

"It would appear that this new friend of yours has more than a few secrets," Faramir observed though he could see that Boromir was not at ease speaking about what had transpired. How did a man face such a miracle? How could anyone? "but he got you back to us for which I am grateful. However did you meet him?"

Boromir pulled on his armor again and sat down on the blankets, leaning against the wall. “It was in an Orc Den, one like you never could imagine. A huge chasm full of wooden contraptions and breaking bridges…” Gleefully the Gondorian Captain recounted his misadventure among the goblins and how they had met and journeyed together across the lone lands, of the hunt for Baggins and of the Nazgul at Amon Sul.

Sitting opposite of his brother Faramir listened intently reading between the lines of brother's fascinating tale, watching him. No matter how harrowing the journey through the North must have been, the way Boromir’s eyes shone as he recounted the events, he knew his brother had thoroughly reveled in the adventure, in the deadly challenge. When Boromir came to their stand against the warg-riders, Faramir shuddered; it was so much like his brother to do such a thing. Boromir could be more stubborn than a King with all his armies at his back.  And Boromir went on with the story, telling him of the huge Orc leader.

“What a beast,” his brother looked at him. “huge and ugly, his name was Bolg but he certainly wasn’t the brightest. Kili knew him, old enemies of sorts. I remember you… Kili unda Thorin.” Boromir did a fair imitation of the Orc’s rumble.

“He called him Kili unda Thorin?” here Faramir interrupted his brother for the first time. “I thought it was Kili unda Dari?”

“I told you, Bolg wasn’t exactly bright. Thorin was Kili’s late Uncle if I understood all that right. You know me, little brother, I hate genealogies, even of our own nobility. And dwarfen genealogy gets confusing, with all those names, Thorin, Thrain, Thror…”

“Thorin Oakenshield was Kili’s uncle?” Faramir had no problems at all to sort through the names and recognise them as the names of the dwarven royal dynasty descended from Moria’s throne and Durin himself.

“That’s why I missed you most on my journey, brother. You would have understood much so faster than I. But yes, Thorin Oakenshield was Kili’s uncle. He fell in battle a few decades ago. I take it I should know that name?”

“He's a dwarven hero bordering on a legend!” Faramir said. “He fought their greatest battles of the last two centuries. Azanulbizar and Dale. With him the line of the old Kings under the Mountain was ended.” He could see that his brother had a few things to say on this topic. Dropping the topic he had previously been speaking of, Boromir told his brother about what he had learned of the intricacies and pitfalls of dwarven politics, and once again Faramir read a lot more out of his report than just what was said.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

In the pale hours before dawn, when the sun had yet to peek over the horizon, Faramir strode across the camp. One short conversation with Anarion had pointed him to one of guardposts under the arches. There was a fire ablaze, where the second watch was sitting. The second watch consisted of troops that were to stand ready in case a nightly attack overwhelmed the guards on the wall all too quickly. Among the tall soldiers he perceived a shorter figure sitting on a broken pillar.

“… he ducked under the attack and before I could see it he had rammed his sword right into Bolg’s chest! The huge Gundabad Orc stumbled back and Boromir yanked his sword free, beheading him in one swift stroke…”

Faramir was not surprised to find the men standing in a circle, hanging on Kili's every word, listening to how Boromir had fought a huge Orc leader from the north. He smiled. The dwarf knew how to tell a good war-story, keeping the attention of his listeners and that it was a tale about the revered Captain of Gondor certainly did not harm the story. The ranger hated to having to interrupt the moment. “Kili?” He wished he knew how to properly address the dwarf, the short name felt insufficient sometimes.

The dwarven warrior looked up to him. “Lord Faramir” he asked, getting to his feet.

“Lord Boromir has need of you,” Faramir said, not wanting to discuss this in front of the troops assembled.

Without wasting time Kili followed him across the yard. “His injuries?” he asked, once they were out of earshot. “He is still recovering from Amon Hen.”

“I am not sure,” Faramir replied as they mounted the stairs that led up to their place. In front of the door Faramir stopped. “Kili, before we go in, let me thank you for saving my brother, for bringing him home. Whatever you did to allow him to survive these wounds, it is a debt that can never be repaid…”

The dwarf raised his hand, clearly forestalling more words. “There is no need for thanks, Lord Faramir,” he said firmly. “I would not leave a friend to die like this, when there still was a chance. But you have not brought me here for that.”

“Unfortunately no,” Faramir could hear a groan even through the door. “Something is haunting Boromir’s sleep. I tried to wake him, but could not.”

“His nightmares, he had them during most of our journey.” They went inside, and Kili knelt down beside the sleeping warrior. Boromirs face was tinged with sweat; he spoke unintelligible words in his dreams. Like he had done on the journey, Kili sat down beside him, humming the tune of an ancient dwarven war song, his dark voice softly carrying the words in a language that was foreign to Faramir, who was watching in fascination as his brother's shaking frame calmed. What else was there that this dwarf could do?

                                               .                                              .                                              .

A lot of small rubble slipped down the planks, filling the hole up nicely. “That should take any fun out of climbing through here,” Kili grinned, satisfied. While most of the day had gone into securing more holes and tunnels, he felt that they were getting somewhere. The ruined city was not exactly a fortress, the former capital had never been a full-fledged fortress, but it still could serve as one if necessary. Sometimes Kili found it sad to see the city so utterly ruined; he still recalled it from days long ago.

“Kili?” Anarion’s voice interrupted his musings. “Lord Faramir wants you to report to him, once we are done here.” The Ranger’s eyes pointed meaningfully up to the skies, where the sun was going down already.

“I’ll better not make him wait,” Kili agreed. When he came to the broken tower where the brother’s had their place, he found Boromir there was well. The Captain gestured him to sit down with them.  The report had taken not all that long; Kili had marked all blocked passages on a map as works continued.  When he was finished, Boromir packed the map away and Kili could clearly see that there was something else the Captain wanted to speak off. But he seemed hesitant to begin. “There's something else, isn't there?” the dwarf asked, when the silence grew uncomfortable.

“How did you save my life?” Boromir asked with his typical directness. “I have seen the scars, I should not be alive, let alone that well healed. That sword of yours… it is some kind of powerful artifact…”

“…and you have learned to be weary of those,” Kili understood fully well that Boromir was uneasy. He slowly drew the blade, placing it on the ground between them. The white polished hilt shone eerily in the torchlight. “Many years ago, after the Battle of the Five Armies…” he saw Faramir’s frown and added, “you call it the Battle of Dale, I believe. After that battle Bard the Bowman gave me one of the dragon’s fangs. He said my family had had such a feud with the beast, he wished me to have it. This…” he traced his fingers along the white material, “is the fang of an ancient and powerful fire drake; one of the most magical materials there is. When I received the tooth I had no idea how much of Smaug’s powerful magic was trapped in the material.”

“But to do such a thing… such a miracle, it would take skill and…” Faramir was not quite sure how to say it, but the raw power of the tooth could not explain what happened.

“No, it can’t.” Kili agreed. “My Uncle had wielded an elvish blade, which had a dragon’s tooth for a hilt, a powerful magical weapon. It gave me the idea to do something similar. But shaping this material into a productive result… I was too young an arcane smith to even try. It took me twenty years, twenty years of wandering, of learning from those still skilled in the art of creating magical things. But slowly I learned how to shape the hilt, how to carve the runes into it, how to bind the runes to the tooth’s power, so I could call upon them.” He looked at Boromir. “the night you first held this, after fighting the rider, you saw some of them.” At Kili’s touch a set of cold blue runes shone in the hilt.

“Fire, live and… something about a light in darkness,” Faramir tried a first translation of the rune band. “So the runes gain power from the material of the tooth?”

“Basically, yes. The blade is the other part of the artifact, because the more complex the hilt became, the more things were woven into it, the more it would reject any simple blade. Eventually I journeyed north, beyond the reaches of Carn Dum, where an ancient One Handed Smith was rumored to live near one of the silent fire mountains. He had little liking for dwarves and I had to work hard to earn his acceptance of me. He showed me how to forge a blade that would be the counter to the hilt that would add to the power, not detract from it. If the hilt is the fire, the blade is the storm to it. Binding power into a sword while it is made is like speaking runes into a blade, like carving them into molten lava… it will burn you utterly, crush you and when you come out, you will have passed the crucible…” Kili saw his words made no sense to the brothers. “When I finally finished this blade and was ready to put both pieces together, the One Handed One showed me one last thing, one secret set of runes that would only work with a material as dark as the dragon’s tooth and a blade so light like this one. He called it “The Gift we dread”, and he told me that few had ever dared to use it.”

“The spell that saved my brother,” Faramir whispered. “would you… would you show us?”

Kili closed his eyes, gently tapping into the hilt, allowing the runes to appear without being truly called upon. Faramir’s eyes scanned the intricate band of tengwar writings and he paled. “This… this a sacrificial spell, is it?”

“Not quite,” Kili did not want to make the brothers uneasy with this. “there are no strings attached, no price asked from you…” He understood that they worried about a price that might haunt them and wanted to put them at ease without going into details.

“Because it already took from you what was given to my brother,” Faramir was not sure if he should be horrified or awed. Awed that this dwarf was able to create things of such horrible power, things that should belong to legends or bygone ages, or horrified at the price it must have extracted. He looked up, meeting the dwarf’s eyes. “I don't know how I could ever thank you for such a sacrifice…” he began speaking, this went beyond a simple life-debt owed to someone and he hardly knew how to express it.

“Please,” Kili interrupted him gently, but firmly. “I already told you that no thanks were necessary. Boromir is alive and that is all the thanks I’ll ever need.”

Boromir had been silent, taking in what had been said. He had noticed the pale streaks in Kili’s mane but had not been sure if he simply had never noticed before. Now he knew why they were there. “Why?” he asked in a hush. While they were friends and all, Kili had chosen him over others who might one day be in the same situation and closer to him.

Kili rose slowly, walking over to the arched window of the room. “When we journeyed you often spoke of your little brother, Boromir. You never said it but it was evident how much you missed him. I too was a little brother once…” his voice grew hoarse, he never could speak of Fili easily. “my brother… Fili… he fell in battle, defending the mountain home, defending his King.” He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “No one should have to bury their brother.” He finally said.

                               .                                                              .                                              .

Several days had passed since Boromir’s return to Osgiliath, days that had been busy with preparations for the coming attack and with worries for Faramir. Two days after Boromir’s return there had been a short message from their father, which was always enough to dampen any good mood. Fortunately the Steward was overjoyed to have his beloved son back and what orders had been given with the letter had seen a liberal interpretation by Boromir. Faramir agreed with his brother’s decisions there and he knew that contrary to him Boromir would get away with doing so, because their father rarely found fault in his doings.

It was not the war which Boromir was pursuing so aggressively that bothered Faramir. He understood Boromir's reasons for doing so. It was other things that worried him. Ever since his return Boromir had been plagued with nightmares, or bad dreams. The first night Faramir had woken, finding Boromir scream in his sleep, and they had returned every night since. Boromir would not speak of those dreams when he awoke, but the haunted expression in his eyes was enough to worry the Ranger. And he was not alone in his worry; he could see that Kili silently shared his apprehension, their fears growing with each night that the dreams came back.

Faramir looked up the ramparts where his brother stood listening to the report of one of their scouts. He also spotted Kili a few steps away, a Raven perked on his outstretched hand. In the last two days Faramir had twice seen Kili with with a silken feathered bird on his hand. The Ranger of Ithilien had no love for any crow or raven, too many of them were servants of the enemy and yet, in a calm moment, Boromir had told him that Kili could talk to the beasts. It sounded like a fairytale, a story of long forgotten times.

Faramir’s thoughts were interrupted when he saw Boromir leave the rampart coming towards him. “Kili, find Veryan and tell him to have half a banner ready to ride within the hour.” He ordered.

“Half a banner?” Faramir closed the remaining distance to his brother. “What did the scouts report?”

“Harad troops moving through Ithilien, headed for the black gates most likely, they are following the old Harad road.” Boromir told him. “I’ll need you and thirty of your rangers as well. We won’t let them reach their master.”

The news banished all other worries from Faramir’s mind. “Agreed, I will take Anarion and his men, they are the best and swiftest I have.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

The caves of Henneth Annun were hideout Faramir had always liked to think of as a place of calm, but today he felt it filled him with unrest. Or maybe the place echoed the restless pacing of his heart. His eyes went back to the two captives sitting on a corner of the cave; two Halflings he and his men had captured on their third day in Ithilien. They claimed they had set out from Rivendell with his brother, and they claimed to having been separated from him during an orc attack near the falls of Rauros. Their description of the attack closely matched his brother’s relating of the events.

“We will soon know if you have been speaking the truth,” Faramir had told Frodo Baggins. “and what role your slimy companion is playing here.” He left them to their own thoughts with that and went to find Anarion, whom he had promptly dispatched to find Veryan, who was still pursuing the bulk of the Harad horde with Boromir. He had been careful to never mention Boromir’s name. He did not want them to know that he’d confirm their claim with the very man they named. And he knew Anarion would be swift and discreet on this errand.

The very presence of the two Halflings left Faramir restless. Maybe they were the ones whom the dream had spoken of... He did not know why they made him so uneasy, though. On soft feet he went back to the cavern where the two Halflings were sitting. “We have to tell them, Master Frodo,” he heard the Gardener say. “you said for yourself that Boromir gave his life to buy you time to flee.”

“We don’t know that, Sam.” Frodo responded in a low voice. “he held off the Orcs to give me time to flee… the others might have reached him in time.”

“So you left my brother behind to save yourself?” Faramir asked, making his presence known. He might have spoken less harshly but the thought of Boromir nearly dying was one still prone to shake him easily.

Both Halflings were startled by his presence. “He told him to run,” Sam at once defended his master.

So Boromir had stood between them and the Orcs, sending them to flee while he fought. Faramir nearly smiled, this was so much like his brother. He’d never allow someone to come to harm, if he could protect them. From his very youth on Boromir had shouldered that task for his people. Only this time he had nearly paid with his life for that. Faramir had seen the scars and he still worried at what price his brother’s life might have been saved. “Was he alone, or was there someone with him?” he inquired.

“There was someone, a friend,” Frodo replied. “a dwarf, Kili son of Dari. I do not know how but your brother befriended him on his journey north.”

Faramir leaned against the cave wall, giving up on his threatening pose just a little, allowing the halflings to be a bit more at ease. He knew that Boromir had been travelling with several companions. Why had none of them been with him? “What of your other companions?” he asked.

“We do not know,” Frodo replied. “we heard fighting all over the forest, but did not see them.”

He could not hear the rest of the answer, because there was a great commotion in the main caves and he could clearly hear his brother’s voice. “Veryan, I want an answer. I pulled back the troops poised to strike on you insistence and I will not bear one more moment of delay in your answer.”

“It was my doing, brother,” Faramir said, but his voice was drowned out by Sam’s shout. “Boromir!”

His brother left the Swan Knight standing where he was and pushed past Faramir. “Frodo, Sam!” He squatted down to hug both Halflings. “I am relieved to see you, alive and well.”

“Boromir, we feared you dead on Amon Hen,” Frodo’s smile was a relieved one, holding honest affection for the Gondorian Captain. “I am so glad you survived. There were so many Orcs. What happened there? Where are the others?”

“They are not with you?” Boromir asked startled. “I had hoped that they went with you. Kili was there to save me from the Orcs, but we only know the others left Amon Hen before we could find them.”

“No, we went alone,” Frodo explained. “I hope the others will be alright.” He looked at Boromir. “We were captured while we crossed your land east of here.”

“Now I know why my brother has sent for me.” Boromir said in understanding.

“He thinks that we are Orc spies,” Sam pointed out sourly, causing Boromir to laugh. “You will have put him right about that.” He became very serious again only a moment after. “You can’t go on alone, Frodo. The enemy is building up a veritable army all along the mountains.”

“You can’t come with us, Boromir,” Frodo crossed his arms in front of his chest. “your people will need you when this army reaches your cities. They will need you to defend them. You always said that you had to return to fight for them.”

“And I believed you with others able to aid you in your task, Frodo.” Boromir insisted. “I won’t send you alone to Mordor. Not while I still draw breath.”

A gentle smile broke the Hobbit’s determined mien. “I know, you’d lay down your life for any of us,” Frodo said with great warmth. “but… you know why it can’t be. You know what nearly happened in Amon Hen. And even with Kili with you…”

All colour drained from Boromir’s face and Faramir was surprised to see horror and deep shame in his brother’s features. “You are right, Frodo,” Boromir admitted in a hoarse voice. “I cannot be trusted where your task is concerned. But I will find you the help I can.”

Suddenly the Halfling stepped up to Boromir to squeeze his shoulder, a strange gesture from some so small. “I do trust you, Boromir. I know you are stronger than you believe of yourself. But HE knows you; HE knows your weak spots. You let me go once, can you do it again?”

There was a strange power the small creature wielded over Boromir, his brother had to admit. He saw Boromir nod slowly. “We’ll bring you to Osgiliath and I’ll get you across the river there. You will have an easier passage that way.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Aglaran had been set to watch the wretched creature they had captured down by the pool, most of the time the thing sat cursing and whimpering in the corner of the cave. The Ranger did not really want to know what kind of wretched thing this truly was. In the commotion after Lord Boromir’s hurried arrival he had been extra attentive that the captive did not get away. “Aglaran,” he saw Kili approach. “Lord Faramir said you had captured some kind of creature?”

The Ranger pointed inside the narrow cave. “Take a look, I still think it is some kind of orc.”

When Kili stepped past him the mangled thing spat at him. “Nasty, nasty dwarfse, strangling poor Smeagol…”

Aglaran just wanted to ask if Kili truly knew that being, but before he could, Lord Boromir joined them. He cast a disdainful glance at the captive. “Aglaran, tie this thing up and keep it gagged, we are leaving shortly,” he ordered. The Ranger obeyed at once, deciding that it might be wiser to transport the thing in a sack.

Meanwhile, Boromir had taken Kili aside. “Frodo is here, with Sam. None of the others made it out of Amon Hen it seems.”

“Or they were separated from Frodo just as we were,” Kili replied. “what do we need to do?”

“I need you to stay with Frodo for the duration of his journey with us. Guard him, make sure no one harms him.” Boromir sought Kili’s gaze, green eyes meeting black. “I entrust his safety to you, if anyone, especially me, is trying to harm him, you will cut them down.”

The dwarf met his eyes steadily. “You have my word.”

                                                               .                                              .                              .

It was only on the march back to Osgiliath that Faramir had a chance to catch up to Boromir. Never since his brother had left Gondor more than a year ago had he felt such disquiet. Before they had left the caves of Henneth Annun, he had witnessed a short conversation between Kili and Boromir. “I entrust his safety to you, if anyone, especially me, is trying to harm him, you will cut them down.”

Faramir had felt a little insulted by these words. Did his brother not trust their own troops anymore, or their authority over them? But then he recalled the pain and shame on Boromir’s face during his conversation with Frodo. Whatever had happened on their travels it had deeply shaken and hurt his brother. He caught up with Boromir at the head of the column. “Our father will not be happy if you let two strangers walk unsupervised in our lands, especially if they wish to go east.” He said. “Especially if they carry something…” He knew their father had whispered of such things in the past months.

“Then he better does not learn of it any time soon,” Boromir’s eyes were focused ahead where they could see the silhouette of Osgiliath rise from the mists. “until Frodo is well on his way.”

“You never went so openly against our father.” Faramir wished he could stop and talk to his brother calmly. “You have changed. What did happen to you?”

Boromir looked at him and there was a haunted expression in his eyes. “I was broken, Fari,” he said softly. “my very hopes turned into foul betrayal. But for one friend who stood between me and dishonor, between me and death, between me and despair, I would have fallen.”

Shocked and horrified, Faramir wanted to ask for more, for what had been done to his beloved brother to bring such an expression to his eyes, such words to his lips but the sound of a horn cut short their conversation. The horns of Osgiliath rang out into the night, signaling for help. The city was under attack.

Chapter Text

The Raven had landed on the rock beside Dwalin, cawing loudly to gain his attention. The bald dwarf got up from his fairly comfortable sitting position at the fire and tossed a bit of meat at the bird. “You’ll bring news, I think.” He was sure that the bird carried a message. They usually did, and by now Dwalin was well used to the black winged company he’d have at times. But it had rarely been as often as it was now. The first message had reached him in autumn; the crow had actually been carrying a written letter from Kili. He had penned that letter before leaving Rivendell by the end of October.

Opening his pack Dwalin carefully retrieved the message he had read so often since that day. The small parchment was covered tightly with Kili’s clear hand. The first few lines concerned the Riders that had been hunting across Eriador for Baggins, and the good news that Bilbo was safe among the elves. But that had been the only good news in the entire letter. Kili spoke of a darkness rising, of war and of an errand he had accepted for Lord Elrond of Rivendell. The last was enough to have Dwalin bothered, the Elves rarely concerned themselves with the affairs of the world and when they did things were troublesome indeed. But the next part of the letter had truly shaken the old warrior:

A shadow is rising in the east, my friend. We both should not be surprised it had finally come to that; the signs were all too visible for too many years. And before that storm we all must either stand or whither, yet if the shadow is not defeated our very world will be lost. I will go south and join those who fight the darkness. In my heart I know that you of all people will understand. I have send a letter to Narvi and the council in Cardemir as well, it will clear the path for Daroin to become the Lord of Cardemir should I not return.

“No, you won’t die and leave my boy to succeed you,” Dwalin had growled, he did not even want to think of the possibility that the last of the house of Durin were to perish, nor that Kili held a good deal of affection for Daroin and had groomed him as a successor.

I know you will be angry by now, my friend and I ask your forgiveness for making this decision without further taking council with you. My mind has been made up about it for years now but time is running short. The situation south is dire, the kingdoms of men stand with their back to the wall. The elves prepare themselves to leave this world; their path leads away from these shores, and our brethren are hardly concerned.

The words had made Dwalin shiver, they still did, and it was all too easy to imagine the story that would live on; how the last of Durin’s line, the last Prince of the Dwarves had fought beside men to the bitter end. It was a way to go any of their great house would have chosen.

When you return to the Ered Luin, go to the cold forge and find the stone chest. What’s inside I made for you, it is not much, but it comes with all the thanks for a life of loyalty to my family.

It was then that Dwalin had understood that Kili was saying his goodbyes with this letter. He had angrily crushed it in his fist and later had had to carefully straighten the parchment again.

But for your stalwart loyalty and friendship I would not even be here today. You saved me more times than I can name and you brought me through the darkest days of my life. May a bright light shine on your path until we meet again in Mahal’s eternal halls. Farewell, my friend.

“No, Kili,” he had said softly. “I saw two Kings fall in my lifetime, I won’t add a third.” He had well known that Kili would never demand others to follow him to certain death; it did not mean that there weren’t any who would proudly follow him anyway. And thus Dwalin had taken swift action, contacting Bofur, Bladvila, Nori and others, they in turn had called others, Daroin had seen to mustering Cardemir. Dwalin had known there were more that would follow the true Prince than it appeared and he had not been disappointed.

By the time he had been forced to inform Kili, to know where to meet him, they had already been Deep South, making use of long forgotten dwarven roads to get where they needed to go. Kili’s first reaction had been touched, angry and so much like Dwalin had expected it to be, he could even see the younger warrior right there, saying every word the second letter held.

The Raven cawed again, preening. Dwalin’s eyes were on the bird again, trying to discern the message the messenger tried to give him. But the bird only fluttered up and down, to suddenly pick at the map Dwalin had been studying prior to his arrival; and suddenly the warrior understood. The bird was not a messenger, but something had happened, something the black feathered friend could not convey to him. He rose to his feet. “I get it, friend.” He said to the Raven. His call raised the war camp, they’d have to be on the move quickly.

                               .                                                              .                                              .

“Look out!” The yell rang out across the marching column only moments after they had heard the horns calling for them. Faramir saw a winged shadow drop from the clouds and sweep across the column, fear washed over him like a wave of black poisoned water. “Nazgul! Find cover!” He shouted.

The fell creature again swooped over the column this time diving directly for the Halflings, claws stretched out to grab them. In the last moment Kili managed to push them aside. The creature grabbed him instead, tossing him through the air.

Faramir had already reached for his bow, neither fear nor shock deterring his aim. The arrow flew straight at the beast, hitting the shoulder right underneath the wing. The creature shrieked and rose higher. Finally the other archers shook from their shock and they followed suit, most missed the fell creature but they created enough of a threat to make it retreat.

Boromir had hastened to Frodo and Sam, they were unharmed, but Frodo’s expression was haunted. “They are coming for me, Boromir.” He said in a hush. “I can’t stay… they will crush Osgiliath if I remain.”

The Captain couldn’t agree more, and while the battle was raging Frodo would have a chance to slip away unseen, unnoticed. But how to get Frodo across the river now? The city was under attack, he could not risk taking him to that battle and neither of the Halflings would find the other places Gondor’s warriors used to cross the Anduin. They needed a guide…

Inwardly Boromir cursed his own weakness; if he were less susceptible to the ring he could have guided them himself. But that was all but impossible. Whom could he trust to do better? Faramir? He knew his brother would never be tempted in the same way, but Gondor desperately needed the Captain of their Rangers, now that the war began more than ever before. Kili? Boromir had seen the dwarf get back to his feet after the fell beast had tossed him, and while he trusted Kili absolutely he was aware that Kili did not know the borders of Mordor any better than Frodo. Veryan? The name was a painful thought; all too well did he recall the dreams. And the Swan Knight was no Ranger, he was not able to move unseen through rough country, nor was he as acquainted with the passes leading up the Ephel Duath.

Arrows hissed past them, Boromir saw Anarion kneel on the grass, sending several arrows at the creature trying to swoop down again. It was only one moment that Boromir silently considered what he knew of the young Ranger, then he made his decision. “Anarion!” he called out to him, the attack was breaking off, the creature turning towards the city.

The Ranger hurried over to them. “Captain?”

“Frodo and Sam need to get across the river,” Boromir told him quickly. “the Nazgul came for them and he must never get them. I would bring them myself, yet…”

“I can guide them, Captain,” Anarion volunteered at once. Gondor needed the Captain to lead the army, and the thought was clearly written on the archer’s face. “Where do they need to go?”

“Deep into enemy territory,” The Steward’s son explained grimly. “Anarion, I am entrusting them to you; you will guide them to whatever place they will name to you. You will not ask why they need to go there, but do you utmost to aid their goal. Our very lives depend on their success. You will protect them and fight for them, like you would fight for me. You will not allow them to come to harm. Swear it!”

“On my life, Captain, I swear to protect them.” There was no hesitation in Anarion’s response.

With a heavy heart Boromir looked at the younger man’s face, seeing only loyalty and great reverence in his eyes. That The Captain of Gondor would entrust such a personal task to him, was maybe the highest honor Anarion ever hoped for and he’d rather die than fail. The Captain knew that he was most likely sending the young Ranger to his death, but there was no other way. His eyes went from the Ranger to the Hobbits, he could see surprise and trust and Frodo’s open features, the Halfling understood. “Frodo, Anarion will get you over the river and further. Go swiftly; the battle will distract the enemy.” The Gondorian gently placed his hand on their shoulders. “May the good wishes of all free people go with you.”

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

There was no time to be lost, knowing the Halflings out of the battle’s reach, Boromir turned to his duty quickly. From his vantage point he could see the Orcs had crossed the river at several points and were attacking the city at multiple points. “Close ranks, Faramir gather your archers and move them to the south tower!” Boromir knew the Nazgul attack had cost them valuable time; they needed to aid their faltering garrison quickly. The defenders of Osgiliath put up a valiant fight, the main fortification still stood, but Orcs were swarming it from two sides, and soon three if they could not secure the southern passage quickly.

The men reacted swiftly, gathering up with him at the hill west of the city. “Gwynhelm, take half the men and move into the city through the west sewer. The rest is with me, we’ll take the North tower.” This would be the hardest spot to retake, because the Orcs were attacking the building already and at least had control of the lower levels.

Reaching the North Tower proved harder than expected, the Orcs had moved in flank troops, hiding in the ruins of the former market halls. Boromir and his men had to fight for every step they took deeper into the city. Wings swooped above them, Boromir ducked in reflex but this was no Nazgul, no terror rode with these wings. Looking up he saw a creature sail in and drive its huge claws into the sheer wall of the tower. The Captain had never seen such a beast before; it was even larger than the winged terrors the Wraiths used to ride. The creature fluttered its wings unloading the troops from its back right into the tower through a broken window. Without archers at hand Boromir could do nothing about it, he could only watch as the winged beast unloaded the last troops and then pushed off the wall again. Heavy and large it clearly had no good starting position but the handler did a marvelous job on redirecting it back into the air. In the moment the beast took flight again Boromir could see the handler of the creature, and he was not surprised to see it was no orc, the armor of black scales and bloodred cloak was that of an Easterling.

The tower’s lower level was full of Orcs, Boromir send part of his remaining men past the tower to reinforce the wall defense, gesturing Veryan and Kili to follow him with the rest to clear out the tower. It was bloody work, cutting through the Orc troops and forcing their way up the stairs. On the tower’s middle levels the defenders were still battling the Orcs the flying beast had set down. When Boromir reached them there were only few left, the Orcs had nearly overwhelmed them. The Captain sprinted forward, attacking the Orcs before they could destroy what was left of the defenders.

He heard the flapping of wings just to his right, coming about he saw the winged creature land again on the broken wall. He brought down his axe squarely on the first claw, then the wing and a third hit to the other claw, the winged beast screamed as it lost its tenuous hold on the wall and fell down on the ground, smashing the troops it had carried.

Knowing the last Orcs cleared out behind him, Boromir cast a quick glance out of the hole in the wall, to see the situation. The North wall was still failing, but Faramir’s archers had secured the south wall again. The main wall on the other hand looked equally as bad. And there were more of those beasts circling above, deploying troops. It did not take more than this one glance to tell the Captain of Gondor that this attack was not led by an Orc, too coordinated, too well thought out strategy and much too disciplined. He knew the signs, as a young man he had learned quickly that there was more to the black lands than just orcs. An orc may hold command over one hundred of his kind and do reasonably well, an exceptionally cunning orc might hold command over a thousand of his foul brethren and not make a total mess of it, but above that they were useless. Unfortunately the black lands had men in their thrall, Haradrim, Easterlings, Varigians and others who filled the gap and this was clearly their planning.

The assessment was a grim one, a brutal one. “Veryan, leave the wounded fighters at the tower, and then move your men to the north yard and prevent a breakthrough there. I’ll take the others and get back the main wall.” It meant sacrificing the men on the North Wall, if they deterredt the Orcs long enough, it would give Boromir the time to save the main wall and then flank the Orcs. He knew that the Swan Knight had to see the same result, but the man only nodded curtly. “As my Captain commands,” he said, taking his men to follow the orders.

The main wall had been overrun through the use of ladders and those damned beasts dropping troops right off on the main rampart. Boromir was the first of his men to force his way up the bloodied stairs, pushing the orcs back step by step.

Kili could hardly believe what he saw, it seemed impossible that it truly was happening. Boromir was pushing them back! He had known the warrior had guts and was a superior fighter, but this… this was beyond that. Through his example, his will, Boromir was turning this battle around. The defenders were taking heart to fight back with all they had and the Orcs were losing their foothold on the main wall. Kili had a hard time to keep up at some times, because Boromir went against the Orcs with the anger of a wounded lion, and all those that followed him became a storm that the Orcs had not expected to face.

The main wall was slippery with black blood, the bodies of friend and foe littering the ancient stones. Boromir did not know how many Orcs he had killed, the axe in his hands was gory, but luckily had not gone blunt yet. Faramir’s archers had moved from the other end and began to shoot down the flying beasts, cutting off enemy reinforcements. One of the creatures crashed right down at the south tower another nearly smashed the remains of the sunset gate. Veryan and his troop had the harder stand down in the yard where the North wall had been breached. The Swan Knight delivered a stand worth of legend, holding the Orc bottled up in the smaller courtyard. But he could not hold out much longer. Boromir had seen the enemy bringing fresh reinforcements across the river, to put more pressure on the northeastern walls…

A bright flare rose from beneath the North wall, it was ruptured huge stones raining down on the defenders, creating a wide breach. The Orcs howled triumphantly and stormed through the breach. Boromir knew that Veryan’s men in the north yard would be overrun in no time. With the men he had he could hardly hope to hold out now that their citadel had been breached.

The call of a horn echoed form somewhere outside in the dark. It was a deep, bronze horn, nothing like the signaling horns of Mordor. The Orcs shrieked, some turning back, as the sounds of battle suddenly sounded from behind them as well.

Someone was attacking the Orcs outside! Boromir could hardly believe it. Cair Andros could not have send troops here that fast. And there was no other garrison close by, but someone had flanked the Orcs!  He raised his blade. “Gondor!” He shouted as he charged at the Orcs pouring through the breach, the defenders behind him. This city would not fall today.  

.                                              .                                                              .

Mounted on his black winged steed Shakurán watched the battle unfold, his keen eyes rarely missing a detail. “Send in more Drakár and pour troops on top of them,” he said, his iron-clad hand pointing out the locations to be used, the veiled sorcerer heard and obeyed at once, conveying the orders where they to go. Not that Shakurán had expected anything but, the tall Easterling had held command in the Tas Nazg Drakhur, the Black Vanguard for more than ten years and had served in the same formation for most of his life. When Shakurán spoke his orders were followed swiftly.

He had to admit, Osgiliath put up a better fight than he had expected, the city had been reported severely depleted of troops by their top spy in Minas Tirith. But it seemed they were compensating their lack of numbers with a few new strategies. Originally Shakurán had planned to invade the city from below the waterline, he was loath to expose the Drakár so early, but it could not be helped.

Their main wall was in trouble, how had their troops managed to regain footing there. “Fifth and Seventh fist to advance,” he ordered, sending more Orcs to storm the main walls. Narrowing his keen eyes he could see one particular figure leading the fight on the walls, one tall warrior cutting through the Orcs like they were blades of grass in a summer meadow. The figure was familiar, very familiar. “It’s the great Captain himself… now I understand why they are doing so well.”

A near-anticipatory grin rose on Shakuráns lean features. According to their spy Osgiliath had been under the command of the little Captain. Not that Shakurán would underestimate the cunning Ranger General but he did not regard him as highly. Faramir was a good Ranger and courageous man, but he was in no way his brother. As a matter of fact Shakurán had been looking forward to capturing Faramir, he had been promised permission to keep him if he could grab him alive. Breaking the Ranger General would have been a pleasure. But now that the Great Captain was here things were much different.

In a way Shakurán was delighted, he had heard of course that Snaga, that little good for nothing rat, had claimed Boromir of Gondor killed by his troops up north. To the Easterling’s eyes it was a shame that their great opponent should have found an ignoble death on an Orc blade in a meaningless skirmish. No great warrior should perish like that. Shakurán had crossed blades with Boromir of Gondor on numerous occasions, even capturing him once. While he had lost Osgiliath to the man only a year ago, he still could claim to have won half their conflicts. No other foe ever had forced so many draws and retreats on Shakurán’s career. All the more he respected the Great Captain. Boromir of Gondor was the ultimate warrior, strong, cunning, a brilliant strategist and a great leader. He led by example, his men revered him and he still was not shy to make the necessary sacrifices, as he had just proven by leaving the North Wall fend for themselves while retaking the heart of the fortress.

“First and second fist, regroup and flank them,” he ordered, knowing he still could crush Boromir’s valiant retake of their fortifications. The man had done admirably, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. Shakurán too had not as many reserves as he’d like, but Khamûl had been unwilling to commit some of the eastern Elite and Orcs were… they were Orcs, useless pack. At least there was no shortage of them and what they lacked in skill they’d have to make up in numbers, and more likely in the body count.

Shakurán itched to join the fray and confront Boromir himself; he’d enjoy another go at the Gondorian Captain. Being about the same age as the Steward’s son, they had been enemies, rivals for all their lives; their first encounters as youths in a skirimish near the black pass.

“Shakurán, they still hold the breach, we need support there!” The Easterling did not need to look, he knew that voice. Jadhur was the Zigrán Drak’kar, the leader of the Drakár riders and unlike Shakurán he was not an Easterling. His homeland lay beyond the borders of the Easterling Empire, in a fiery mountain chain to the Far East, his people, like the Easterlings too, were the servants of the very first darkness, surviving and serving faithfully since the dawn of time. He had brought up his wounded Drakár beside Shakurán’s winged steed. “They still hold the breach, commander.” He reported a bit more formally.

The Easterling could see that Jadhur was injured, an arrow had been broken off his shoulder and his beast did not look well either. His eyes went out to the field. And truly – Boromir of Gondor and his men were bottling the Orcs up in the breach. The man was unbelievable, would that it had been possible to convert him after his capture as a youth. He would have made a formidable champion for the Dark Lord. He looked down, what he still had was not all that much. He shook his head, once you were committed there was little use in holding back the reserves, and he was committed to this fight. “Jadhur, pick up all the Orc archers you can and fly them onto the western gate. We need to deal with the little Captain and his Rangers first. All others fists are to advance. Storm this breach!”

The orders were carried out, Jadhur effectively placed the archers in the enemy’s back, giving the Rangers no little trouble and the Orcs pushed again into the breach, gaining ground slowly but with disproportionate losses on their side. Shakhurán put his hand on the reigns of his steed, ready to swoop down and engage the Captain of Gondor when he heard the horn – a deep bronze sound ringing out against the darkening skies. He frowned, turning his head in the direction to see. 

The standing stone upriver of the city was aglow in white lines, like a suddenly woken work of strange art. Only Shakurán knew this was no art, the stone marked the entrance of an ancient dwarven trade route hailing back to the elder days. The road should be blocked or at least impassible since the Balrog took Moria. The horn rang again and now Shakurán could see a troop moving, flanking the Orc.

„Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!“

The battle cry was echoed by many voices as the Orcs were suddenly attacked from their flank. Shakurán spat a curse. Dwarves! So that had been the purpose of the Great Captain’s journey North – not some wild tale of dreams and elves but finding capable allies. Khamul would not like this at all.

Trapped between the dwarves and the men the Orcs were beginning to lose ground massively, and the Rangers had finished off the archers faster than Shakurán liked. He hated defeat, but he had no reserves to pull this around. “Drakárriders are to take our Elite and retreat,” he ordered coldly. “leave the Orcs to cover us.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

The Orcs were turning tail! Dwalin laughed grimly, his axe splitting the next Orc’s skull. “Drive them to the River, let them drown!” he shouted at his dwarves, being the first in the pursuit. The son of Fundin fought with his two axes Catcher and Keeper in each hand, slicing his way through the enemies with a brutal efficiency, honed by years of and years fighting in other people’s wars. At least the Gondorians had an intelligent commander in place, because they pushed through the breach and joined in driving the Orcs off the shore. In the midst of it all Dwalin saw him: Kili, covering the back of a powerful Gondorian warrior, putting a good dent into the Orc ranks. Sword in his hands, striking mercilessly at the fleeing troops of the black lands; he vividly reminded Dwalin of an old friend who lay in his eternal sleep under the pines of Erebor for many decades now.

They met at the waterline, Dwalin had already been looking for what of the Orc boats could be used to cross the river and pursue them further, but a quick hand signal of Kili stopped him. “Secure the shore!” he barked at his dwarven warriors. “Bladvila take a squad and search for wounded. Bofur, upriver, make sure our provisions don’t get stolen by the orcs.”

When he turned he saw Kili approach him, the two warriors greeted with a warrior’s clasp, hands around the other’s forearm. “Dwalin, that was a rescue in the nick of time,” Kili said with a smile.

Dwalin grinned at him. “I am all the more glad I arrived in time. You did not think I’d let my Prince go to war while I sit home and pretend to be a respectable old dwarf?”

“No, I’d never assume that,” Kili laughed. “it is so good to have you here, Dwalin.”

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

Boromir watched Kili greet the other dwarf, the appearance of the bald, grey-bearded warrior was vaguely familiar. He had met this mercenary before, but not really registered him as a dwarf. So this was Dwalin. When he approached both dwarves, Kili stepped back, snapping into more formal behavior. “Boromir, this is Dwalin, Son of Fundin, a mighty warrior and very loyal friend. Dwalin…”

Dwalin bowed, if only slightly. “It’ll be an honor to fight for you again, Captain.” He said with an amused grin. “Only you’ll have more of my kind to deal with this time.”

The Gondorian Captain actually grinned back, vividly recalling his own words that while Dwan was a great fighter he’d not want any more of his caliber on any of the mercenary units. “I had not known you were a dwarf.”

“I never said I was.” Dwalin had never been shy to talk back, even to the Captain of Gondor, and he had not changed in that. His eyes went to the river. “They pulled their forces quickly against your city, Captain.”

“And the next time they’ll be more thorough and less surprised to see you here.” Boromir pointed out. “How many fighters are with you?” He had seen a number of dwarves and his estimate was at several hundred but did he dare hope for that many?

“Eight hundred total,” Dwalin told him. “Seven hundred of them field fighters; the other hundred can be used on the front but will be more useful in forges and stonework. We’ll need them sorely once the real siege of your city begins.”

Boromir’s eyes went from Dwalin to Kili and back to the old grizzled warrior. He had always felt bitterness that so few appreciated Gondor’s sacrifices in holding the shadow at bay. After his own journey across the lone lands he had begun to understand the horrors the North had to deal with alone. But seeing them stand here now, warmed his heart. “Gondor never knew it had friends among your people, Prince Kili,” he said, for the first time using the formal title. “Tis all the gladder a moment that you are here now.”

Chapter Text

Kili craned his neck as he slung the rope across the support beam of the makeshift wooden construction. Repairs were underway on all fortifications. The north wall had taken the worst damage, with the yard behind too severely damaged. Bofur was leading the dwarves working to close the breach in the outer wall, the inner wall on the other hand could not just be filled, and it needed a gateway to move troops forth and back. Unfortunately the gate had been smashed when one of the winged creatures fell. So they had to fix the wall and the gateway. That was what the wooden support construction was for; at the moment it simply formed a beam construction with a rough wood arch on top, to hold the stones that were lifted up. Once the full amount of stones was up there, they’d remove the wood and the stones would press down. Due to the shape of the whole thing, the stones would not be able to slip down again; instead their own weight would hold them firmly in place. Of course the wall had to buffer the pressure but Bifur had checked it and announced it sound. He was an expert on such things, if you only could communicate with him. An Iglishmek gesture from above told him that they were ready, Kili grasped one of the ropes with both hands, putting his full strength behind it as did a number of others. Moving the heavy stone blocks up on the wall again was heavy work, and those who went into the coping of the battlements were no exception.

A searing pain rose in his side, making him nearly stumble. He gritted his teeth, digging his heels into the ground and pulled harder. “Zaî-drak!” The command told him to hold exactly as he was, while the crew up there used their hooks to direct the block to its final place. Kili was relieved when the command to let go was given and the stone sat where it belonged.

“Looks like this is going to be patched up by nightfall,” a gruff voice spoke up behind him. Dwalin had come back from scouting across the river. The bald dwarf cast an appraising glance at the wall. “We’ll desperately need those walls before long.”

“That bad?” Kili asked, gratefully accepting the jug of water the work crew handed around. Usually he freely mixed with them, but they had seen Dwalin approach him and moved off allowing them to speak in private.

“Aye, there’s a lot of troops gathering at the crossroads under Minas Morgul,” Dwalin told him. “had you been with the Captain when I came back you’d have heard already. You should have been there, Kili.”

The younger dwarf shook his head. “These walls need any hand we can spare to patch them up. And Boromir will have heard all that is needed on military matters from you.”

Dwalin snorted. “You should have been there, Kili. You are our leader, if there’s warcouncil this is where you are needed. And our allies see it the same, you know that. This is troop work…”

“I’ve heard peasants complain about troop work, I’ve heard troops complain about peasant-work and I have heard nobles whine about lowly work,” Kili replied, actually paraphrasing his Uncle. “but I have never heard the work complain as long as it was done properly. We need those walls, Dwalin. But I see your point, send someone for me the next time and I’ll be there.”

“Tirak, taî ki!” Bifur shouted down at them and Kili took the rope again, slinging it around his hands. It was the last block for the gateway they had to lift. It was a particularly heavy piece, an arch stone from a ruined crypt somewhere in the lower city. When he put his full weight on the pull the pain in his side soared again, worse than before. Kili gasped, forcing himself to hang on, but the pain shot up his arm, he nearly lost grip of the rope. He stumbled forward, losing pull on the rope and would have fallen, if not a pair of strong hands had grabbed the rope and pulled it back. Dwalin helped him to hold the rope until Bifur had maneuvered the block into the arch, concluding the construction.

The moment the command to let go was given Kili leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. “Kili?” Dwaling stepped up to him. “What is it?”

“Nothing, a bit exhausted.” Kili tried to wave it off, he could not afford to be weak, not with his people here, not with his people relying on him.

“Injured is more likely, you are all pale.” Dwalin observed. “don’t you deny it. I have seen your Uncle do that a thousand times, pretending to be fine while he was ready to drop from pain and exhaustion.” He looked up the wall. “Bifur!” he barked. “Get someone else to take this spot; I’ll need Kili for the rest of the day.” The mighty warrior did not understand a word of Bifur’s answer; he had never bothered to learn ancient dialects but the Iglishmek gesture told him that Bifur already send for someone.

Dwalin led Kili across the citadel towards the eastern works where most of the dwarven troops were camped in the ancient cellars of the old market quarters. The dwarves did not mind the underground barracks the least and had gladly set up camp there. Of course Dwalin had noticed that Kili spent the majority of nights above ground but the old warrior did not ask for explanations that the Prince might not be ready to give. He guided him towards the corner where he was camped and pointed him to sit down on the bedroll. “Now, let’s see to your injuries.”

“Mahal’s hammer what is that?” Dwalin had removed a black, stained bandage from Kili’s side to reveal dark teethmarks that only just so had missed the stomach, but marred the side and lower chest of the younger dwarf.

“A fell beast grabbed me during a skirmish,” Kili shrugged. “it’s healing slower than I wish it would.”

“And you always healed fast,” Dwalin had seen Kili recover from a lot of injuries, he knew most scars the younger dwarf bore, the numerous scars the Battle of the Five Armies had left, the marks of later injuries, the frightful speckled scar on Kili’s shoulder, that the bone-breaker had given him and also the shameful lashmarks on his back, marks the Orcs had put there. Most of them, excepting the bone breaker scar, had healed fast and cleanly without festering. But these wounds in his side did not look like they were healing at all. “Why does every warrior of your house have to end up in some vile beast’s mouth at least once?” He asked gruffly.

“So you can tell us that we are stupid fools, old friend.” Kili joked back at him, managing a real smile in spite of the pain.

“Brave, stupid fools,” Dwalin corrected him. “and… Kili… there’s only one way to deal with these wounds… and you’re not going to like it.”

He saw Kili’s eyes widen almost instantly, for a moment the grim warrior melted away to give room to a much younger expression before Kili managed to control his fear. “No, Dwalin… it can heal by itself.”

“Kili,” Dwalin gently held his shoulders. “it won’t heal… it will kill you if it’s not done. I’ll send someone for Brea; see if she has something to put you out.”

He might as well have not suggested that, because the younger dwarf’s jaw set in a firm expression. “No. I’ll manage.” Kili replied.

“I still need some things from Brea’s supplies,”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

“That should do for a while when your neighbours come rattling around again,” The dwarf had crossed his arms in front of his chest and studied the wall with satisfied eyes.

Boromir had to admit, it was good work. The breach had been completely filled, sealed and the wall stabilized to a good extend. “Neighbours?” he asked, his look going to the speaker who was none other than Bofur.

“Yes, those neighbours, dark skin, stinky breath, bad manners and awfully fond of you,” humor sparkled in Bofur’s eyes as he spoke and Boromir actually laughed. There was a grim edge to the dwarf’s humor that he liked; they were a tough, hardy folk if somewhat rough.

“Not that they like you any better,” he pointed out before turning to his reason for coming down here. “can you tell me where to find Kili?”

“Aye, Dwalin grabbed him a wee while ago,” Bofur said. “I guess the warmaster will fill him in on the situation out there.”

Another dwarf came towards them, a bit smaller than Bofur and with dark hair and beard. “Bofur, do you still need all the tripods up here? Dwalin says he needs a blue fire down in camp.” Only now the dwarf realized who was standing with Bofur and gave a quick salute, fist over heart. “I apologize for interrupting, Lord Captain.” the dwarf quickly bowed. “Brea, daughter Briga, at your service.”

It was not the fact that it was a dwarf woman that puzzled Boromir, he could not have told that she was, not with her magnificent black beard and braided hair. Even her voice was so deep she could easily pass for a man. No, it was her name and face that shocked him. He had never met her before, but in that dream in Lorien he had seen her among other dwarves fighting in Dwarrowdelf. How could he have known the name and face of a dwarf he had never met? “What is blue fire?” he asked to cover his surprise. “Is something wrong in your camp?”

“Nay, Captain, camp is fine,” Brea reported. “blue fire is what your kind call fire without smoke, a dwarven flame we use in forges, construction and sometimes healing, it’s not recommended to cook on it, though. Dwalin will need one of the tripods to light one down there; I guess it’s an injury.”

“Take one of them, Brea.” Bofur pointed at one. “We won’t do any more stonemelding tonight either way. And tell Bifur to have the work crews eat in the upper yard until I tell them otherwise.”

The dwarf woman took the indicated tripod and headed off. Bofur exhaled slowly. “Has to be an injury,” he said to himself. “Dwalin is a warrior, not a smith or stoneworker.”

“What use is blue fire with injuries?” Boromir inquired. “Should I send a healer down to your people?”

“Blue fire is used to burn, clean and seal poisoned wounds,” Bofur said. “nasty process that. And no, don’t send anyone. Just do me the favor and be a bit patient. If it’s one of our people than Kili might be down there to see him through that torture.”

“Taking care of our people comes first,” Boromir could well understand that Kili might prefer to be present when one of his people had to go through that. 

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Kili gritted his teeth to bite back a howl of sheer agony. The pain was like red hot flame and pure acid eating into his skin the very same moment. When the pain finally abated his breathing was ragged and he struggled to not allow any sob to leave his throat. He managed, barely. “That was the last one, lad,” Dwalin gently spread a cooling salve on the freshly sealed wound before placing a bandage on it.

“Thank you, Dwalin,” Kili slowly sat up, reaching for the older warrior’s shoulder, grateful he was here. How often had Dwalin been there for him? For his family? How often had they been able to lean on the mighty warrior when their own strength ran out, when the pain became too much to bear? If anyone had seen them in their weakest, most wretched moments it was Dwalin, who had pulled them out time and again.

Movement at the upper stairs snapped both of them out of it. Faramir had entered the dwarven camp, the Ranger was clearly in a hurry. Kili quickly pulled his chainmail on, covering the fresh bandage. “Faramir, did something happen up there?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Faramir informed him. “but my Rangers have found the Orcs to stash catapults and siege ammunitions for them on the other side of the river in the ruins.”

“We need to get rid of them,” Dwalin grumbled. “or they’ll scorch us before long. Captain, I take it you already have a plan?”

Kili hid a smile, this was Dwalin – see the target and go for it and woes betide anyone between him and his destination. He was one of the greatest warriors of the dwarven people and an even better warmaster. His skills had been honed by nearly two centuries of war, many of those wars had been the battles of other people, but they had shaped Dwalin into the fighter he was today.

“I do,” Faramir said. “but it will need a number of your people along with mine, to crawl through the old sewers and burn down their catapults.”

Putting a hand against the wall Kili pulled himself up, he saw the short glance from Dwalin and the unobtrusive series of finger gestures asking his opinion and gave a quick nod. “We better do it tonight, before they can assembled their catapults. Dwalin, get Bladvila, Nori… we need people who can at least decently sneak.” He was grateful for the salve dulling the pain, for Kili would go too.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

 The sewer entrance was a low tunnel outside the fortifications; it was supposed to run under the river and to the other side. The way Faramir approached it, Kili was sure the Ranger had crept through that tunnel dozens of times. At Faramir’s shoulder he saw his brother – Boromir was with them as well. The dwarf smiled, this was something he liked in those brothers, no matter how often the enemy seemed to beat them down, they always came back to put a good dent into Mordor’s ranks. The world was lucky to have such men defend against the shadow.

Dawn was upon them when they arrived at the tunnel entrance, this way into the old sewer was nothing more but a hole in the ground that had been set with stones long ago. The Ranger Captain was the first to enter the dark hole, the others followed him without delay.

Had the entrance been very narrow and low the tunnel became somewhat higher a few steps even as it remained fairly narrow and the walls seemed to press down on them. Kili used his hand on the wall to guide his way through the complete darkness, no matter how small the tunnel was, it was fairly comfortable for him, being a dwarf. But for the tall Captain of Gondor, his brother and Veryan the tunnel was way too low. They crept on, the silence of the dark more stuffy than even the air in here. There were nearly no sounds or echoes, the earthen walls swallowed it all up, light and air were two things this dank tunnel had not seen in a long time. Boromir followed his brother who was gliding through the darkness like a shadow, hardly to be seen and never to be heard. Behind himself he knew Dwalin, while Kili was like the soft footed shadow at his side.

Boromir did not know how long they had been creeping throught the old tunnel until his brother squatted down at a stone brink, deftly jumping down a low ledge. They followed him down and found themselves in a low stone tunnel, properly paved and secured in older days. To their left they could see a caved in passage, blocked by huge stone fragments and rocks, to the other side their path led on. A heavy low barrel vault pressed down on them as they moved on. Boromir glanced around; they had definitely left the sewer and must be in some older tunnel or cellar of the former city. He saw how Veryan tensed, looking around nervously, like the dark or maybe the heavy stone ceiling made him fear. But Boromir was sure it was something else, Veryan was fearless. Nevertheless he reached over, a quick squeeze to the arm encouraging their comrade that it would not be far anymore.

Faramir was the first to enter the tunnel to their right, their steps echoed softly on the stone floor, now and then the tunnel was so narrow that they only fit through sideways. The walls pressing so close like the jaws of an angry mouth. It was cold and wet down here, the soft dripping of water was the sole sound except for their own steps that accompanied their journey in the dark.

Eventually they came to a place where parts of a groined vault above had caved in and the narrow walls had caught most of the rubble. Only at the bottom a passage had remained. Faramir's hand gesture pointed them towards it, they'd have to crawl through that hole. The Ranger went first, squatting down he deftly began to crawl into the passageway under the rocks. Kili followed next, after that came Boromir, followed by Dwalin and Veryan. The channel was so low that they had to crawl on all fours, the pressing weight of tons of rubble pressing down on them. With any step they got ahead the feeling that the stones above were getting heavier and heavier rose. Boromir jerked, had the stones above them just moved? "Steady," he heard Kili's voice ahead in the dark. "we are nearly through." How the dwarf had known remained unknown to Boromir, but his words proved true, after a few more paces the shaft ended. Kili had already climbed out, offering him a hand to get out. "Small wonder no one thinks this passage can still be used," he said in a hush, while the others got out as well.

Faramir gestured them to be silent as he took the lead again, guiding them through a watery tunnel towards the exit. When they could already see the archway out, the Ranger’s raised hand gestured them to duck and wait. Faramir was kneeling behind the sewer exit, his eyes trained on something beyond their line of sight. Unmoving they waited in the darkness, expecting to hear a shriek announcing their discovery any moment, but after long minutes Faramir rose and gestured them to move after him. They came out of the tunnel under the remaining arches of a former palace. Out in the street an Orc patrol just moved off. “The catapults are south of the King’s Square,” Faramir whispered. “the ammunitions are stored near the former Seer’s tower.”

“Take half the troop south, Faramir,” Boromir decided quickly. “Dwalin you go with him. Kili and the others are with me.”

The night was cold and windy, the smell murky water hung heavily in the air as they stole through the ruins of Eastern Osgiliath, hastily hiding in a broken house entrance when an orc patrol marched by, their heavy steps making enough noise to wake any sleeper in a one mile radius. Boromir’s eyes were trained on a shattered statue on the other side of the street. He could see Kili ducked behind that, the dwarf had already been across the road when he had spotted the patrol coming. The orcs marched off, keeping their pattern of patrols every half hour. It was not hard for Boromir to understand the way they worked, he had seen it often enough. The soft hooting of a Nightowl signaled them that the coast was clear. They moved across the street and joined Kili, who was peering through another old gateway leading towards the Seer’s tower. Boromir ducked, when he saw a spark of light up the ancient tower. The others froze with him. The pale blinking repeated once or twice before flickering out of existence. The Captain exhaled sharply, it had probably been the moon on a broken window.

Softly they crept over the plaza under the tower and found cover behind the broken guardhouse there. On the other side they already saw the stacks of catapult ammunition: balls of dry straw and wood soaked with pitch, those balls would be lit before fired and carry deadly fire into enemy cities. Motionless they let another patrol pass them by, when these Orcs were off on their round through the city, Boromir nodded to the others. There were a few Orc guards with the storage of course. But some of them were swiftly shot by Kili, while the Captain and his men made short work of the rest. “Quickly now, we don’t have much time.” Lighting the whole storage was easy enough, the pitch soaked straw burned happily.

Shouts and shrieks of alarm on the other end of the city along with a bright flame bursting up there told them that Faramir had also reached his target. The catapults of Osgiliath were burning.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

The next dawn brought rain, heavy grey rain from the southern seas, spring was slowly settling in, bringing warmth and life back to Ithilien. This day Boromir had no eyes for it, he stood on the main wall of Osgiliath, facing east. The burning of their catapults the previous night had incited the anger of the enemy captain, that much was sure. Along the river bank and on the ruined bridges, the Orc legions were gathering, preparing to storm the citadel men still held in the heart of Osgiliath. There was no doubt that this time a full storm would come.

Boromir’s eyes surveyed the walls, the archers had been placed on the top spots, the towers, the sunrise gate and the bastion, he could see his brother there along with Kili, who just stuck his arrows into the mud on the wall. On the other side Veryan had command of the North wall, the Swan Knight must have felt the glance for he raised his blade in salute to his captain, a grim way of saying that he was ready to fight. To fight and die.

Beside the Captain of Gondor Dwalin leaned against the battlements, the dwarves had been spread along all walls to bolster defense. The former mercenary and now warmaster was as cold and calm as frozen forge. “They’ll make us wait, Captain,” he observed. “beat their drums, howl, make us nervous…”

“Any words for your men?” Boromir asked him quietly.

“I already told them that there’s thirty orcs for each of them to kill. They know their task.” Dwalin grumbled, leaning on his warhammer.

“Only thirty?” Boromir asked dryly. “That won’t be quite enough.”

Now the dwarf grinned at him. “Veterans take fifty.” He said with the icy confidence of a man who had already seen too many wars and battles.

Out there on the other side the drums began to beat. Orc drums, hundreds of them, Boromir knew their dread song, the fear it inspired. Somewhere on the walls rose a voice, beginning to sing, Boromir recognized Veryan’s voice clear as a clarion, several others joined in, drowning out the drums.

Dwalin peered up at him. “You alright, Captain?” he asked in a lower voice, only audible to Boromir. “You seem… prone to pondering these last days.”

For a moment Boromir considered simply not hearing the question, he had in between all the events been pondering the dream again. But then… he had no answers and for asking for them this time was as good as any. “Dwalin…” he turned to the dwarven warrior, who had not given up on his relaxed pose against the wall. “that dwarf lady who is with you, did she ever travel to Gondor before?”

“Dwarf Lady? There ain’t no such thing, Captain,” Dwalin said with a grin. “but if you mean Brea… she might have long ago come through this land. She’s a trader and when set out with a few ponies and packloads she travelled the length and breadth of human lands. Why, though?”

 “When I crossed Moria with my friends, I had a dream.” He began speaking. “We were fighting there, Kili, you Dwalin, you, me… fighting and driving the Orcs out of Dwarrowdelf. Brea was there too. I have never met her…”

“…and now you wonder how this is possible.” Dwalins usually stern face became suddenly pensive. “Maybe it was given to you to share a dream many of us have,” he said softly. “to see Durin’s blood return to the halls of our ancestors. Mayhap for that one night in the dark under Moria you dreamt as we might, seeing what we would hope for.” Dwalin’s eyes strayed up towards the sunrise gate, where Kili and Faramir stood with the archers.

Boromir’s glance followed up there too; understanding that Dwalin was not looking at a comrade or friend at this moment, but to his King, the rightful heir to Durin’s throne. Ever since he had come to Moria he had begun to understand some of the dwarves’s story, their losses and their long war against the orcs and found he admired and respected them all the more for it. If he truly had been given the gift to share their dream, it was a good dream to share, a proud and noble one. He looked back to the dwarf beside him as the song on the walls died down. “Do you have a dwarven battle song to greet them?” he asked.

Dwalin pushed away from the wall, when his deep voice rang out over the walls the other dwarves soon joined in.

Tairag azir nid guryet…

From the fire of a dragon

And from the shadow of the deeps

Rose a warrior, a man with an axe

On the day we marched

Into Azanulbizar.

Chapter Text

Orthanc was silent at night, the halls eerily empty and devoid of any living presence. Saruman was long accustomed to the silence of his tower, even now that the wood creatures and Horse Lords were rallying outside the silence of his halls was not disturbed. Earlier this very day his staff had been broken by his onetime friend and now adversary Gandalf. The wizard had refused to be broken like his black staff, and thusly had been swift enough to prevent his ill-used servant Grima from throwing the Palantír from the tower. In fact, Saruman had thrown Grimá down there instead; he had no use for the traitor anymore, nor any liking for slimy fellow.

Now, in the silence Saruman contemplated his next moves. Gandalf would not leave; he could not afford to leave an enemy behind, especially not one like the former white wizard. This was a battle of wills that Saruman had to prepare for, broken his staff might be but his powers were not yet lost. A lot of Gandalf’s hope rested upon Gondor, her holding out against the darkness, was a pinnacle to his plans. Coolly Saruman smiled. What a foolish thing to place one’s hope into the hands of prideful, weak-willed men.

The former white wizard rose and approached the stone table with the Palantír; the stone glowed darkly in the nightly chamber. It was beyond this orb to grant him power for the confrontation with Gandalf that was yet to come, nor could the orb give him the answers he sought… but beyond the eye and all pacts and failings it would give him revenge.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

Boromir was beyond exhausted, he hardly registered that his body was pained and that he had not slept in days. It was the ninth day since the enemy had begun to send their hordes against Osgiliath. The ruined Citadel of the Stars held out, breaking legions of the attackers like a rock would break the waves on the shore, but at a high price. They had paid in blood for any day they held Osgiliath, but every day they had held out so far allowed the preparations of Minas Tirith to continue and the freshly mustered troops to get to the city. Still, Boromir knew that they could not last much longer. The armies marching from the mountains were too numerous to hold off with this garrison or this citadel of ruins.

At dawn they had a breather from the constant attacks, the enemy commander was most likely considering his strategies, because whatever price the defenders had paid, they had wreaked considerable damage, maybe even disproportionate damage, on the enemy troops. “Faramir,” The Captain of Gondor knew that the Ranger Captain was just as exhausted. “At dawn you will take most of the troops and lead them back to Minas Tirith.”

“And you?” Faramir asked, his jaw setting firmly, he would not leave Boromir to make some noble, stupid and entirely useless last stand here.

“I will remain with some of our men and some of the dwarves to keep the enemy busy and off your backs. We will begin our own retreat by nightfall at the latest. You have until then to gain some ground.” Boromir told him.

“What do our allies think of this plan?” The Ranger asked quietly, the dwarves followed Boromir’s lead without any problems, they took their example from Kili luckily, but Faramir knew that the dwarven Prince would voice his opinions on strategies in private when he felt it necessary.

“Kili already told me that the plan is nine kinds of crazy, in fact he nearly accused me of being a woodland elf.” Boromir’s face lit in a grim smile. “But Dwalin agrees on the strategy.”

“And you like that?” Faramir asked dryly.

“I respect two centuries of warfare and experience, little brother. We’ll keep the hardest, toughest fighters here to give the enemy hell, you get our men and wounded back to the city. I trust you; I know you will get them there in one piece.” He meant every word of it; he knew if Faramir could not bring these people back to the white city, no one could.

                                               .                                              .                                              .

It was a grey spring day that the guard of Minas Tirith watched the retreating troops from Osgiliath cross the Pelennor to reach the city. The first columns of marching troops had been spotted by mid-morning and a messenger had been dispatched to inform the Lord Steward. But Denethor had been nowhere to be found until late noon, when he emerged from the Tower of Kings. He had angrily sent the guard away, telling him to report to the Captain of the Tower guard to have the gate well manned when the retreating troops came in. No one dared to tell the Steward that Thoroniâr, the Captain of the Tower guard had been informed the moment the marching column had first been spotted during the morning. Nevertheless Beregond hastened back to the main gate, where he knew he’d find the Captain of the Tower Guard.

He found Thoroniâr standing above the main gate with two others, watching as the troops came closer. Dark clouds had settled above the horizon and Beregond felt a sudden chill when his gaze fell out on the Pelennor. Something vile was in the wind and for a moment he thought he heard fell voices in the air.

“Beregond!” His Captain’s voice snapped him out of it. “Any word from the Steward?”

If Thoroniâr heard the voices too, he did not show it. “Captain, the Lord Steward commands that you man the gate to prevent any enemy troops from breaking through with our men. He had no further orders for you.” Beregond reported, trying to not sound confused. Why the Lord Steward was not here to handle the situation himself was beyond him.

Captain Thoroniâr shrugged. “Thank you, Beregond. Send for another squad of archers, we’ll need them once we open the gates.”

Quickly Beregond saw to this order taken care of, he understood what Thoroniâr was saying, they might need to keep something that travelled with the winds from attacking the gate. It was at the fourth afternoon hour that the troops arrived, many of them marched on foot, the horses had been used for the wounded as had most of the wagons.

Beregond frowned, that column was too long to just be the Osgiliath garrison. He knew how many men Lord Faramir had had in the place. And even with some reinforcements… the number made no sense. Captain Thoroniâr had of course seen it too. “Second company secures the outer ward, archers at the ready!” His clear voice rang out over the wall. “Open the gate!” He too hurried down, be it to greet their troops or to fight if this proved to be an elaborate trick to breach the gates. Beregond followed him down; it was well known in the Tower Guard that Thoroniâr had been Lord Boromir’s choice to replace Targon when the old man retired from duty. And anyone who had ever served under the Captain of Gondor knew that he most approved of those leaders who’d lead at the front, always there where danger was worst, much like the Lord Captain himself.

The huge gate opened, the great valves moving slowly. It took several men on each side to open the gate. Thoroniâr stood with the second company in the ward behind the gateway, the place was narrow, made to bottle up enemies when the gate itself was breached. Still, the Captain was tense; he had seen the greater numbers out there and did expect danger. His fears seemed well founded when both wings of the gate swung open far enough to reveal several soldiers and several smaller figures that were definitely not men. “Archers!” Thoroniâr bellowed.

“Hold your fire!” The firm and commanding voice of Lord Faramir countermanded the order at nearly the same moment. He was among the first of the column, like many others he was on foot, leading his horse that carried a wounded man.

Thoroniâr bit his lip, silently weighing the situation. There were definitely foreign troops with Lord Faramir, he did not know if they were small Orcs or Varigians from the east, but they did not belong here. Had Faramir been captured and forced to do this? The Captain of the Tower guard did not even dare to think it; Lord Faramir would never betray the White City. Trust in the Ranger General and his duty to keep the city protected warred inside Thoroniâr, if he wanted to prevent an invasion, he had to bottle this up in the gateway before it could break into ward behind him.

Faramir handed the reins of his horse to one of the other soldiers and approached the Captain of the Tower Guard alone. He well understood what the man was thinking. “I do not bring enemies into this city, Thoroniâr,” he said firmly, holding the man’s gaze until the proud Captain averted his eyes. “these are allies my brother brought with him from the North.”

Thoroniâr’s eyes were still down on the ground, when he slowly nodded and acknowledged the words. “As you say, my Lord Faramir.” He looked up, not at the Ranger but to the walls. “Archers, stand down, second company, help the wounded, dispatch runners to the healers!”

The gate swing open fully and the troops began to pour in. “Shall we dispatch riders to aid the rear guard, my Lord?” Thoroniâr inquired, he could well guess that Lord Boromir would be with those who covered the retreat from Osgiliath.

“The Captain of Gondor explicitly forbade it,” Faramir informed him. “he will bring the last stragglers back himself but does not want any troops of the city at risk for it.” He turned and waved one of smaller figures over. “Bofur, your people will be garrisoned in the undercity for the time being. I take it that Prince Kili and Dwalin are still out there?”

Surprised Thoroniâr studied the man who had just joined them. He stood a bit above four feet and wore heavy armor; the weapon he carried was reminiscent of a heavy mining pick, one side a pick the other side hammer. “Of course they are, they’ll be where the fun is and where they can make a good dent into the Orcs again.” Was the humorous response, the accent was unfamiliar to the leader of the Tower Guard.

“Thoroniâr, have some men from third company lead Bofur and his people to the Undercity, they’ll make camp there. Sent their wounded to the houses of healing with ours, but respect their wishes in that regard.” Faramir ordered and the Tower Guard was quick to obey.

“The Undercity, my Lord?” Thoroniâr asked once things were under way. “I will admit that every other garrison is full with all the troops from the provinces but can troops really be housed in that dank hole? We could move some of the provisions down there and gain room in the old storage holds…”

“They are dwarves, Thoroniâr,” The Ranger arched an eyebrow like he was surprised that the leader of the Tower Guard had not worked that out by himself. “They will love the Undercity more than any above ground housing we may find for them.”

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

The afternoon hours crept by slowly, painfully dredging along. Faramir had remained with Thoroniâr on the walls above the main gate, refusing any of the Captain’s attempts to send him to the healers or to rest. The sun was already setting in the west, when he saw them, a small group of fighters making their way across the fields, pursued by the enemy. They were horseback which was why they had progressed father than the marching column. From the dark clouds Faramir saw a shadow dive down at them, he shuddered, knowing what they were facing. “Captain, man the gate,” The Ranger ordered. “Archers, get ready to pick off any pursuers. Have fire ready for your arrows.” He too gestured one of the runners to bring him fresh bundles of arrows for his bow; Faramir had used up all he had during the day long battle at Osgiliath.

Darkness spread over the skies as the riders got close to the city, many times they forced to turn and fight off pursuers, even as only the most daring of the dark armies had the courage to follow them within sight of the city’s walls. They had nearly made it into the shadow of the mighty battlements when a fell beast dove down on them again. Faramir’s heart clenched, he could well imagine that the group down there had long run out of arrows to defend against the creatures. He saw his brother turn his panicked mount and use the axe against the beast’s claws. The creature fluttered up and closer to the wall. Fear, icy, dark fear washed over the rampart like a wave. Beside him Faramir saw soldiers pale and archers freeze. He stared into the encroaching darkness, as he lit up his arrow, he would not let his brothers fall, to no darkness or fell horror of the east. Spanning his bow to the fullest he fired the arrow, not at the creature but at the rider. The burning arrow hit the rider unawares and shrill shriek that froze the very blood of any who heard echoed over the walls. The winged wraith rose up into the skies and flew off, back to the east. “Open the gate,” Faramir heard Thoroniâr’s voice, he looked down and saw that the last group had reached the gate, killing the last Easterlings that truly had come within reach of the walls. Most of their pursuers were already retreating.

The Ranger hurried down the stairs of the wall, relieved to see his brother alive, the group that had left behind in Osgiliath had been decimated, but those who were still standing had survived even under the wings of the shadow.

“So you have returned, my son.” The familiar voice made both brothers snap around. Denethor, Steward of Gondor stood at the other side of the ward, how long he had been there was not to be guessed. “Long have I waited for this day.”

Stepping forward Boromir greeted his father, guardedly. “The enemy is on the march, father. We had to give up Osgiliath and it will not be long before they reach these walls.”

Denethor’s eyes pierced his son’s gaze. “And you did not bring anything from the North that would avail us? Except those… allies?” He offhandedly gestured to the dwarves that had come in with the last group.

“There was nothing of what you hoped for,” Boromir said firmly, trying to not even think of his father’s wishes regarding Isildur’s bane. “and allies is what we need to win this war.” He looked over to the gate, with a glance asking his brother and Kili to join them. The rest of the soldiers retreated somewhat.

Faramir and Kili had followed Boromir’s wish and stepped towards the stairs leading out of the ward. “Father,” Faramir knew why Boromir had asked him to join. “this is Prince Kili, son of Dis daughter of Thrain, of Durin’s house…”

The Steward’s cold eyes looked at the dwarf. “Not much of a house that lives as wandering bladesmiths and has to abide by the whim of every Lord of the Land,” he said coldly. “I remember your face, dwarf, my father deemed it wise to tolerate those who could make decent weapons in this land, and so did I in the past. And in these days Gondor has fallen so low she can’t be choosy with her allies.” With one angry turn the Steward walked off, leaving all three of them standing.

“Forgive my father, Kili, he did not mean his words as harshly…” Boromir tried to constrain his anger at the old Steward, he knew his father had expected something else, something that could not be and must not be. To his relief his saw Kili shrug.

“Do not worry yourself, Boromir, I understand him. He is a proud man and having to ally with those who came to this country as wandering workers more often than not, cannot be easy for him.” In truth Kili cared little what regard the steward had for them or not, he had long learned that the friendship of a fellow traveler on the road was worth more than the grudging regard of many a lord.

                                               .                                              .                                              .

The Undercity proved the near ideal dwarven barracks, build in the time of the old kings it was a sprawling labyrinth of underground halls, floors, stairs and chambers. What use it had been meant to was hard to guess now, as it had been falling into disuse and disrepair for a thousand years. Kili found that the main force had already set camp here and small lanterns were lighting the hallways. Bofur greeted him with a grin. “I hear you already saw the Steward, charming fellow that one.”

Kili put a hand on Bofur’s arm. “He is the leader of these people, and we can’t afford squabbles amongst ourselves, so no quips and jeers at him, old friend.”

“Aye, but he’s lucky to have such a son, or this city would already pay taxes to Barad-Dûr,” Bofur said dryly. “I’ll see to the others, you look like you are ready to drop. Grab a few hours’ sleep, trouble fill find us soon enough.”

He was right enough, Kili felt like he had just fallen asleep, sitting beside one of the pillars upholding the ceiling, when he was shaken awake by Dwalin. “Lord Faramir wants you,” the dwarven warrior grumbled. “must be important, it’s in the dead of night.”

Kili could see the Ranger a few steps away and got to his feet. “I’ll be back after dawn, Dwalin.” He said, grabbing his weapons and following Faramir up the stairs that led out of the Undercity. “Nightmares again” he asked softly as they strode up towards the citadel.

“Worse than ever,” Faramir responded softly. “it seems to get worse with exhaustion. Kili… what did happen to him?”

“Not here,” the dwarf whispered, his eyes indicating the nightly streets patrolled by the Tower Guard. They walked briskly and reached the citadel after only a short time.

Faramir led Kili through several empty hallways and towards the tower were the brother’s quarters were. Boromir’s exhausted sleep was troubled, the tall man shaking in the throes of a nightmare, whispering words none of them could understand. Faramir could tell that Kili was as worried as the Ranger himself was. “Kili, something is haunting my brother, only once did he speak of it and in words I dare not believe,” he said softly. “of all people you are the only one who may know what befell him on his journey. He spoke of darkness, dishonor…” Faramir did not dare to even repeat the words his brother had spoken as they had left Henneth Annun.

The dwarven warrior looked at the sleeping man, then back at his brother, compassion clearly written in his dark eyes. “Faramir, your brother did nothing dishonorable on his journey, even as he holds himself responsible for things that he thought and dreamed. He was touched by the darkest and foulest magic I have ever seen, a curse so dark and powerful… nothing compares. But he fought it, no matter how hard it became, he fought, he refused to do the enemy’s work. And he conquered it; he did not betray his comrades nor the quest he had agreed to protect. He did it all alone, holding the darkness at bay, even if the price was to break his own soul. I have never seen a stronger or braver man, Faramir,” The dwarf sighed. “But I fear that the price for resisting the curse is extracted from him through the torment you see.”

 “The quest… the errant of utmost secrecy Frodo spoke of,” Faramir said, suddenly the pieces falling together, as he remembered the words from his dream. “The Halfling… and Isildur’s Bane.” Impulsively the Ranger knelt down beside the sleeping form of his brother, reaching for his shoulder. He could hardly imagine what his brother had been confronted with, a power so ancient and vile. How did Boromir find the strength to fight like this; to fight the war every waking hour and fight a losing battle for his own soul during the dark reaches of the night? He noticed that Boromir began to still, his breath slowing, the mighty frame calming. Kili stood close, leaning against the wall, he had begun humming a tune Faramir had heard before, a haunting and beautiful song full of sadness, loss and a grim determination. When the Ranger looked up, Kili softly added the words in the common tongue:

The pines were roaring on the height,

The winds were moaning in the night.

The fire was red, it flaming spread;

The trees like torches blazed with light.

The bells were ringing in the dale

And men looked up with faces pale;

The dragon’s ire more fierce than fire

Laid low their towers and houses frail.

The mountain smoked beneath the moon;

The dwarves they heard the tramp of doom.

They fled their hall to dying fall

Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.

Far over the misty mountains grim

To dungeons deep and caverns dim…

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

High up in the tower of Kings Denethor sat with the Palantir between his hands, his brow furrowed as he watched the seeing stone unfold the secret he had pondered so long. He sneered when the dwarf masked his treachery by noble words, not believing any of this blather. Boromir had not decided by himself to forgo the prize that was Isildur’s bane, he had been tricked into letting it slip past him, Denethor was sure of that. Angrily he watched as the dwarf lightly touched Boromir’s forehead pretending to drive away the nightmares. Jealous hate rose inside the Steward. Was Faramir so useless, so blind, to not recognize the significance of this gesture? No, he did not see, he was blinded like a fool.

“So this is the truth at last,” he grumbled as he saw what happened in the tower opposite of his own seat. “not only did you steal my son’s love for me, his loyalty, you bewitched him. You enchanted him to serve you. But you cannot hide it from me, dwarf-spawn.”

The colours inside the seeing stone swirled as they pulled Denethor forward, making him see things he did not wish to see. The white city once again ruled by a King of Isildur’s accursed house, Boromir stepping back from the office of a Steward while Faramir the weak willed fool swore fealty to the new King and became Steward instead. Denethor wanted to pull away in disgust but the stone would not allow it, forcing him to watch how Boromir left the white city to join another quest leading him back to the mountains of the North. His son… his wonderful son… in a hall deep under the Mountains swearing his loyalty to…

“Noooo….” Denethor screamed and forced himself free of the Palantír. Breathing raggedly the Steward struggled to rein in his temper. “I shall not let this foul bewitchment stand, now that I know what you did, dwarf.” He said to the empty room a plan forming in his mind.

In the hours before dawn Denethor left the Tower of Kings and called the Captain of the Tower Guard to him. Thoroniâr arrived swiftly, bowing low before his Lord. Denethor studied the man, he had been Boromir’s choice for replacing Targon, the Steward himself had wanted an older candidate. But now that he studied the tall warrior, with the black hair and grey eyes heralding his ancestry, he was glad he had given in to Boromir’s wish. For Thoroniâr was devoted and loyal to the Captain of Gondor and would do all that was necessary to free the man who trusted him so highly. “Walk with me,” Denethor ordered, as he went towards the old courtyard before the Palace. “I have a mission to entrust to you, one that Lord Boromir’s life will depend upon. Fail and the consequences for my son will be dire, for he is in grave danger.”

He could see the warrior tense, his shoulders betraying that he was expecting to be pointed at his target right away. “You will assemble a force of loyal men,” Denethor continued speaking. “only the most loyal and devoted, who can be trusted to never speak of what they will see. With those you will wait on the stairs that lead out of the Eastern citadel tower. When the dwarf that calls himself Kili son of Dis leaves my son’s rooms you will apprehend him at once.”

The Steward stopped and forced the Captain to look at him. “Neither you nor any of your men will ever speak of this again, do I make myself clear? I will never hear a whisper of it, and if you hear such whispers you will strike down the one who uttered them with you own hand. Boromir’s life… and honor, depend on it.” He could clearly see the Captain thought he understood, even as he did not.

“Are we to kill the dwarf, Mylord?” Thoroniâr asked coldly.

“No.” Denethor shook his head. “this is not your task, I need him alive and you will deliver him thusly. You will deliver the dwarf to the ancient dungeons under this very tower and leave judgment to me.” He waved his hand, dismissing the soldier.

The Captain saluted him. “As you wish, it shall be done, Mylord.” He turned and strode off to take care of the task given to him.

Denethor smiled coldly, Boromir’s choice in the man had been well. Of course it had to be, all of Boromir’s choices had been well before he fell afoul of that dwarf creature. The Steward returned to the Tower of Kings, until he heard that the task was done he would use his newfound power to find out all the secrets of his new adversary.

Chapter Text

"By all the signs, Captain Shagrat, I'd say there's a large warrior loose, Elf most likely, with an elf-sword anyway, and an axe as well maybe: and he's loose on your bounds, too, and you've never spotted him. Very funny indeed."

Anarion lay on the ledge above the arguing Orcs, hiding a grin. “They’ll be busy arguing for another few hours at the least,” he whispered to Sam who was beside him. “You go on, take Frodo and get out of here.” They were past the passes over the mountains, on the eastern side of the Ered Lithui.

“But your injury, we can’t leave you behind.” Sam argued, his eyes pointing to the blood soaked bandage on Anarion’s leg. “You can barely stand, let alone run.”

“That’s why you have to go on without me,” Anarion said firmly. “I’ll make sure that they have more reason to argue amongst themselves for a while, distract them while you slip away. I wish I could bring you further, wherever you have to go.” He saw Sam open his mouth and forestalled a response at once. “Don’t tell me. A secret I don’t know they can’t get from me.”

The stout Hobbit accepted that with a curt nod. He was a pragmatist, Anarion had learned during their dangerous way across the mountains, contrary to his companion Frodo, who had crept up to them. “Will you be alright, Anarion?” he asked. “You will get back to your people, will you?”

The young Ranger had a hard time to keep his features still. In his heart Anarion knew that he was too deep inside enemy territory to hope for escape, least of all with that wounded leg. He’d be lucky if he lasted the next one or two days. But he forced himself to smile reassuringly. “Of course, once I know you have a good headstart I’ll make my way back to Ithilien.” The Hobbit’s blue eyes seemed to pierce him, and he could see that Frodo did not believe him.

Anarion watched the two halflings sneak down the slopes of the dark mountains. He hated himself for getting injured, for not being able to help them further. The Captain had trusted him to do this but there was no other option now. The young Ranger took his bow and arrows, forcing himself up to his feet. He’d give them a great warrior to hunt for.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

Denethor descended the stairs of the Tower of Kings by midmorning, having received Thoroniâr’s report that the dwarf was secured in the dungeons. “Have Hirgon send to Dol Amroth with a message…” he began, seeing the Tower Captain’s frown he stopped.

“But , you send Hirgon to Rohan with the Red Arrow a week ago,” Thoroniâr reminded him.

The Steward frowned, had he indeed done so? He recalled that Boromir had been very insistent on this and he had given in, eventually. He’d deal with Rohan when they came here, if they came at all. “Very well then, Captain. Send a message to Imrahil of Dol Amroth that I may have need of him soon. And…” he eyed the Captain coolly. “you will make sure no one disturbs me. If someone of import needs to speak to me, you will carry the message yourself, none other will come down to the dungeons. Is that understood?”

He needn’t have been that forceful, the Captain bowed deeply. “As you wish, it shall be done.”

Denethor waited for him to vanish from the courtyard before he reentered the tower to walk down to the dungeons beneath it. In ancient times those dungeons must have served a different purpose, or maybe they had been reserved for traitors. The Steward did not know for sure, he had only found out about their existence by accident. At that time he had doubted he’d ever have need of them. Back then he had never believed many things, he had never believed that any of Isildur’s diluted blood would threaten to return, nor that his Eldest Son would become enthralled by vile magic.

The dungeon was not very large, it had no need to be. The guards had secured the dwarf with the chains hanging from the ceiling. There were some small traces that told Denethor of a struggle. “Resisting the Tower Guard carrying out a lawful order of their Lord can get you executed in these lands, at least as a stranger that is.” He observed. “Or did you forget?”

Kili shifted his weight, trying to release the strain on his arms. “How could I? Your people are very fond of making that clear.” He responded coldly.

“A greater crime it is to use bewitchment on the person of the Steward or his family… the punishment for such a crime is not spelled out in the law but it is supposed to go beyond the mere penalties for murder or treason.” Denethor pointed out, using the torch to light the tripods in the room, the flames rising slowly, illuminating his captive.

“Every man can die only once,” Kili told him. “whether he is guilty or not.”

“It is the manner of dying that makes the difference,” Denethor walked around the captive. “tell me, how did you ensnare my son into your spells? How did you make him forget his loyalty to me?”

The dwarven warrior looked at him incredulously. “Your son is the most loyal man there is, he’d never turn on Gondor.”

“Is that so?” Denethor asked dangerously low. “Why then do you claim his loyalty?” He stopped to face the captive, grey eyes meeting black. “You will tell me how to break the spell on him, son of Dari, and then you will die.”

“If Mahal has measured the time of any dwarf’s passing he’ll guide him to the right place,” Kili’s face had become a stoic façade, giving nothing away. He was not sure what was going on here, but he was determined to not give ground.

Denethor could see the steely façade snap into place, it was something that inevitably happened with all captive warriors; they’d go into defense, hide their feelings and tried to use this armor of courage to get through what lay ahead of them. The trick was to crack the armor, to find the weak spots that they could not protect and the seeing stone had given Denethor many things that would work. “You were not quite as… brash… when the Goblin King had you,” he observed softly “and this wasn’t even the first time was it? Only the first others saw. What a weak impression you must have made against the… what did he name it?... the bonebreaker?”

There was no reply; the dwarf did not deign to answer at all.

The Steward slowly removed the glove he was wearing, what he was going to do now he had seen in the Palantír and while he knew that the seeing stones could not lie, he was not sure if he had understood the knowledge passed to him rightly. “Pain is a patient teacher, Kili, the only teacher that has all the time in the world.” With his bare hand he touched the dwarf’s broad chest, and his body convulsed in searing pain, even as he bit back a scream. Denethor smiled, feeling the power surge through him. He would free his son. “The bone-breaker,” he said softly. “I never seem to quite remember that entire story…”

He approached the dwarf again. "I was told that they used knives to carve into your skin, here," the old man's hand touched the dwarf's shoulderblades, a searing pain mingling with the memory of what had been done then. "of course they did lash you, they always do, don't they. I never can quite understand why." Denethor circled him again. "and then they brought the bonebreaker... not a hammer, but a saw. A vile rusty saw to sever your bones in the shoulder," he touched the place where the scar ran across Kili's strong shoulder. "And as you screamed your agony into the dark, your Uncle watched... your King left you to suffer alone."

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

“Three marching columns all crossing the Pelennor at different angles,” Faramir’s hand pointed out the directions on the map. He stood with Boromir and Veryan, their father had not deigned to join them and Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth had send word he would eventually attend but was delayed. “at that pace we will be under siege in less than two days. The populace has fled to the city already.”

“Have all people moved out of the lowest ring,” Boromir said. “we will need it as a battle ground when they get over the wall. We will make the best use of the time we still have. I will talk to our dwarfs, they can help us block and bar the gates.”

The door opened at that moment and Imrahil of Dol Amroth joined them. “I apologize for my delay,” he said courtly. “but Hirluin of Morthrond and Lisuar of Lossarnach were both rather insistent I hear their complaints. They feel that the muster of their lands was conducted… rather harshly.” His glance went from Boromir to his son, standing with the Steward’s sons.

Veryan did not speak, only an arched eyebrow asked his father if this really was the time to discuss disgruntled nobles and their complaints.

“It needed done and they were drawing things out needlessly, Imrahil,” Boromir told the Prince. “I did expect them to see by now what we are facing.”

“I reminded them of that too,” Prince Imrahil replied calmly. “yet… there is another matter. It is very commendable that you found Gondor new allies on your journey north, Boromir. I would call it praiseworthy, especially as they are willing to commit troops to our cause…”

“But?” Boromir asked, frowning.

“Only the Steward may make such decisions without hearing the Lords of the Provinces,” Imrahil pointed out. “and they were not heard nor has your father yet confirmed his acceptance of this alliance.”

“We are at war, Imrahil,” Boromir spoke impatiently now. “if the Lords of the Land wish to negotiate for a few years, they are welcome to do this… the next time. I am not going to turn away valuable allies.”

“I think the Prince here is only relaying the complaints of others,” Faramir observed sharply. “I would guess all the White Mountains provinces will have been speaking to him.”

Now the surprise was with Imrahil. “What makes you assume that, Faramir?” he inquired. “I did not mention names nor provinces.”

“Simply because they are the only ones likely to have any trade relations to the other dwarf kingdom up at Mt. Erebor,” Faramir told him.

“… and thusly will be loath to see the man from whom their trade partner stole the throne here.” Boromir caught on what Faramir was saying. “When will they see that we will have Orc Legions before these very walls in less than two days and an army of Easterlings on top of that? Mordor is ready to overrun us all and they worry about their petty trade rights.”

“Alienating them is not going to help, Boromir,” Imrahil pointed out. “but I also doubt that their view on matters among the dwarves is quite correct either. Maybe the leader of your allies would be willing to confirm that?”

“I was expecting Prince Kili and Dwalin here shortly,” Boromir replied, hearing heavier steps approach the door. When it swung open only Dwalin walked in, bowing shortly. “Is Prince Kili with you?” The Captain of Gondor asked him at once.

The dwarf frowned. “No. I have not seen him since last night when your brother came for him. I believed he was still with you.”

“He left the citadel before first light,” Faramir was instantly alert. “if he never came back to the Undercity….”

“Then someone saw to that.” Frustrated Boromir made a first, not quite bringing it down on the table. “and one of our lovely noble snakes might be behind it.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Imrahil reminded him. “he might have simply missed his meeting with Warmaster Dwalin.”

“No, he wouldn’t have,” Faramir said. “Something is wrong here.” It was the worst possible moment for such a thing to happen, for strife to break out in their own ranks; the enemy’s work beyond doubt.

“Veryan, see to the preparations,” Boromir did not waste any time. “if someone complains too loudly, deal with them, I trust you there. Send word to me if necessary, I have a few ideas where to begin asking questions in the meantime.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Inflicting pain through his touch was straining, Denethor had to admit and the dwarf was strong, not to mention stubborn. The Steward knew that the pain would have had other men howling on their knees but until now he had only heard growls and he was tiring. This was not a battle of brute force, he reminded himself, but of wits and knowledge. “You must think you are resisting me,” he said casually, walking towards the braziers. “that you are stronger than the pain. Maybe you still are… but there are things you can’t withstand. Why don’t you tell me how to break the spell on my son and I shall spare you further torment.”

“I cannot give you, what you deny yourself,” Kili’s answer was ragged, his voice strained. While the touch of the hand had left no visible marks on his body, every muscle and bone inside him burned in searing pain that lingered even after the hand was removed.

“What do you mean by that?” Denethor stepped closer, his flickering gaze trying to hold the dwarf’s. “I do not deny anything.”

“You deny yourself your son’s love through your own deeds, your demands,” Kili tried to steady his voice. “the love of a father is beyond demands, beyond expectations… you deny yourself the love of your sons for you have consigned yourself to only love them in a form you have thought up for them.”

“Liar!” Denethor snapped. “I foresee my son’s path to destiny, and I shall free him of your manipulations.”

“Boromir choses his own path, neither manipulated nor pushed by you.”

The Steward shook his head, the dwarf thought he could confuse him with riddles; he would have to break him to get any truth from that creature. He turned and looked at him. “We all have things we fear,” he observed. “things we hide so others don’t see that we are afraid. I had not expected a dwarf’s fear to be hot metal…”

He reached for a thong lying on the side of a brazier. “But then… few have been branded like cattle by the Goblins of the North.”

His words had immediate effect on the dwarf, all the colour drained from his face and for the first time his dark eyes betrayed fear.

“I have been given to understand that those Goblins brand their prisoners on the back, to simply tell them apart…” Denethor spoke slowly, deliberately now. “How crude… how unsophisticated, their kind hardly knows anything but the coarsest things.” He walked closer to his captive. “The back is at least discreet, is it? Easy to hide such a mark along with the scars the lash left there… Kili, slave of the Orcs.”

“Why don’t you try their hospitality to be sure?” The dwarf spat at him, temper and stubborn pride overruling fear for the moment.

Denethor did not react to the words, instead he circled his prey, grabbing Kili’s wrist. “They say the hands are very important among your kind. How you can do delicate works with these paws is beyond me.” He studied Kili’s strong, calloused hand, sniffing disdainfully. “Hardly the hand of a king, a paw like any stonebreaker will sport. Still…” He took the thong and removed a heated iron, an ancient steel seal of the city from the brazier. “lets see how you face this, dwarf.” He pressed the glowing stamp right into the dwarf’s hand. And this time Kili screamed.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

“Nothing,” Faramir reported to his brother. “none of the nobles has been up to anything it seems.” It was later afternoon and their search had turned up a lot of things, a few conspiracies but certainly not their friend. By now the Ranger was honestly worried, if the enemy could strike like that, right in their middle, no one was safe.

“He has to be still inside the city,” Boromir mused. “the gates are guarded too well.” They strode up towards the citadel again. Boromir quickly approached Thoroniâr of the Tower Guard. “any news on your search?” he asked.

“No, my Captain. No one seems to have seen the dwarf.” Thoroniâr replied evenly, but Boromir spotted unease in his face, the man would not meet his eyes.

“Do you have any clues? A hint?” He pushed, wondering what he might have overlooked.

“No. There is nothing else. Mayhap he will be found during the night.” The Captain of the Tower Guard turned to hastily return to his duties, but Boromir caught his shoulder and spun him around.

“I have known you for twenty years, Thoroniâr,” he said fiercely. “and I have never known you to turn your back on me like this. You know something, don’t deny it. Speak!”

The proud Captain of the Tower Guard averted his eyes, looking down. “I cannot, my Lord.” He said in a low voice.

“Cannot?” Boromir’s frown deepened. “I command you to speak.”

Now Thoroniâr looked up, grim determination etched in his face. “Then I beg your forgiveness for not obeying, my Captain, but I cannot.”

For a long moment Boromir simply studied the man’s grey eyes. He knew his men, he knew his troops, their leaders were familiar, only thus he had been able to lead them well… and he could read many things in the man before him; fear, worry, and deep regret to having to oppose him, among them. Whatever the other man knew Thoroniâr bore it like a burden. “Thoroniâr,” Boromir relented a little, seeing the man was struggling. “there is only one other who could have ordered your silence. But why would he? Why is it you do not trust me anymore?”

“It is not mistrust, my Lord,” Thoroniâr’s eyes went past Boromir, trying to evade his gaze.

“It is distrust, Thoron, no matter how you phrase it.” Boromir forced the man to look at him, he knew the man was strong and stubborn, and he had no time to deal with that now. “You have a simple choice here, Captain,” he said coldly. “if my father forbade you to speak, you will have to choose, between him and me. Will you be loyal to him, or are you still loyal to me?”

“Boromir!” It was the first time Faramir interceded. “you cannot make him chose like this. He can’t choose between his Lord and his Captain.”

“I can, Lord Faramir,” Thoroniâr said slowly, like a heavy load was falling on him. “I must.” He faced Boromir, grey eyes searching Boromir’s glance, like there was an answer written there. Eventually he spoke. “The Lord Denethor ordered me to apprehend the dwarf named Kili when he left the citadel and bring him to the dungeon under the Tower of Kings. He still is there… as is your father.”

“Why?” Faramir could not believe it.

“That can wait for later,” Boromir said firmly. “you made the right choice, Thoroniâr… the hard choice, but the right one.” He hesitated for a moment. “I will need your sword.”

Thoroniâr drew the blade, handing it to Boromir hilt first. “It was always yours to command.” He meant those words, even as his grey eyes were deeply troubled.

Wordlessly Boromir took the blade and went to the gate of the Tower of Kings. Only Faramir followed him, whatever would come now, it was for them alone to face. For a moment Thoroniâr watched them leave, shame and fear warring inside him, he then straightened up. He had made his choice and he’d stand by it, he followed Boromir to the tower.

                                               .                                              .                                              .

A scream rang from the walls of the tower, a hollow hoarse howl of agony. Kili’s voice was raw from the screams, from the pain. The glowing seals were burning into his hands and Denethor’s vile touch send even worse through his entire body. “You will tell me how you enchanted my son, and how to break your bane on him.” The Steward demanded. “And you will beg for my forgiveness before I permit your death.”

“If I ever were to do this, it was me whom I could not forgive,” Kili’s voice was rough; the words came out in gasps.

Horrified Boromir watched his father casually inflicting pain on his friend, with a cold cruelty that he had never believed him capable of. “Enough!” he bellowed, storming down the last flight of stairs, sword in hand. “you will end this!”

The old man turned around, his face falling. “My son…” he whispered. “he stole you from me… he stole your love, your loyalty.” With one fluent move the Steward drew his own sword, advancing towards his son. “I will not allow him to corrupt you.”

Boromir parried the attacks with practiced ease, while his father was a solid swordsman he lacked the years of war that had shaped his son. “Kili saved my life, father,” he said, trying to reason with the old man. His heart was bleeding, because he could neither deny his love for his father nor the horror of seeing him turned into such a vile man. “Without him I would not have lived to come home.”

“Lies, he is lying to you…” Denethor attacked again. “he will confess once he properly broken… he was an Orc slave once, his will weak.”

Anger welled up in Boromir, his counterattacks smashing the sword from the old Steward’s hand, he raised his blade to Denethor’s throat, the tip touching skin. “You have become a monster,” inside him the anger and the whispers of his dreams welled up. “you are nothing but a pathetic fool…”

“Boromir!” Kili shouted, pushing beyond the horrible pain. “You will not kill him.” The sentence came out with all the authority Kili could give it. “Nothing he did here is worth patricide. Nothing he did here is worth that you become a murderer for it. You will not kill him!”

Denethor sneered at the dwarven Prince, in this one moment he could see the Prince in Exile clearly, and he hated him all the more. “There are many ways to prevent your plans, dwarf,” he spat. “other than breaking you.” In his hand appeared a dagger, but instead of defending himself he threw it, his aim only slightly off, the blade burying deep into Faramir’s chest.

The Ranger fell to the ground, felled by his own father’s stroke. Denethor’s eyes widened, like in shock when he saw his son on the ground, blood pooling beneath his body. “Faramir…” For only one merciless moment the Steward saw his youngest son through sane eyes, seeing him down on the ground, looking up at him. “Father…” the one word was all it took.

“I will not be made a servant…” Denethor grabbed the sword directed at his body and plunged into it, impaling himself on Boromir’s blade.

The sword slipped from Boromir’s hand, as the Steward’s body hit the ground, but the Captain of Gondor did not care, he hurried to Faramir, who was bleeding strongly. He could tell that the dagger had missed heart, but the wound was deep and dangerous. Removing the blade, he pressed his cloak against the wound to stem the heavy bleeding. Very gently Boromir cradled his younger brother against his chest. That their own father would not stop short of killing him was beyond any nightmare the ring had ever inflicted on the proud Gondorian.

Steps on the stairs made him look up; Thoroniâr had followed them after all coming hurrying down the flight of stairs. Boromir raised his chin, pointing the man towards the captive, the Captain of the Tower guard understood without words and walked past him to release the bindings that still chained Kili. The dwarf’s knees buckled, but for the grip of the other man he’d have fallen. But Boromir hardly noticed what was happening, not with Faramir’s blood streaming from the wound and his breaths becoming slower and slower.

Chapter Text

Kili leaned on the soldier’s arm, trying to keep at his feet, he flung away the glowing seals, but his hands burned with the pain of the brands, as did any muscle in his tortured body. Across the room he saw Boromir hold his brother, blood forming a dark stain on the floor. Biting his lip the dwarf forced himself to stand on his own, ignoring the fierce pain. All that must be endured can be endured. He nearly could hear Dwalin’s gruff voice, like he had so many years ago during their escape from Goblin Town. Without the mighty warrior Kili would have never managed to keep up, nor would he have recovered from that ordeal. What must be endured, can be endured. All pains can be borne. It is our decision to break or stand. If Thorin had taught Kili to be a leader, Dwalin had taught him to be a warrior. Another slow breath and he found that he could face living again and his feet would carry him through another day.

Hurrying over to the brothers he knelt down beside them. Faramir was still bleeding, the short moment Boromir lifted the cloak pressed into the wound, told Kili enough. “It must have grazed the lung,” he whispered, Denethor’s last strike had been an effective one, destroying his own son. Whatever had driven him to do all he had done, this was the cruelest of it all: to murder his own son in hate and rage.

Boromir did not speak, he simple held his brother, trying to comfort him best that he could. Kili looked up to Thoroniâr. “Where did you bring my sword after you brought me here?” he asked.

The Captain of the Tower Guard looked at him shocked. “Your anger may be justified, dwarf, but this is not the time for revenge, or for even thinking of putting a man out of his misery.”

Forcing himself to stand, Kili faced the towering guardsman. “This is not about revenge, you stubborn mule,” he growled. “there might be a way to save Faramir yet, but to do so I need that sword. If you love your Lord you’ll get it quickly.”

A kind of understanding dawned in Thoroniâr’s eyes; for Denethor in all his orders had accused the weapon to be bespelled. Maybe it was just differently. He sprinted up the stairs and towards the guard armory where he had left the captive’s weapons. Halfway there he was intercepted by Veryan of Dol Amroth. “Thoroniâr, finally I find you, no can tell me where Lord Denethor or his sons are... a fourth marching column has appeared at the outer fields and a decision needs to be made.”

The Guard Captain sighed, the war was upon them and the enemy had not been needed to wreak havoc inside their own camp. He also knew that the truth of Denethor’s deeds must never come to light; it would forever tarnish his noble sons’ reputations. “Veryan,” Thoroniâr straightened up, meeting his friend’s eyes. “the Lord Denethor went to personally interrogate a spy, a traitor, we caught earlier this day. Unfortunately… the man managed to free himself. He killed the Lord Steward and severely injured Lord Faramir…”

Veryan’s eyes widened horrified. “By the Light, how bad is it?”

“We don’t know if he’ll live… it looks bad. His brother is with him.” Thoroniâr said. They both knew that if word reached Boromir of the situation out there, he’d go and do his duty even if it broke his heart to do so. “You are Boromir’s second in command, you deal with whatever the enemy forays into this land are. I’ll get word to you once there is news of Faramir.”

He did not need to say any word beyond that, Veryan understood. He turned and quickly made his way back to the walls.

Down in the dungeon Boromir had managed to slow the bleeding at least a little, but Faramir was barely conscious. “We need to keep him warm and awake,” Kili said softly. “it won’t work when he is passed out. There is something about being able to accept the gift in that spell.”

“I can’t ask you to do this, Kili.” Boromir’s voice was pained. “you said it could not be done twice, and look what it did to you the first time already.”

“I said I was told that no one dared to use it twice,” Kili corrected him gently. “and it did nothing bad. A few years matter little if you have a dwarven lifespan. Not that any lifespan might be longer than the next few days, all things considered.”

Before Boromir could answer hurried steps became audible on the stairs. Thoroniâr returned and Dwalin followed him. The dwarf had heard the conversation of the two Gondorians in the courtyard and had not let himself be send away. When he saw Kili he wanted to speak, but a quick Iglishmek gesture, only a few movements of fingers asked him to be silent for now.

Thoroniâr handed the dragon sword to Kili. “How… how can this blade help to save Lord Faramir?” he asked, hoping the dwarf had been truthful.

“It holds a powerful spell that may heal him yet,” Kili explained, gritting his teeth as he took the sword. His injured hands burning in fresh pained as they touched the dragon tooth hilt.

“It is what you tried for Balin…” Dwalin whispered. “it did not work then…”

Sadly Kili looked to his old friend. “Balin was too far gone, Dwalin… and for some reason the spell rebounded, I sometimes wondered if he was too old.” It had pained him deeply that he had been unable to save the great old dwarf. “But Faramir is young and strong, he is not as far gone either. His spirit has yet to cross the Neverseas.”

“Kili… what if it kills you this time?” Boromir wished with all his heart he could save his brother, but not at the price of another life. “Faramir said it was a sacrificial spell and it took a toll on you the last time.”

Stubbornly Kili met his eyes. “Boromir, this spell was never quite meant for mortals, it was invented by some High Elves during the First Age, if all that the one who taught me the spell said is true, they were among the greatest in their magic, war-like, fierce and the closest thing of being cast from to the light as any elf could be. To them the toll was on their souls, and while it is different for mortals I doubt it will kill me this time. It is Faramir’s only chance now.”

"This time?! You mean, you've used it before?" Dwalin all but shouted, forgetting Kili's request to remain silent for the moment.

The younger dwarf sighed, looking at him. "I did use it once, old friend, and it worked. I will not claim that it is not hard to work, but it can be done."

“Could another do it?” Thoroniâr asked, he did not understand all the details, but it did sound much like one life had to be given to save another life. If so he’d gladly lay down his life to save Faramir instead.

“No. You would have to know how to call the spell from the dragon’s tooth, not to mention that the words are in ancient Quenya, you’d never be able to pronounce them right. And if it shaves off ten years of your life, you will be an old warrior.”

“I will do it.” Boromir said firmly. “he is my brother, Kili and I let things get so far… it has to be me.”

It has to be me… the words made Kili shiver, an icy hand touching his heart. He had heard those words before.

Kili was standing with his back to a bloody rock; nothing distinguished this rock from the thousand others on the fields of Dale. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds, in his hand his blade, black with Orc blood. Corpses lay around him everywhere, Orcs, Dwarves, men and Elves that death had reaped with the same merciless stroke of his sword, ending all their differences and conflicts in the cold slumber from which there was no return. When Thorin had charged at Azog, rallying what was left of the failing armies, the brothers had been by his side, cutting their way through the Orc host, shielding him the best they could, he had been able to draw off most of Azog’s damned guard, while Thorin and Fili charged onwards. Kili pushed away from the rock and stormed uphill where the fight was still in full rage. He saw Azog come about and swing his mace, it was aimed for Thorin but Fili was between his Uncle and the deadly attack, the mace flung him high into the air, his body crashing down only steps away from Kili. Kneeling down beside his brother, Kili tried to bite back a sob at seeing his mangled body. Fili reached for his hand, squeezing it. “Had to be me… I’m the Eldest…” he coughed, his body convulsing painfully. “Fate gave mother two sons… one would never have made it…” blood stained his lips. “go, Kili… save Thorin, protect our King…”

The memory was painful but Kili understood now. Boromir had to do this, he was the big brother, he could not do any less. Much like Fili had been there for Kili for as long as he had lived. “We’ll do it together,” he offered. “between us we should be strong enough.”

“Agreed,” Boromir could feel Faramir slipping away from them, he was barely hanging onto his consciousness. They placed the dragon hilt between his hands, the white polished material seemed aglow with warmth. The Boromir put his hand on the hilt; Kili placed his atop, ignoring the burning wound in his palm.  “Speak with me…” he said softly.

Do not speak of hope forlorn

though night may cloud your eyes,

From darkness rises a new morn'

and so the darkness dies.

Don't fear the long dark night ahead,

when dusk begins to rise,

you fought, you stood and you have bled,

and so the darkness dies.

Raise your eyes towards the stars

before the darkness flies,

they call you home from all the wars

and so the darkness dies.

Blue runes began to shine on the sword hilt, enveloping the blade and the three men in an eerie light, like cold flames running through them. Pure agony ripped through Boromir, as the flames touched him, it was not induced by them, but by something deeper, reaching inside him and draining on his very essence. In these unearthly moments he could feel the pain shared by his brother and by Kili, their presences with him so strongly, like they were linked by a mithril chain. Then the emptiness came, a vast blackness swallowing them up, but they still were together even as there was nothing but blackness stretching around them, a place that held nothing but sleep. And there in the darkness he saw him, not as the old man or fearsome wraith men so often would paint him as – the man who stood there was a warrior, a guardian to all those who crossed into this darkness. His glance at Boromir lasted only the fraction of a second but longer than the Gondorian’s entire life. A great calm spread through him, for all his life he had been told that the gift of mortality was a bitter one, now he knew they were wrong. This warrior was no dread horror, no cruel end, it was by his mercy that men would be permitted to leave their pains and burdens behind and come home.

The moment ended as quickly as it had begun, still in the emptiness he saw Kili, the dwarf’s figure touched by the light of a roaring fire, a forge. He reached out for something, inside this place and just in that moment Boromir could see another dwarf, a young dwarf, with blond hair and beard stand there, their hands touching.

Tossed back into the confines of their bodies, Boromir heard a sharp crack. The dragon sword shattered, the blade cracking into pieces as the dragon’s tooth was consumed by the blue fire. Nothing remained aside of a few broken pieces of the blade. Faramir blinked and sat up, the wound in his chest entirely gone.

Shocked and awed Kili stared at his hands, where the searing wounds had been the skin had healed and instead of a branded seal something else had appeared inside them – the wings of a raven, one each, shone in deep black inside his palms.

                                               .                                              .                                              .

When Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth approached the outer battlements he was surprised to find Veryan in charge of things. The younger man was striding along the upper battlements, speaking to two dwarven warriors while they went. “We can’t bar the gate entirely, Bofur, much as I’d like to bury it behind all the earth and rocks we can find, we’ll need it if we have to risk another foray into the field. The city does not have another gate to permit riders in and hope is still that Rohan will honor their vows.” He pointed down to the walls of the outer ward. “That means we have to bottle them up in here. Have your people place your fires along ever section of the battlements, Orcs dislike scalding water as much we do…”   He turned to the man with him, continuing with orders for the armory.

Imrahil did not approach him but silently watched. Years ago when he had permitted his youngest to be raised here, in Minas Tirith, in the house of his recently widowed  brother in law, he had done so out of compassion and out of respect for his late sister Findulas. She had wished for her sons to have friends, something the prideful Steward often had prevented. But he had tolerated Veryan, who with his dark hair and proud bearing was an image of his aunt. While Veryan’s rise in Gondor’s armies was a source of pride for the family, it also was a source of contention. Raised in this city, raised close to the war springing up at the borders, Veryan had become a warrior, a youth who had too early followed the Steward’s Eldest into the fight. He had all the skill and deadly abilities of a Swan Knight, but none of their gentleness, or appreciation for things other than war. And he held most of Gondor’s nobility in firm disdain, siding with Boromir on most matters. The glance he had shot his father during their meeting earlier in the day had been enough to remind Imrahil of this.

The Prince of Dol Amroth had four sons, one already dead and buried near ruined Osgiliath, two Swan Knights, both deployed here now and Veryan. All his sons served Gondor, all of his sons had been sent into battle to protect her, and in moments like these the Prince felt that burden all the heavier.

Veryan had seen him and came down to the ward. “What brings you down here, father?” he asked in a hushed voice, he had not expected to see Imrahil.

“I heard some grumbling from Hirluin of Morthron and… shouldn’t Boromir be in charge here?” He asked frowning.

“You haven’t heard yet…”  Veryan sighed. “Father, Lord Denethor was slain by a traitor a few hours ago, Lord Faramir was injured in the same fight. At least Boromir made short work of whoever the treacherous bastard was. Thoroniâr got word out to me…”

“Denethor… dead?” Imrahil could hardly comprehend what he heard. “Murdered you say?”

“Yes, Thoroniâr apprehended a traitor some time during the night, but he got loose again and killed the Steward.” Veryan’s eyes went to the gate, the walls and the field beyond. “Boromir is now Steward of Gondor – or he will be once this war is over.”

“But where is he?”  Imrahil could see the implications arise almost immediately. Of course it had been clear that Boromir would be Steward one day, though most of the noble council agreed he’d not make a good Steward by any length; too much of a warrior, too little of a Lord. But now in the midst of war coming to Gondor, with the darkness unleashed, he might be the one Steward to see them through this.

“He is at the citadel,” Veryan sounded impatient now. “listen… the enemy won’t be doing much except setting camp this night… I doubt they are ready to act come morning. We have Rangers out there creating chaos among the Orc units and once night falls we’ll burn the oil that’s been deposited in every trench and cranny during our retreat. The brothers… they will have only this one night to mourn their father… and I intend to give them this one night. If war has its season, so has grief.”

It was a rare display of compassion Imrahil saw in his son and he silently agreed. The council and the noble houses had to be informed too, but he could do that himself. Tomorrow he would send several men to Rath Dínen, an honor guard for the departed Steward. There would be no time for ceremonies. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Veryan call out to Thoroniâr of the Tower Guard, the Captain joined them along with the dwarven warmaster Dwalin. “Any news?” Veryan asked.

“Good news,” Thoroniâr said, he actually smiled, something that happened rarely. “Faramir was healed; he will be permitted to stay with us. But… it took much out of all of them.”

“Then we’ll take care of the city till morning,” Veryan said. “Beregond has done good work in your place, Thoroniâr. Dwalin…”

“I see you are preparing for the siege already,” the old dwarf looked about. “we’ll need water, and more cover. These are Orcs, they’ll bring catapults.”

Imrahil stepped back, leaving them to their tasks. Shaken that he was by the news of Denethor’s departure, he felt more worry even for the present.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

It had taken the three friends a long time to even move away from the dungeon, much as they wanted to get some distance between themselves and the body of the Steward, neither of them could. Faramir did not show the terrible exhaustion Boromir had felt after being healed, but what he had experienced had been as intense and profound as all the other two had. What was spoken between the three warriors in these hours no one would ever know, it was only for them to share, and neither one of them would share it with others. Finally they had left the dungeon, allowing the guards to carry Denethor’s body to Rath Dínen, while they ascended the stairs of the tower.

Both brothers felt strongly that they had to find the answer why their father had spent so much time in this of all places and what had driven him to perform such vile acts in the end. They had asked Kili to come with them, for he had witnessed Denethor’s very end, maybe the only one to understand what his sons must feel now. When they entered the hall atop the tower they found the softly glowing orb sitting on the table, bright light shining from the stone. “What is this?” Boromir asked in a hush.

“A Palantír, a far-seeing stone,” Faramir said reverently. “it is said that the Kings of old had several in their possession, bringing them back from Numenór whence it sank. Those stones were supposed to be artifacts of an Elder Age.”

“Said to be made by Feanor himself,” Kili added, the spellsmith had heard the legends of these stones along with the other great legends of the elven smiths. “their power was feared and revered.”

“Should Denethor,” Faramir could not bring himself to say ‘father’, “have tried to use this stone? The gift of far sight is terrible enough without wishing for more of it.”

“Not far sight,” Boromir replied grimly. “Jealousy, in his search for the power of the ancient kings… in his wish to prove as superior as they were, he tried his hand on something too terrible and too great.” He closed his eyes; a part of him understood well the temptation, the wish for power and the willful defiance of wisdom. Ever since Boromir had seen himself in the visions of the ring he knew he too bore the same weakness, the same pride. And while he hated his father for raising his hand against Faramir, while he was unable to mourn Denethor’s passing, he understood how the old man had come to this place, how pride and despair, and anger at one man, Thorongil, had driven him there. It was a bitter thing to be considered second as a matter of course to some stranger, to a man who had hardly cared for Gondor’s struggles but who would be seen as superior to them without question. But while Boromir understood these feelings he had conquered them in Amon Hen, when he had chosen to save the King’s life.

“We must let him go, Fari,” the Captain said softly. “we need to let him pass. I shall never forget his end, but I will not to be ruled by it. He chose to take this road… and I will not walk beside his shadow.” Straightening up, Boromir turned to his brother, finding an astonished and proud expression on Faramir’s face. “We’ll go from here together, brother.”

Faramir reached for Boromir’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort, silently confirming that they’d stand together. Often had he seen the terrible pride of their father in his brother, and now he felt all but awed to see him stronger than that, conquering what others would have called his greatest flaw. Kili had retreated to the door, leaning against the stone frame and watched them, his heart glad that they both had passed through this darkness; both brothers lived, as it should be. There was a fond smile in his dark eyes.

“What shall we do about the stone?” Boromir asked eventually, the night was moving on and they had little time to see that things were set into a semblance of order.

His brother looked around and found a silken garment that must have been used to cover the Palantír. He took it and put it on the stone, when his hand touched the cool orb even through the sheer barrier of cloth he felt a touch, his world swimming, spinning out of control.

Faramir stood in a watery valley, trees were moving about. He looked up to the skies, seeing the tower. Orthanc… this must be Orthanc. But how?

“You cannot leave him to his schemes, Gandalf,” he voice made Faramir spin around. Two men were standing at the water’s edge. One Gandalf the Grey, one a man Faramir did not know but still did instantly recognize. There was a pale light surrounding him, which left no doubt who he must be.  Isildur’s heir, the King of Gondor. “Saruman is planning evil still and fear for all those his hate will devour,” the man spoke on. “you are the only one who can confront him.”

Gandalf’s eyes became very serious. “If I do so, you will have to go on alone, Aragorn, and Mordor is unleashing all its might against the white city. Deprived of their Captain, ill prepared and without hope, I fear for them. Theoden will ride with all his men, but it won’t be enough to break the siege that will enclose Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn raised his chin. “You always spoke of the strength of men, of the hope you were placing in us, old friend.” He reminded the wizard. “I too have doubted the strength of men, felt there was none, neither in them or me… until the day that a man who had no love and little respect for me, fought a fierce stand to save my life. The way he fought and the way he must have died were testament to all that the world of men can be. I will not leave his people, my people to their fate, but neither will I leave others to suffer from Saruman’s revenge.”

Awed Faramir watched this exchange, he did not know of whom the King spoke, but every word of his was hope.

“Faramir!” The voice seemed to echo from far away. “He’s coming around, Boromir, his eyes are clearing,” another, deeper voice added. The Ranger blinked, he found himself sitting on a stone chair, his brother and Kili beside him. He rubbed his forehead, still dizzy from the experience. “The stone… it showed me something.”

“It did? But you barely touched it?” Boromir looked at the table, where the silk covered the Palantír, he did not like the thing any better than before.

“Yes. It showed me hope.” Faramir said. “Boromir… Isildur’s heir, the King, he is on the way here, with the Army of the Rohirrim. If we hold out long enough…”

“So he made it out of Amon Hen,” Boromir said. “That is good news; and if he brings Rohan’s armies, even better. We will hold out until he arrives.” There was no bitterness in his voice, he did not have to make himself say this, and he meant it. Aragorn was hope for Gondor, and Gondor was need of hope. And whatever the Captain might be thinking of the man, he was glad that the King would give Gondor that hope.

“We should leave here,” Faramir rose from the seat. “tis an eerie place, and knowing our father walked it makes it only darker still.”

The three of them walked down the long flight of stairs and down into the courtyard, night had fallen and an icy wind blew from the east. When Kili bade the brothers a good night, intending to go to the armory to find another weapon, Boromir held him back. “Wait.” He said. His glance went between the three; his own sword broken at Amon Hen, Faramir’s shattered in Osgiliath and Kili’s dragon sword broken by the spell that had saved them. From afar, from years back to the past Boromir remembered something. “Get some torches and come with me.”

The part of the citadel they now entered was equally as dusty as the tower of Kings, only that the lower levels had been used for storage. “Where are we going,” Faramir asked, raising the torch to see something in the narrow spiral staircase they were climbing. He could not recall ever having been in this part of the citadel and he had loved exploring when he was younger.

“It is something grandfather showed me the summer before he died,” Boromir explained while they walked. “I was only 7 at the time.” He had not thought of all this in long years but somewhere deep in his heart he remembered the drowsy august afternoon that his grandfather had taken him for a walk through the citadel. “He showed me a place here and he said, that one day, on a day so dark that it seemed hope itself had left this city, I should remember. When my family and closest friend would be without blades to defend and wounded from terrible treachery.”

He stopped in front of a simple door, dust had settled on the hinges and the ground before it. In long years no one had ever come up here. Boromir placed his torch into the stone holder beside the door. “I can’t think of a darker day than this,” he said. “and… all he said came terribly true.” He still fondly remembered the old man, his grandfather, and in his heart he knew that Ecthelion had maybe known that such a day like this would arise.

Unlocking the ancient mechanism of the door he pushed it wide open, the hinges creaked loudly, rust falling down in small flakes. The chamber behind was not large, a typical small tower room. Kili and Faramir placed their torches into the holders inside, their light falling on a single, simple table standing in the middle of the room. It was an ancient table probably discarded from some more fancy room and relegated here to storage. On it rested three swords, three different blades glittering in the flickering torchlight. The middle one was longest, a heavy sword for a strong fighter, the steel blade darkened to almost black, only the silver runes in it reflecting the light. To the right lay a lighter one handed sword, a typical ranger blade, shining in bright silver, the blade to the left was more fanciful in form, shorter but curved like some of the elven swords Boromir had seen in Rivendell, the steel had been matted to a dark grey, and the engraving gave the blade a faint reminiscence of a wing. He did not know how Ecthelion could have known that they would stand here, one day or how long these swords had been resting here. Even back then, when Boromir had been a child the place had been dusty. But now that they stood here, there was little doubt for who which blade was meant.

Carefully Boromir took up the black sword; it fit his hand as if it had been made for him. He whirled it around his hand, a few trial strokes of an experienced swordsman to test out the blade’s balance, it was perfect. There was little doubt a true master had made it. Holding it closer to the torch, Boromir could see the runes glittering silvery on the blade, but he was unable to decipher them. “Is this dwarven writing?” he asked, turning the blade so Kili could see the runes.

The dwarven warrior’s eyes quickly traced the writing. “It is,” he confirmed. “those are Khuzdul runes.”

“What do they say?” Boromir had noticed that all three blades had such engravings.

Kili read them again, searching for words to express what stood written there. “Till hope dies and life is gone, till dawn fails and light burns out, on the last day to carry hope into the eye of the Shadow.” He translated the band of runes.

The words touched Boromir deeply, he could not tell how a blacksmith from who knew how long ago had known to engrave these words on the sword, or why his grandfather had chosen to hide those swords here, but they fit. Dear light, they fit, they were the blessing and the vow he’d carry into the battles to come. “What does yours say, Faramir?” he asked, knowing his brother might even riddle out the inscription on his own.

“It seems to be written in verse,” Faramir said, still focused on the runes. “I can’t make much sense of it.” He showed it to Kili who shook his head.

“It’s an old dwarven dialect from Moria,” he explained. “even among dwarves it’s rarely spoken. It uses runes not in the sense of letters, but of entire words and meanings packed into one rune. Writing verses and riddles in these was a tradition among the artisans of Moria.”

The smith that made me,

called upon Mahal

fanning the flame

of the forge's fire.

The smith that made me

Made me to save my man

From any face of death.

I obey no greed,

No rank, not for reward,

But for loyalty.

The strength I carry

will be a beacon

to all who would follow

and a burning brand

to the enemy.

And I shall break

upon the hand

which is not faithful.

He translated the runes, sometimes hesitating, searching for the right words to express all that the blacksmith had put into them.

Gently Faramir traced the runes on the blade with his hand. Loyalty, faith… it was a good blessing on the blade and a good demand on it either. Looking at it closer he found the mark of the blacksmith on the guard of the sword, the small sign barely noticeable but it was there. It was one he had seen before. “Strange,” Faramir spoke up. “grandfather must have had these made when he was young, it is the same blacksmith’s mark on this one as was on your old sword brother.”

Turning the black blade Boromir checked his, finding the familiar mark, as well. He saw that Kili must have found it too, the dwarf tracing it gently with his calloused hand and Boromir remembered something Kili had said the very night they had met. “You said that my sword had been made by one of your kin,” he said. “so were these… weren’t they?”

“Yes,” Kili looked up at him. “they were made by the same man. His name was Thorin, Thorin Oakenshield.” He had known Thorin had worked in the villages and cities of men; he had come with him through Gondor himself when he had been young. And he had known Thorin had made the sword Boromir wore, but to find these three blades, weapons clearly made by his Uncle’s hand and with all the skill and care the great blacksmith had possessed, left Kili’s throat tight.

Awed Boromir looked at the black blade, during their journey he had heard many things about Thorin, and to know that it had been the great dwarven king who had forged these blades was elevating. “What does your blade say?” he asked, having noticed that Kili had not given a translation for the inscription yet.

Kili turned the blade so they could see the writing embedded in the engraving. “Guide me Raven’s Wing, I shall follow you home.”

It seemed humble a blessing beside the other two, but Boromir understood. For the house of the man who had made those swords, for the man who now wielded it, home was not the Ered Luin, not even the fabled Erebor, but Moria. Dwarrowdelf. The blessing on this sword spoke of nothing short of returning to the fabled dwarven Kingdom of old.

He saw Kili look down on his hand where the black wings of the raven marked both his palms and then back to the words written on the blade. What destiny, what hope… and what legacy had been handed down with this blade?

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

Early dawn found the three warriors standing side by side atop the lower city gate. During the night the Orc armies had all but encircled the city. Soon the storm would begin. None of the three spoke, they did not need to. They would hold out as long as was necessary.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Through the edge of night

The battle was raging. Like never before the tides of war were drowning Minas Tirith, and the enemy unleashed myriads of Orcs and beasts against the mightiest fortress of men. The people of Minas Tirith had long known this day would come and they had been prepared, but no one could have prepared them for the horrors lying in store for them. The storm had begun by first light sending wave after wave of orcs against the walls. Catapults had been used to throw fire and stones into the city, and they were used to terrible effect. But the main assault was still the ceaseless storm of the Orcs against the walls of the White City. What they lacked in skill they made up with sheer numbers, simply intending to wear down the defenders until exhaustion would break them.

It was a foreseeable strategy and Boromir had expected that. Four times during the first three days of the siege it had been his strategies that had forced the enemy to break off the attack and bought the defenders precious time to recover, each time the risk had been more daring, especially the new destruction of several catapults during a night foray into the enemy ranks. Boromir still led every foray they had send out, he always was there where the fighting was worst, the most dangerous enemies awaited, he could trust Veryan and Thoroniâr to keep the other parts of the fight under control. Back to back with his brother Faramir and his dwarven friend, he had become a beacon of hope, an example that kept the defenders from despairing.

On the fourth day they had been forced to give up the lower wall of the seven ringed city, with the gate broken and two severe breaches in the walls it was not feasible to hold that ring much longer. During the hours of dawn Boromir had risked a direct raid on the enemy Captain – or the Easterling who led the first wave, to distract the enemy while his men retreated to the second wall. It had worked well enough; the men of Gondor had set their own lower city ablaze, making it even harder for the Orcs to take possession of the smoldering ruins. It had bought them nearly a full day’s relief; the Orcs could not storm the second wall while the first wall still burned.

The fight for the second wall was even harder; the enemy now had to storm the much higher, steeper battlements but did so with even more ferocity. After two days of unsuccessfully running against the second wall, the enemy drew the Orcs back. Boromir had at once known that now came the true trial – the Haradrim and Easterling Elite was send to do what the Orcs for all their numbers failed to do. And with the Easterlings came the winged beasts, deploying troops right on the wall, tossing casks of fire into the city. The Rangers and every archer the city could muster was fighting a constant battle to keep the beasts off the city, but at least a dozen was shot down above the walls with their deadly loads still in their claws.

The main Haradrim advance had been accompanied by trolls and other creatures that were slow but deathly when close. For two more days they had been fighting a brutal and daring battle to hold out, but then the second wall was in a worse state than the first. On the ruins of the smashed Gate of the Morning Boromir fought a savage duel against Tamadhur the Haradrim leader, slaying the man after a bloody hour-long fight. The fall of their King left the Haradrim in just enough disarray for Gondor to retreat to the third wall. The third wall was the steepest of the city and shorter than the lower ones, which allowed for fewer defenders to cover more ground.

It was in the light of the new day that they saw the enemy armies receive reinforcements and for the first time in days they felt the familiar shadow sweep over the city, as several winged wraiths circled high above. Leaning against the high battlements Boromir looked up counting five of them. Five of those fell foes and most likely their leader was with them: the Witch King of Angmar, the most fell of all the enemy’s commanders.

“It had to happen sooner or later,” Kili too had watched the Wraiths flight over the city. “eventually they always break their worst creatures out.”

Boromir was glad for the dwarf’s steadfast courage. “Tell me again that there is always hope.” He said grimly.

“Hope does not die,” Kili said, eyes still out on the skies that had not seen a dawn in days. “not as long as we fight, not as long as we remember that it takes only one candle to drive back the night.”

“Well said,” Faramir had returned from the upper armory with fresh arrows and a waterskin for them. “but we will need a bonfire to break this night.”

In that very moment the sound of a horn echoed from the sides of dark Mindolluin, a sound to rip through the darkness over the fields of Pelennor.

“Rohan,” Faramir’s eyes searched the heights that the riders must appear soon. “they have come at last.” The hope alone gave the Ranger new strength.

Boromir looked the other way down to the field where the enemy was regrouping. “And they will be smashed by the core of their army!” he said grimly, seeing the Easterlings were already having the Orc legions form a shield wall. “Without us their charge is going to fail.”

“What do we need to do?” Faramir asked, seeing his brother was already forming a plan. It was so like Boromir to see the situation at once and to act on it while hopes or despair still distracted every other man.

“Trap them between hammer and anvil,” The Captain told him. “have all horses and riders ready here fast. We will crush them between two fronts.” It was a daring thing to do and would seriously expose the city. Not to mention that they would have to force their path down the old causeway.

Leaving Faramir to take care of that, Boromir strode to the next bastion along the wall. “Dwalin, gather all your dwarves and gather at the gate, we will need your help to force our way through the causeway. After that… you need to hold the gate for us. This will expose the entire city.”

The old warmaster leaned on his hammer, well understanding what was asked of him. “Maybe we should drive them out of the city while we are at it; force their attention on several problems. They don’t have many competent commanders in the field.” He suggested.

It was a daring move and a desperate one too, but if it drew some forces from the main battle it could work. “That will be for you and Thoroniâr to do.” Boromir decided swiftly. This would make or break the fate of this city, but Rohan’s arrival was all they could hope for. This was the day that would decide the fate of all Gondor.

The riders were assembling behind the gate, Boromir gestured Faramir, Kili and Veryan to the head with him. It would take their strength and will to see this through, to lead the men right under the wings of the shadow. It seemed so long ago that he had chastised Kili for charging at a Nazgul at Amon Sûl. Now they would need every bit of this courage.

High on the outer hills of the Pelennor the army of Rohan appeard, 6000 riders, the entire army of the Rohirrim had arrived. Down the hill they charged at the very heart of the enemy forces, no fear of dark or doom holding them back and with them came the morning.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

From two sides the final attack on the shield wall had begun, trapping the Witch King’s very army in between two equally strong and determined forces, yet the battle had only just begun. This army, led by the Lord of the Nazgul himself stood where lesser armies would have fled and a cruel battle soon raged on the fields. The Witch King deployed the Easterlings led by the fiercest field commander against the Gondorian troops while he himself turned against the Rohirrim. It was the worst, darkest battle. The Witch King killed King Theoden of Rohan along with many of his men, but then he was confronted by the one person he had not expected on this field – Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan.

On any other day, in any other battle, the fall of such a fell foe would have been enough to turn the tides, but not here. The Witch King’s death shriek was still ringing out into pale day rising, that the enemy was already reacting. Where his Lord had fallen and the Nazgul fled, the Easterling leader took over and he was not yet at the end of his wits or resources. He swiftly broke the smashed center into two separate attack wings, one flanking the Rohirrim, one attacking the Gondorian fighters, from across the field he called his reserves, especially the Mumakil, to smash the armies of the west on the very walls of their beloved city.

Boromir saw what the enemy was doing and he could put a name and a face to the Easterling leader. Shakurán, one of the bravest, toughest bastards the other side had, the last time they had clashed it had been in Osgiliath, the Easterling leading the attack on the river. And they could not let him do this, or they’d lose the battle. Raising his blade to signal the troops he rallied the remaining fighters behind him. Their charge at the Easterlings was a mad, desperate attack, a fight like none ever before. Both sides were throwing all they had into the battle, the Easterlings trying to prevent Gondor from breaking through their ranks, Boromir and his fighters unrelenting in their charge. It was Boromir that fought and killed Shakurán on the hills under the old ramparts.

A howl went through the ranks of the enemy host. The Rohirrim had charged the Mumakil, cutting their way through them, the Easterling leader was dead… and still the Orcs rallied again and came against them like a black flood. Exhausted Boromir tried to close the ranks of his faltering army. They had fought the hardest battle of their lives, they had managed to destroy the enemy leaders and still… it was not enough, the black flood kept coming and there was not enough strength left to stem it. Grimly Boromir closed ranks with his troop at a burning hilltop before the city. His brother by his side, his friends with him… if this was the way to go, so be it.

And then the ships came. Out of the dusk they sailed like ghostly forms on the far river. Whence they had come no one would dare to guess, but their forms rose like wings from the mists. The Orcs screamed for it was an army, a ghostly, pale army that poured forward from the ships, cutting through the hosts of Orcs like a scythe through the grass. And between the mist and smoke the armies of Gondor saw a banner rise – the banner of the King.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

Aragorn felt relief when he released the traitors from their obligation, calling upon them had been a decision he had not wished to make, much as his choices had been limited. Still, he felt better knowing them gone and at rest. Surveying the battlefield, there was as much relief as pain there to see it. Theoden King had fallen and the Rohirrim army had faced severe losses on the field. And Minas Tirith… the white city had held out better and longer than Aragorn had dared to hope. When Eomer had first said that the scouts had seen Mundburg aflame Aragorn had feared he would be too late to save the city.

Now that he stood here, seeing the scorched lower walls and the battle field before the ramparts he could only admire the fierce determination and iron will the soldiers of Gondor, all the sons of Gondor, had shown in defending their home. Boromir would have been proud to see them. The name of their fallen comrade cast a shadow on Aragorn’s soul, when they had lost Boromir in Amon Hen he had hoped against all hope that he may have been captured along with the Halflings, but neither Merry nor Pippin had seen the faintest trace of the valiant Captain. Whatever his fate had been, his last stand had saved Aragorn’s life. And now that Aragorn saw this battlefield he began to understand that Boromir had been a prime example of his people, of what Gondor’s soldiers were.

With Legolas and Gimli Aragorn made his way towards where the Gondorian Army had smashed the Easterling’s  center on the foothills. Search for injured and recovering of the dead was already underway, men of Gondor and Rohan searching the fields together, calling for healers here and there. Up on the foothill several men, probably Captains, seemed to give report to their leader, whoever now was in command of Gondor’s army. Even at a distance Aragorn could tell it was not Denethor, for the Steward was an old man and the man who stood there with his back to him, was obviously not aged. The Ranger felt a slight twinge when he approached closer. The man up there could not see him, his back was turned towards Aragorn, but whole appearance, beginning with the light hair and stature was very reminiscent of Boromir. Even the stance, which made Aragorn guess the man had his arms crossed in front of his chest was so much like their comrade. This had to be his younger brother then, Faramir. When he came closer still his sharp ears picked up a familiar voice.

“…no time to waste on ceremonies. Once Dwalin’s people have cleared out the Undercity we will put the dead to rest there. It’s that or a pyre, Veryan. The enemy may have turned tail but they were merely taken by surprise. I’ll give them less than two weeks to regroup and be at us again.”

It could not be, Aragorn though, hearing the familiar voice, realizing that the man who had led the defense of the city was the very person he had believed dead since Amon Hen. “Boromir?” Disbelief still warred in Aragorn’s voice, it seemed impossible that Boromir had not only survived but made it home to defend his city.

The Lord Captain turned around, startled by the voice. “Thorongil?!”

He was maybe the only person still to use the name that Aragorn had used so many years ago in Gondor; it was the name under which he had first heard of Isildur’s heir. The Captain’s surprise lasted only a moment, seamlessly he snapped into formal behavior and bowed. “Your coming truly saved the battle, my Lord.”

This moment failed Aragorn for words, he knew Boromir had never been his friend, hardly respected him, they had agreed and disagreed on a good deal of things on their journey and the Gondorian Captain had made his belief that Gondor needed no King very clear. Even his brave actions in Amon Hen Aragorn had attributed to the natural loyalty the warrior had given to each member of the group whether he had liked them or not. The last thing he had expected upon arriving here was Boromir at least formally accepting him and his claim. Stepping up to the man he drew him into an embrace that conveyed all that he felt and could not say. “We believed you dead,” he said. “when we could not find you, we thought you perished.” Pulling back he took in Boromir’s face, there were a few deeper lines speaking of exhaustion and sorrow, of things the man had gone through since they had parted.

Boromir shook his head. “I came close, Aragorn, the Orcs of the Eye already had me. Had it not been for Kili and his timely arrival I’d not be here now.”

“Kili?” Stepping back Aragorn noticed the shorter figure among the warriors of Gondor. It did not take any kind of observation skill to see that both sides were at ease with each other. “He was there too?”

“He was, and he brought several hundred of his people to help defending Gondor.” Boromir said, there was a lot Aragorn would have to know soon.

Aragorn saw the curt nod of the dwarf which was greeting, acknowledgement and answer all rolled into one. He just wanted to reply when another man came striding up the hill. Like many of Gondor’s people he had dark hair and the tall stature that heralded the blood of Numenór. He was about to report to the Lord Captain but Boromir forestalled this with a gesture, pointing the man to stand with the others assembled here. “It was the banner of the King you saw raised on the field today,” Boromir began speaking, his voice clear and firm. “and it was not raised in vain. Before you stands Aragorn, son of Arathorn of the House of Isildur. Heir apparent to the throne of Gondor.”

There was a number of different expressions on the soldier’s faces, Aragorn observed. The man standing to Boromir’s right, who looked remarkably like him, paled, his eyes widening, if from fear or shock Aragorn could not guess. The one to the left, a Swan Knight, if the grimmest of his kind that Aragorn had ever seen, was unconvinced. He did not speak up out of respect for Boromir, but the way he looked aside made it clear that he had doubts. The late arrival, a man with a face that reminded Aragorn of a person long dead and gone, inclined his head slightly in lieu of a bow, respectful if guarded. Finding the right words for them, who had fought all their lives for this city, was something Aragorn needed to reach deep inside his own soul for.

 “When I rode from Rohan,” he began, having stepped up beside Boromir, “I feared for this city. I did not believe it could hold against the Hordes Mordor unleashed, not when Sauron himself was determined to raze her from the ground. This day I am overjoyed to see her in the hands of such capable defenders.” He could tell his words broke the ice, the tension in this ring of battle hardened men.

When he had finished, Boromir introduced either of his companions by name, beginning with his brother Faramir, the Captain of the Rangers, followed by the Swan Knight, Veryan of Dol Amroth and the third, the late arrival, was Thoroniâr of the Tower Guard. The last one’s name startled Aragorn again, he had guessed Faramir was Boromir’s brother before hearing the name, they looked very similar and Veryan had the face of house Dol Amroth but Thoroniâr reminded him of someone else, a person he had not met in years. “Any relation to Erhawn of the Guard?” Aragorn asked, the resemblance was there, more than clearly.

“He was my father, my Lord.”

Boromir knew he should not be surprised, Thorongil had fought with Gondor’s very best to defeat Umbar, and it was likely he remembered Erhawn from those days. He also could tell that the whole question was uncomfortable for Thoroniâr. “Your report, Thoroniâr,” he said, helping the man avoid further conversation.

“The lower city is cleared of enemies as is the Undercity,” Thoroniâr gladly took off for familiar and safe territory. “we are moving the severely injured to the houses of healing, there’s a steady stream coming in of course and all lesser injuries will be sent to the barracks or camps for treatment. Among the wounded is Eowyn of Rohan, my Lord. She is the one who defeated the Witch King, but… there is doubt she’ll last the night.”

“She fought the Nazgul?” Aragorn interjected. “Whatever would she received must be destroying her. Bring me to her quickly!”

On the way to the houses of healing in the upper city rings Aragorn saw the destruction wreaked on Minas Tirith, the lower city rings entirely scorched, burned by the retreating defenders to slow down the Orcs, her walls battered and broken. But the white city stood, by the light, she still stood! “You fought hard to hold out that long,” he observed to Boromir who guided him through the chaos.

“We knew you were coming,” Boromir simply said. “it was a matter of time.”

“Does your father know I am here?” Aragorn wondered why there had been no word about Denethor, Steward of Gondor. He well remembered the cold-hearted, haughty man from days long past and he wondered how he would be received by him.

Boromir shook his head. “Denethor, Steward of Gondor… was killed on the eve of battle,” he said slowly, like every word was a heavy burden. “his passing came before his time.”

What a wealth of horror the brothers must have gone through, Aragorn realized. Their father dying or being killed possibly by the enemy, on the eve of the worst battle the world had seen in an age. He also noticed how Boromir used his father’s name, something he had never done before, the affection that had echoed in his voice when he had spoken of the old man during their journey was gone. Yet Aragorn could neither guess nor divine what had transpired prior to the battle. “I am grieved to hear that,” he could not honestly say he would grieve for Denethor, but he grieved for the pain his passing must give his two sons.

Boromir straightened up, the moment of vulnerability passing and the Captain of Gondor once more snapping into place. “He was not the only one, nor the first. Many more will follow and sleep in their cold graves before this war is over.” He replied grimly, striding up the road faster, to swiftly reach the houses of healing.

                               .                                                              .                                              .

In the same night that Aragorn reached Minas Tirith two wizards faced each other in the tower of Orthanc. They battle had gone for days and was not fought with blades, but with the sheer power of their wills. Saruman’s staff lay broken but the Istari was still a foe not to be underestimated and he knew his opponent well. From the stairs of the tower to the very top of Orthanc their battle went, and it was through will and determination that Gandalf slowly gained ground in their struggle of powers. “You have been deep in the enemy’s council, Saruman, what does he plan?” he demanded, not for the first time.

Saruman laughed at the question, how could Mithrandir be so blind? The power rising in the east was too great to be opposed and the Halfling was all but lost under the shadow. Saruman’s eye had not been able to see him, and he doubted that the little creature had ever reached the dark lands. “The world of men will burn; Gondor is failing, breaking… and with it this world shall perish.” He announced, calling upon his powers for one last time.

“What are his plans?” Gandalf did not let himself be deterred, he knew this foe well, had confronted his lesser form in the dungeons of Dol Guldur, but he needed to know what Sauron’s tactic would be. The Dark Lord had yet to fear the united strength of the free people of Middle-Earth.

The Lord of Orthanc raised both his hands to the skies, flames appearing in them. “He shall burn your hopes…” he whispered as the flames fell upon himself and Gandalf, a horrible storm of fire, consuming Saruman entirely.

Horrified Gandalf watched Saruman’s chose end, he had wished for him to find healing but there was no healing for much despair and treachery. But in Saruman’s last moments he saw a glimpse of the dying wizard’s mind – saw the Palantír and all that Saruman had conveyed to Denethor’s weak mind. “What had you done?”

The was no answer, only wind sweeping away the ashes that remained of the Istari. Gandalf sighed, if Saruman had done what he had seen the Minas Tirith might be beyond saving. He hastened down the stairs of Orthanc where Shadowfax still stood at the edge of the water. “We ride to Minas Tirith,” he said, half to himself, half to the loyal horse. “Show me the meaning of haste, old friend.”

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High upon the passes of the Ered Lithui the night knew no rest nor silence, while the main armies had perished on the Pelennor, legions had escaped and retreated, the Haradrim and Easterlings had made it across the river, Tarkhan, son of the fallen King of Harad had taken command after Shakurán had been killed. The retreating troops had reached Minas Morgul and quickly taken over any orc garrison and barracks to be found. In the chaos of the lost battle, disputes between the orc troops and the Haradrim rose all too quickly and there were too few Easterlings left to handle these before they spread.

Deep in the tower dungeon the captive heard the noises and the Orcs arguing with the Haradrim taking over the tower.  He could not see what was happening, not since the orcs had forced him to face the searing blade for their own sport, but the Ranger’s ears told him all he could not see. There was fighting in the tower, and chaos. Pulling himself up from his knees at the metal grid that confined him, Anarion drew the attention of the orc warder, the only orc still down here. “What you think you're doing, soldier-boy?” the Orc sneared, coming closer. “Snaga and the others will have some sport with you when they have done away with that Southron rabble.”

The Ranger leaned on the rusty metal bars, resting one wrist in a gap. “Do they? Looks more like your stinky friends are getting their skins tanned.” His voice was hoarse, the screams had left it raw but he cared little.

“Think this is going to help you, soldier-boy?” The Orc came closer, Anarion could hear him and smell him. He waited with icy cold until he could tell the Orc was right in front of the bars. In the complete darkness surrounding him now, he needed to hear the Orc’s breath to tell where his throat would be, but then his hand shot up, and grabbed the Orc by the throat. The warden choked, struggling against the iron grip, trying to break free but Anarion did not let go until he heard the breath of the warden still and felt him go limp. Drawing the body close to the bars, he squatted down, carefully searching the dead orc. Only his hands could see for him now, but he could tell the forms of the armor, found the belt, where the sword and the keys hung. Carefully he retrieved the iron key, exhaling slightly.

He needed to search for the door and the lock, again his hands guiding him through the total darkness. He took much longer than he would have had he still been able to see, but he knew that his eyes were gone, the hot blade had passed so close to them that it had left him blind. And he could count himself lucky that they had not simply squeezed his eyes out, an infected injury would have killed or weakened him beyond all that they had done anyway.

The lock clicked softly as he turned the key and Anarion pushed it open, using his hand against the bars and then the wall to find his way. As he stood there, in the open gate of his cell, surrounded by darkness, the enormity of his plan hit him like a hammer. How was he to even think of escaping when he could not see? When he could not fight? Until now he had not allowed himself to think back on all that had been done to him, he had focused on what lay ahead, on escape. Now, in the moment of doubt it all came back, Orc hands... the pain, the fear, the degradation…

“No,” Anarion whispered, taking a step forward, always one hand on the wall to find his way in the dark. “I won’t give up until I’m dead.” He remembered the Orcs always coming in from the left side, so he went that way, the wall guiding him, providing a vague sense of direction. When he reached the stairs he could hear nothing, no voices, no fighting, only silence. Cold air came from above, pebbling against his skin under the ragged clothes. Slowly Anarion began to ascend the stairs, his body aching with every step; he did not allow himself to think of it, focusing totally on the task at hand. Atop the flight of stairs something caught his foot he stumbled nearly fell.

Kneeling down he traced his hands over it, feeling cloth and metal, the form of limbs. A corpse was resting in the hallway, someone who had died here, but who? Moving his hand higher, Anarion found the head, his fingers tracing over regular features, with no piercings, smooth skin and long hair. Haradrim or Easterling, no Orc. And he had been killed using a garrote, the metal still attached to the throat. Gingerly loosening the metal sling, Anarion took it. It was not a good weapon, but one he might be able to use. His hand felt the silky cloak of the dead man and a thought came to him. As quickly as he could he removed the scaly chestplate, the leather underarmor and the cloak. The leathers fit him passably as did the scaled chest armor, throwing the long cloak around his shoulders he pulled up the hood. He had a long way to go still, but in this moment Anarion felt hope.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: In a dim morning

It had been a long night but at long last morning had come, a pale morning rising above the clouds and a fresh wind from the sea parting the black clouds that had shadowed the skies for so many days. When Kili finally returned to the Undercity the sun was high up in the skies. He found Dwalin there, who greeted him with a bone-crushing hug. Kili returned the embrace unashamed, he too was glad that his old friend had come through the night alive. “How many did we lose?” he asked when they went down into the bowels of the Undercity. During the days he had regularly heard from Dwalin who had fallen, but he did not yet know the final toll. “Ninety-two,” Dwalin replied. “we have been laying them to rest in one of the caverns down here and will close their grave our way. Lord Boromir gave permission to do that, they will rest undisturbed here.”

Kili inclined his head; he had known the toll would be high. One out of eight had died how many of them had come here only because Kili had chosen to fight this war?

“Don’t you go all teary on me,” Dwalin grumbled. “one out of eight is reasonable if not outright lucky considering the battle we fought. We all knew what we were in for.”

“Were you?” Kili asked tiredly. “You are here because I chose this…” he had no problem choosing danger for himself, he had often done so but this choice had affected many.

“Aye,” Dwalin told him. “because you had it right. This is the end of the world; if we don’t fight we are already lost. Our people know what it means to face the iron fist of the Orcs… when they heard you gone to fight the shadow, there couldn’t have been a prouder group of dwarves anywhere.” He gently touched Kili’s arm. “We all knew what were in for, that this will be a battle to death, and we are proud to follow you under the very wings of the shadow.”

Returning the gesture Kili put his hand Dwalin’s shoulder. “I am glad to know you are at my back, each of you.” He recalled Thorin a long time ago, I would take any of these dwarves over the mightiest army and he understood what his Uncle must have felt.

Dwalin shrugged, pushing aside the praise. “Aside of these men here, there is no one left in this good world to fight. The Elves? They’re running scared and go to their precious ships. Our people? Dain is sitting on his ass in Erebor and wouldn’t think of committing an army if he was paid to do so.” The old warrior snorted disdainfully.

“He will have his own war on his hands, if Dol Guldur isn’t sleeping.” Kili pointed out, like so often he tried to not deepen the rift that separated his people.

“Erebor is the mightiest fortress of the North,” Dwalin grumbled. “well prepared and planned he could hold out against a siege for years and still commit part of his field army to this battle here. He doesn’t get his head out of his…” The old warmaster quickly swallowed some very very rude words that no one should utter about any King, least of all if said King’s second cousin stood right beside you.

Kili hid a smile at Dwalin’s rant; the old warrior had no gentle tongue and would usually say what he thought in blunt words. He was absolutely honest and had no shred of deceit in him. The younger dwarf relaxed the situation by finding a bucket of water, enough to finally get cleaned up beyond the barest necessities. He knelt down and removed his gauntlets and the chainmail to wash the blood off his hands, arms and body.

“Kili… your arm.” Dwalin’s eyes had gone wide, looking at Kili’s sword arm.

Puzzled Kili followed the glance; he had felt no injury beyond a few bruises on the arm, only expected it be gory because he had rammed his blade into the belly of more than a few Olog-hai and had been hit with the vile stream of their blood. When looked down on his sword arm, he could hardly believe it. From the elbow to the hand the arm was marked with a fiery dragon, the head sat just above the elbow and it wound all along the arm with the tail nearly touching the back of his hand. Gingerly he touched his skin; it was cool and whole, no sign of burn or even the needle. The dragon’s head was right above a rune band, like it was a treasure the dragon guarded. Kili twisted his arm to see the runes fully, they were ancient Khuzdul. “Dolek Nardûn,” he whispered. “the gift of brothers…”

Dwalin had squatted down beside Kili his eyes taking in the fiery mark along his arm. A fire dragon and these words. “How could this happen?” he asked. “When… what did it do to you…?”

“No, Dwalin,” Kili looked at the older warrior. “this… this is a gift.” For the first time in seven decades the hole that his brother’s death left in soul did not hurt, and while he may not see Fili again for many years, he had been blessed with the gift of a brother again. He blinked hard, the full realization was driving tears into his eyes.. Mahal, he had not cried in many years, he was not a dwarfling anymore and yet he was hardly able to hold them back now. “Tis a gift, a mercy…”

                               .                                                              .                                              .

 The dawn found Boromir in the lower ring, seeing to the myriad of things that needed to be organized if the city was to hold out through another attack that he had no doubt would come. This war had just begun and the enemy was regrouping. Still, he could see the hope in the eyes of the soldiers, and hope would carry through the next night that would come. “My Lord Steward,” Imrahil of Dol Amroth approached him.

Boromir shook his head. “It is Captain still, Imrahil. I have not yet taken my father’s place and mayhap I never will.” He had his doubts he would ever sit in Denethor’s chair.

“Because of the Return of the King?” Imrahil asked, his voice carefully guarded. “There is talk all over the city, with you so publically supporting his claim, every soldier and milkmaid of this city knows it has to be true.”

“If you are telling me I should have asked the council of nobles first…”

“… you will tell me again that you have a spot for them on the front lines.” Imrahil finished the line he knew all too well. “Boromir, how often have been over this?”

“So you doubt his claim?” Boromir crossed his arms in front of his chest. “He wields Narsil, the sword of Elendil, no one not of the true line could wield that blade, it turns on any other who would try. To the latter I can attest myself.” He vividly recalled the small run-in in Rivendell, even broken the sword had not tolerated his touch.

“I am older than you Boromir, and like your father I do remember Thorongil well,” Imrahil said. “and nay, I do not doubt him. I did not know back then, even as I suspected and hoped… but I do not doubt now.” He met Boromir’s eyes evenly. “but others will. The noble houses will wonder, how it could happen that on the very eve prior to Lord Aragorn’s arriving here, your father could die… and only in the presence of you and your brother.”

“Thoroniâr was there as well.”

“A man absolutely devoted to you,” Imrahil shrugged. “if you ordered him to he would do anything, even cover up a murder.”

“So you believe I murdered my father?” Boromir asked incredulously, of all possible explanations the noble houses could come up with this was by far the strangest. “for what?”

“To clear the path to throne for Aragorn, who obviously has your loyalty? I know you, Boromir, for a cause you believe in, you would do nearly anything you deem necessary. Sadly the long war with the shadow has taught you to do what is needful before doing what is right…”

“Are you saying you truly believe I murdered my father?” Now Boromir’s eyes flashed dangerously, anger rising inside him. “By what right, by what proof do you make your accusation, Imrahil? Think twice before answering me, for if you have no proof, and I know you have none, I will call you out for your dishonorable words.”

The Prince took a step back, shocked by the passionate intensity in Boromir’s eyes. His nephew had always been tough, hard, and fierce in his beliefs, but this… this was an anger and fire he had never seen in him before.  “I do not have any proof,” he admitted. “and I know that the story about the traitor is… easily proven, especially as the tower guard has the body of the treacherous person. Thoroniâr would not forget such a detail. Had I not heard the story from my own son, I would not have believed it on first hearing too.”

“Believe what you wish,” Boromir told him. “I did not murder my father; he fell afoul of something… darker and more sinister than I wish to ever speak of.”

“Do you truly believe in him?” Imrahil asked suddenly. “Do you in your heart truly believe in Aragorn? Would you follow him? Step aside and see him crowned?”

“We have to fight a war first, Imrahil,” Boromir reminded him. “and the way things are I might end up following him to death.” He turned around and walked off, not wishing to continue the conversation. Having not looked up when he strode down the rest of the way to the broken gate that he only just avoided collision with a familiar figure. Clad in the grey elven cloak Aragorn resembled the northern ranger once more. “Forgive me, I did not see where I was going,” Borormir said.

Aragorn waved it off. “Let us speak outside the walls,” he said and together they walked through the rubble that remained of the gate and out into the field. Now that the dead had been removed and the orc carcasses burned the fields were easier to bear. “I could not help but hear your conversation with Imrahil,” Aragorn said after they had silently walked towards the very foothill where Boromir had defeated Shakurán. “He is a proud man, and sometimes nearly elven in the webs of intrigues he perceives anywhere.”

“And you wish to know whether or not his accusations are true.” Boromir responded.

“Nay!” Aragorn stopped, facing Boromir. “Not even when I feared that the ring may take you, have I been thinking that low of you. I know you would not stoop to murder; you are far too honorable for that. You would not sacrifice your honor, least of all for me.” Seeing Boromir’s surprised glance, he raised his hand. “Can we speak openly? Here, away from all prying ears?”

“If you wish so,” Boromir inclined his slightly.

But Aragorn shook his head. “You still do it,” he said. “you treat me like I were your Lord, even as I know I am not.” He forestalled any comment with a gesture. “We were not friends when we set out on our quest, but we respected each other, Boromir. And out of that respect I ask the truth from you. Why? You made clear that you all but despised the House of Isildur, yet you greeted me as the King of your people.”

Looking past him Boromir’s eyes went up the citadel, to the white tower of Ecthelion. “You are Gondor’s hope, Aragorn. Maybe her last hope even. I would not deprive my people of that.” His eyes went back to the plains, he knew that all he could do to defend Gondor would not be enough, much like the rule of the Steward’s house had never been quite enough, always in the shadow of the empty throne to remind them that no matter what they achieved or how hard they fought, they were not good enough in the end. “And the last thing we need is strife while the enemy knocks on our very gates. You are the man who can reunite the world of men under one banner to fight the shadow. You are the ray of light that may yet save Gondor. And thus I stand with you.”

“Gondor above all,” Aragorn spoke the words softly, remembering the oath every soldier of Gondor took, he knew that Boromir lived by this creed absolutely. He was also shaken by Boromir’s belief that Aragorn could be the savior of Gondor, even as it was the only reason why Boromir supported him. He would do anything for Gondor, even sacrificing his own lofty pride and ambitions. “I thank you for your honesty, Boromir,” Aragorn studied the other man’s face silently, wondering if he’d ever win his honest respect. “and I am glad to know you with me in this.”

Boromir was about to reply something, but his eyes narrowed, going past Aragorn out on the field, where a single white rider had come in sight, his horse racing across Pelennor fields with a speed that seemed nearly impossible. The Captain drew his sword. “Back to the gate, Aragorn…” Saruman had picked an ill time to make an appearance here.

 Yet Isildur’s heir laughed. “Sheathe your sword, Boromir, this is one foe you will not need to fight.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Aragorn looked about the stark room in the citadel; he had known the very same room many years ago. The Captain’s guard room was said to have reflected the different personalities of the men who held the rank of Captain of Gondor, he had seen two different men hold this spot during his time as Thorongil. Under Harluin the room had felt antiquated, dusty, a room of old forgotten glory and under Turayne the room had felt comfortable, welcoming. Now it was neither, it was stark, pragmatic and much changed from the past. No banners adorned the walls, the only thing to break the stark stone surfaces were two maps, one of Mordor and one of Harad. A weapon’s rack by the door allowed an assortment of swords and other weapons to be put away and there was a number of simple chairs grouped around the stone table, allowing for discussions or strategizing among the officers. The only comfort the room still had was the huge fireplace to the side. The Ranger had been surprised when Boromir had chosen this place for them to speak to Gandalf instead of the council hall, but he understood that it might simply be habit.

While Aragorn had sent for Legolas, Gimli and Eomer, Boromir had called for his brother and Kili. The latter two were as surprised as Boromir by Gandalf’s arrival, but neither showed it for long. Gandalf on the other hand was as glad to see them. “I feared for this city,” he stated, standing by the fireplace. “Saruman… how deep his treachery went we may never know, but his pride and vengeance lived on with him to his last moments. He worked evil on the mind of Lord Denethor, for revenge upon me and upon those who foiled his plan to gain the ring,” With the last he looked at Boromir.

The Captain acknowledged the words with a grim nod. “The Lord Steward is dead, Gandalf. If what you say is true, a greater evil then we could see was at work in his demise.”

The white wizard cast a sharp glance at the Captain, who stood with his brother to his right and the Dwarven Prince at his left. The three had closed ranks immediately that Denethor’s name had been spoken. “Dead? How? What happened?”

His question was met with silence by Denethor’s sons. Aragorn saw the tension in both men, and knowing what Gandalf had just said, he wondered what darkness had worked on Denethor’s mind, what had transpired here. Maybe there was more of a reason why Boromir would shy away from the council hall that would still strongly hold the presence of the demised Steward. “I know that this is painful for you to speak of,” he said when there was no answer. “but if Saruman had a hand in Denethor’s death we must know.”

“For what difference, Aragorn?” Boromir challenged his words. “He is dead, what was done to him and by him is both past and behind us.”

“He may have done more than you saw,” Gandalf replied. “Saruman’s mind held the strong notion of making him turn on someone to divide you.”

“My liege…” Faramir clearly was uneasy with his brother’s open defiance of Aragorn, but to him the topic was as painful as for his brother. “we will not deny you answers, but my brother is true in his words that all that was done is now past.”

It pained Aragorn that he would have to insist on the details, he could see how deeply the death – the way Denethor had left this world – had hurt both of his sons deeply. Before he could speak, Kili stepped forward, a clear protective gesture, placing himself between Aragorn and the brothers. “Lord Denethor tried to make use of this city’s Palantír to learn the enemy’s weakness.” The dwarf spoke steadily and coolly. “But he was confronted with something through the artifact that broke his mind and he committed suicide. If Saruman indeed used one of the seeing stones as well, it would explain what happened to him.”

There was truth in Kili’s words, Aragorn had long learned to hear deceit when spoken, but he was also sure that there was much more to this story. He also understood the unspoken gesture. Of all people in this room, Aragorn’s and Kili’s bloodlines and legacy put them on even rank and he was willing to challenge Aragorn’s treatment of the brothers if necessary.

“What of the person Saruman wished to turn him against, Master Dwarf?” Gandalf asked a hint of temper in his voice. “If his plans are still in motion, even past his death, there might be danger here.”

Boromir understood the unspoken fear of the wizard, that Denethor even from beyond the grave would strike a blow against Aragorn. It was something that would have fitted the diseased mind of the Master of Orthanc. The Captain closed his eyes, collecting himself. Then he turned to Kili who still stood between him and the others, exchanging impressive glares with Gandalf, who said something about the stubbornness of dwarves. “Prince Kili?”

Boromir’s words had at once the dwarf’s attention and he understood what the Captain was asking, without the words being uttered. “This tragedy is yours to share, Lord Boromir,” he replied as formally. “and I still stand by my opinion that there is no need to pry into your pain, the danger has passed.”

“True though that may be, Aragorn at least has the right to know what fate befell the last Steward.” Boromir said with finality. “And I have learned that such things, secrets, whispers in the dark, knowledge hoarded and kept away is a weapon of the enemy, for we only hurt ourselves through our own secrecy. It may hurt us when these things come to light, as the sunlight will hurt our eyes, but it is the only way to free ourselves of the chains the past weaves on us and heal.” Their eyes met and Boromir knew that Kili would understand what he was trying to say, much as his own words sounded strange to him. “You never spoke of word about my father’s actions against you…”

Kili forestalled any further words with a gesture of his hand. “There was no need to speak of them. It was by your hand that I was saved.”

Facing Aragorn Boromir suddenly felt calm, calmer than he had since he had gone to the King’s Tower. “My father believed me bewitched when I failed to bring the Ring to him.” He said, his heart lightening to say it out in the open finally. “and he rightly concluded that Kili had something to do with my failing to do so. Believing it was a spell or enchantment he turned on him to… learn the means by which it was achieved.”

“What madness could have possessed him to so misread friendship and loyalty?” Gandalf asked aghast.

“I do not know what my father saw in the Palantír, and I am grateful for that mercy, but when he was found out, he revealed that he saw another way to prevent these visions from coming to pass: in his last act he tried to kill my brother, before impaling himself on my sword.”

Impulsively Aragorn had risen from his chair, walking past the table and towards the Steward’s sons. He could not imagine the horror they had suffered at their own father’s hands. It was easy to hate a stranger for his haughty cruelty, to see them in a father was beyond terrible. “It pains me that I had to force you to speak of this,” he said to both of them. “to make you remember what must have been the cruelest thing that may befall any son. And while I fear that all he did is beyond what you would speak, I am content with what I know.”

“He did not do anything beyond nearly killing Faramir,” Boromir pointed out. “it is Kili who bore the other marks of this encounter.”

“Like the mark you on your hand?” Argaorn asked.

“What mark?” Boromir’s frown made it entirely clear he had no clue what the Ranger spoke of. He raised his swordhand to discover a small red trace near the wrist. He could not recall any injury to the arm but had paid only scant attention when he had washed off the blood some time during the night. Swiftly he removed the vambrace to free his arm. With a stunned expression he looked at his own swordarm marked by a fiery dragon, wrapping around it up to the elbow.

“You too?” Kili asked, revealing an identical mark on his arm.

Both of them looked to Faramir who had watched the revelation astonished. “I thought it was only me, a mark from the healing.” He told them as he revealed an identical dragon on his sword arm.

“The healing… it must have been,” Boromir could see that where his brother and he had the inscription in Adûnaic, but Kili’s was in Khuzdul, but except for this the dragons were identical.   “When the dragon sword broke it must have left this.”

Gandalf had come closer, studying the marks with wizened eyes. “What spell did you use?” he asked. “What did you carve into that sword?” He asked, not as sternly as he might have.

“The darkness dies,” Kili said, actually speaking the words in the tongue that the spell was voiced in.

The old wizard looked at the three and suddenly he laughed. “In more than an age no man, or elf, or dwarf has dared to use these words for the powers they invoke are fierce. And you used it together? Not even the wisest may have foreseen this. The bond that links you is nothing I will claim to understand, but it is not a gift of evil.”

“We know, Mithrandir,” Faramir said respectfully. “we know it is a blessing.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

The heavy steps of the Orcs echoed off in the woods and Anarion let out a slow breath, they had mistaken him for a corpse, one of the many wounded that had been left behind on the western slopes of the mountains. Wearing a Haradrim armor and cloak the young Ranger had been mistaken for a wounded soldier of the recent battle several times.  He had managed to scrounge up a veiled Haradrim helmet to hide his face, and at a distance he passed muster as another wounded straggler. But he knew that on close up inspection his eyes would give him away, even before the searing blade had taken his sight forever, he had lacked the dark luster of the Southlander eyes, they would always betray him as a man from Northern Gondor.

Sure that the Orcs had moved off he rose from where he had lain between the bushes and moved on. Initially when he had escaped the Orc tower he had been scared to move through the open expanse that he could not see any more. But with each hour of walking, using his hands to find his way by rocks and trees, trusting his ears and senses to guide him, the Ranger had found a measure of confidence again. He knew he had been incredibly lucky, at no other time, any man could have dared to take the Morgul Road west, but with the masses of injured soldiers and the general chaos no one had paid him any heed. Twice he had been forced to defend himself against Orcs believing him to be a weakened Haradrim soldier. He had killed one with the garrote and stabbed the other when he had come too close. Both experiences had been frightening and inwardly Anarion had thanked the Lord Faramir who had insisted that each of his Rangers must be able to fight in utter dark.

Every step down the Morgul Road had taken Anarion back to Ithilien and closer to home. Knowing the lay of the land helped him to keep a sense of direction, as did the sun that shone on his face during the day. Now, as the evening approached, his best guide was sinking behind the western horizon. Passing a few bushes his hands found a tree trunk and he stopped. The trunk was wide enough for him not to be able to put his arms around it; a huge tree, with a deeply entrenched, patterned bark. Gently Anarion traced his hands over the tree skin, feeling the rough surface and inhaling the familiar smell, an Ithilien Elm no doubt. He could feel moss and bearded lichens on one side, they smoothened the rough surface. The main weather side in Ithilien was generally southwest, from whence the rain came, checking it on the next tree it helped him to gain direction again.

He kept a direction that was roughly west, usually walking ducked between bushes and underbrush, using a spear he had found on a dead man to feel the ground before him. Often enough a sharp pain rose inside his chest while he went but he ignored it, knowing that his body had been bruised and battered from the Orc’s “sport”, he did not allow himself to think back. He was free, it was all that mattered. In Anarion’s own perception he moved slowly, having no real way to measure his progress and thus he was surprised when he heard the hollow roar of the Anduin ahead of him. Had he truly reached the river?

Listening to the sounds of the evening he crept closer, his hands finding grass and the sand of the riverbank. It was true, he had come back to the river. Under the dark Anarion made his way down to the rushing waters, the rapid icy river greeting him with the familiar smells of water, earth and home. Kneeling down by the water Anarion put his hands into the stream, the cool touch of the flood like something long forgotten. He cleaned his hands best that he could before drinking a few gulps of the icy water, he was not sure when he had last drunk something else than the foul brew down in the dungeons.

Relieved though his was, he knew he must not linger long. The Riverbank was a dangerous and exposed area and he had no way to tell where exactly he was. Somewhere North of Osgiliath he ventured to guess, the river calmed a lot south of the city. He’d have to risk the swim across; there was no way around that. A noise made him freeze. The first thing he heard was something heavy moving, hooves and a huffing sound. A horse. Staying totally still Anarion listened into the night around him. A rider? A patrol? Had he been spotted?

The movement came closer; the horse was actually coming at him from across the river. Amen Ford? Could it be that he was at Amen Ford? It was one of the few places where horses could get across now that the bridge was destroyed. He heard the huff right above him, the horse must be standing close but there was no voice, no attack, nor any other indication of a rider.

Slowly Anarion rose. “Seems like you too escaped the battle,” he said softly, reaching out to find the horses’ neck with his hand and it tolerated his touch. It huffed again. “I guess I know what you want, poor friend,” The horse was probably thirsty, but with the tight saddle-belt would be unable to drink without pain. Tracing his hand along the horses’ back he found the saddle. The mount was huge, one of the largest Anarion had ever encountered. It took him a moment to find the buckles to loosen, the saddle was a heavy one meant for an armored rider and the Ranger took it off entirely. The horse was tired; sweat and dried blood caking its flanks. When he had removed the saddle, the horse whined softly. Trying to comfort the huge beast, Anarion stroked the head, his hands coming in contact with the bridle; it was made from steel and cut deep into the horses’ sensitive mouth. He frowned, even the Haradrim, cruel bastards that they were, did not do this; they loved their horses nearly as much as the Rohirrim did. Removing the bridle was easier than the saddle, and while Anarion knew that his prolonged stay on the riverbank was increasingly dangerous he refused to let another being suffer needlessly. By its very presence the horse had told him where he was at the river, it deserved as much consideration in return. Once the bridle was removed the horse began to drink greedily. Anarion smiled and stroked the powerful flank. “That’s better, is it?” he said softly.

The horse moved and he stepped back to avoid being pushed over, instead he felt a nudge against his shoulder.   “You wouldn’t mind carrying me for a few miles, I guess.” He said warmly. It may be a way to go faster but being unable to see where he went made the prospect of riding frightening at the same time. Walking past the huge animal he got to the side and mounted on the blank horseback. “We need to go West, to Minas Tirith,” he wondered what commands the horse might know, aside from the directions a rider may give with his own legs. Nudging the horse to turn around towards the river, a thought came to him. If the horse came from the black lands, it would be used to another tongue. “Tarzâk, Ital-Gurd,” he repeated the same words in the dark language. A shrill neigh was the response as the horse turned fully to the river and crossed the ford with him. On the western riverbank the horse climbed the hillside quickly and began to race.

                                               .                                                              .                                              .

It was that same evening that Faramir returned to the citadel, glad for a long day to be over. Many things had to be done, and Boromir had kept his brother busy enough with getting Minas Tirith back into fighting shape. When he ascended the stairs to the upper courtyard he spotted to small figures looking around. Halflings, they looked much like Frodo and Sam had; only that one of them wore a leather armor of Rohirric making and the other an elven cloak. “What brings two Perian to the citadel?” Faramir asked them.

The one in the leather armor looked up to him, and then bowed slightly. “We were told that Lord Boromir would be found up at the citadel.”

“And the guard forgot to mention that the citadel is a wee bit larger than a house,” the other chimed in.

“You must be the other two Perian who travelled with him from Imladris,” Faramir observed. “follow me, I will bring you to him.”

“You must be his brother, he spoke off so often,” the one in the leather armor, observed. “you look an awful lot like him.”

“He told you of us?” the other one in the elven cloak piped up. Faramir had to assume that he was the younger one, for the other nudged him slightly and whispered a sharp “Pippin!” to him.

“Not in that many words, except that he feared you perished during the Orc raid on Amon Hen when you were separated. He will be glad to see you alive.”

This elicited a smile from both of them. “We feared for him too,” Pippin said. “when Strider met us again he said that Boromir had been killed by the Orcs. It seemed unjust that after protecting us so much he should die like that.”

“Did he? Protect you, I mean?” Faramir still knew little of his brother’s journey, except some parts.

“He did,” the other hobbit spoke up. “he taught us how to use our swords and he helped us. In the snows on Caradhras he carried us, and reminded the others that we couldn’t go on. It will be the death of the Halflings, Gandalf. He said.”

The other nodded fiercely. “Little ones, that’s what called us. In Moria he helped us climb across chasms and jumped with both of us when we couldn’t. He took our night watches so often; he sometimes was so exhausted…”

The honest enthusiasm in their voices made Faramir smile, this was Boromir how he knew him best. Not the grim Captain, the leader in a merciless war, but the protector, the man who would risk his life to rip a child from the Orc’s clutches during a night raid across Anduin, the man who would take the time to search for some vanished villagers near the crossings of Paros, the older brother who had taught him the sword and protected him best that he could.

“Merry, Pippin!” They had arrived at the now empty guard room and Boromir had spotted the two hobbits at once. The two rushed towards him and he squatted down, greeting them with a hug. “You are alive! Pippin… is it possible that you have grown?”

Both Hobbits laughed. “That is a long story, Boromir. So much has happened since Amon Hen.”

“Then you’ll have to tell me, my friends.” Boromir replied. “it is evening, the city will need her rest as much as anyone. A good time to tell your story and there’ll be some food even.”

Half an hour later the two halflings sat by the fireplace, happily munching away on some apples. “The Orcs dragged us away when you saved Strider,” Merry began to tell their tale. “and carried us off. Uglúk, their leader had orders to bring us to Isengard, but some others of the group came from the mountains and Grishnákh was from the East… they argued a lot.” He colourfully described how the Orcs had interacted in their two day crossing of Rohan.

“And then the Riders attacked,” Pippin took over. “it was fearsome all those riders coming out of the dark to strike down the Orcs. We tried to flee into the woods and… I made it.” He looked embarrassed.

“What happened?” Boromir asked, seeing Pippin was uneasy.

“I made into the forest, believing Merry right behind me, but all that had followed me was Grishnákh. I did not even notice that Merry was gone until Treebeard stomped Grishnakh.”

“What happened to Merry?”

“Uglúk had seen me crawl away and yanked me back,” Merry took up the tale again. “I was scared; he held me up by the throat with one hand and drew his blade with other to gut me. But one of the riders saw us and dismounted, he attacked Uglúk fiercely. A lot like you, as a matter of fact. Had I not seen you fight I’d have been as scared of him as I was of Uglúk,” Merry actually smiled at the memory like he could not understand it now, like it was something childish of the past. “he killed Uglúk, cutting him down with the blade. But more Orcs came at us and he said ‘Behind me, little one, they won’t get you.’  I do not know how long the fighting lasted, I picked up an Orc knife and tried to defend myself, not that I was that much use. But I was never so grateful for the lessons you gave us.”

“Who was it that saved you?” Boromir could see that Merry was lost in memory for a moment.

“That I only learned the next morning, not that his name meant much to me. Éomer was the one who saved me, when he realized that the Orcs carried captives. But… we couldn’t find Pippin. We… I thought he had been killed.” Merry shivered, remembering the dark hour he had believed his friend perished during the nightly raid. “Éomer… he understood at once, he knew how it felt. And he said that he and his men were banished, exiles, but that if I wanted to avenge my friend I could come with them.”

“Banished? How did that come about?”

“Theoden King, the ruler of Rohan had fallen under Saruman’s spell, and banished his nephew.” Merry said. “Éomer would still fight for his people, and try to strike at the Hordes of Isengard as hard as he could. And I went with him. During our first night raid on an Uruk-camp I was scared… but I think I put all that you taught me to good use. The third night after we saw the Uruks attack the Westfold, burning villages, slaughtering people… Boromir, it was horrible. They killed all that could not get away. The éored intervened and allowed the villagers to flee but there were so many Orcs coming… we had to go with the villagers fleeing to Meduseld. Banished or not, Éomer would not leave his people unprotected and thus we escorted them safely to the golden Hall, where we met Strider, Gandalf and the others. Only he –“ he glanced at Pippin, “was not there. But Gandalf said he was safe.”

“I was safe with Treebeard and the Ents… I didn’t get myself mixed up in a battle.” Pippin pointed out.

“I did not get myself mixed up,” Merry said fiercely. “I volunteered and Éomer accepted me.” He looked back to Boromir. “they mustered everyone to defend Helms Deep, old men, lads and lasses… everyone who could use a sword or bow.” The Hobbit exhaled sharply and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Boromir, I don’t think I can talk about that night yet… it was the scariest thing I ever saw, and strangely I would not have wanted to be elsewhere. I had to see this through, you know?”

In the other warrior’s solemn nod Merry saw understanding and he nudged Pippin to tell of his adventures among the Ents.

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: The widening gyre

Pippin had just begun to tell them of Treebeard and the Entmoot when they were interrupted by Thoroniâr walking into the guard room, bowing hastily when he saw he had interrupted a meeting of sorts. “Thoroniâr what is it?” Boromir asked, knowing that if the Captain of the Tower guard came to him something must be astray.

“A rider is approaching the city gate, my Lord, the lookout spotted him. It’s hard to tell in the moonlight, but they are sure he is Haradrim and astride a Nazgul steed; might be a messenger of sorts.” Thoroniâr reported at once.  

Boromir got to his feet, the black lands sometimes would parlay, usually to make demands and sometimes utter threats to back the demands up, but that did not mean they should shoot the messenger on sight. “Thoroniâr have someone send for the Lord Aragorn, inform him as well and ask him to come to the gate. Merry, find Éomer and ask him to come down as well. And send a messenger to the Undercity and find Prince Kili. This will concern all of us.”

“Why would the Haradrim send a messenger?” Faramir asked as they hastened down towards the shattered gate of the first wall. “You slew their King up on the second ring, but I doubt it is simply because they want his body back.”

“Boromir killed the King of the Haradrim?” Aragorn had caught up to them, as they passed through the scorched first ring.

“He led the storm on the second ring,” Boromir said simply. “we fought each other and he lost. But the Haradrim are not the Easterlings, if it was one of them, I’d expect either a challenge by Shakurán’s twin or his sword…”

“Nay, he definitely is Haradrim,” The Ranger gazed past the ruined gate towards the rider who approached the city on the Pelennor. The moon stood high in the skies, glittering now and then on the man’s armor but Boromir saw hardly enough to judge, contrary to Aragorn who had the keen eyes of a Ranger.

“Agreed, the helmet is definitely Haradrim,” Faramir said calmly. “but the way he sits on the horse is all wrong, he did not learn to ride in their steppes.”

“Could he be one of their sons that were brought to the black land as a child?” Aragorn asked in return, the two Rangers comfortable to exchange observations.

“Then he’d be wearing the black Morgul Armor,” Faramir said. “and there again… golden scale armor, definitely a Haradrim.”

Boromir saw the wry glance Éomer cast to him, before the Rohirrim warrior gaze back out again. “The horse is tired,” he said. “and he is not forcing it to run, he is careful with it. He also rides bareback.”

When the rider was closer but still at a position that the archers on the walls could easily aim at him, Boromir called out. “Haradrim! What brings you to the gates of this city?” He called in Westron and then added the same in their Haradic tongue, a messenger of the black lands would of course speak the tongue of the West but Boromir had encountered Haradrim who did not speak anything but their own language and the Dark Tongue.

The Rider stopped the horse, gently nudging it to hold its walk. “Lord Boromir?” he asked. “Is that you Captain?” With one fluid move he removed his helmet and dismounted the huge black horse.

“Anarion?” Heedless for his own safety Boromir left the broken gate and approached the man who stood beside the horse, one hand still at the animal’s back. He could see the Haradrim armor and cloak, along with wounds and bruises; a gory gash near the throat, the man looked like he was ready to drop. “Anarion… it is you.” Boromir was glad to see the man was alive, he had often wondered what had happened to the young Ranger. “Are Frodo and Sam with you?”

Anarion averted his eyes, looking down. “No, my Lord. We had to split up after I got injured. I stayed behind to draw off the Orcs.” Slowly he let go of this hold on the horses’ back and went to one knee before Boromir. “I failed the mission you entrusted me with.”

“Nay,” Boromir grasped the younger man’s shoulders and pulled him up. “you did not fail. You went as far as you could, more was never asked of you.” He could all too easily tell that Anarion had been through dark things. But when the Ranger failed to meet his eyes again, Boromir looked closer and saw the moonlight reflected in unfocused greyish-green eyes. “What did they do to you?” There was no doubt that Anarion had been captured, the traces were all over him.

Anarion had stepped back, like embarrassed. His eyes going past Boromir, never truly meeting his gaze and Boromir realized horrified that these eyes were now shrouded in darkness. “The usual, Captain, the dance in the Mountains of Shadow, a few rounds of Orc hospitality, and some fun when the Haradrim tried to pull rank on the Orcs, I got away in the chaos.”

His voice was steady and firm and Boromir respected the younger soldier’s wish to present a strong façade, to not break under what he had been through. How he had made it back here, in his shape bespoke his strength. “Let’s go back to the city, Anarion, there is no need to stay out here.” He said.

“Of course, Captain.” Anarion put his hand back on the back of the horse. “Tarkiz il menûr.” He said softly to the horse, which began to walk slowly towards the gate, serving as a guide.

Boromir slowed his step to make it easier on the young soldier. Blinded… he had not noticed at first, but now had realized what must have happened to the Ranger. He knew that it would be cruel to force Anarion to speak of this before all the other warleaders, so me made no direct mention of it. “How did you come by this steed?” Boromir asked, as they approached the waiting group.

“We met by the river, near Amen Ford,” Anarion said, patting the beast affectionately. “and helped each other out. I would not have known I was near the ford, had he not met me.”

“You freed this horse?” Éomer had approached them, careful to not startle the mighty beast.

“Freed would be saying too much,” Anarion replied, he did not know who had spoken to him. “I removed saddle and bridle when we met and he seemed willing to carry me the rest of the way.”

“Tis no wonder he would chose you as a friend,” Éomer said. “years ago the black land stole horses from Rohan, some of our best and most noble horses were taken. He is one of them.”

“You are from Rohan.” Anarion knew he should have noticed the accent at once; the Rohirrim had a very distinct way of speaking Westron that came through their mother tongue. This one was more fluent in the western tongue than others Anarion had met. “then he should go back to you, home to the plains.”

Éomer laughed. “I could not order him to, even if I wanted. He has chosen you it seems.”

While Éomer had paid attention to the horse, Boromir had stepped to Aragorn and Gandalf. “Anarion is the Ranger I send with Frodo and Sam.” He said in a hushed voice.

“Then we will need to hear all he can say,” Gandalf said firmly. “and hear it quick. I fear it is ill tidings he may bear.”

Boromir silently agreed. They made their way back to the citadel; the Captain of Gondor was not surprised to see Faramir use the chance to speak a few words to Anarion while they walked. The Ranger had been one of his men and observant as he was Faramir had picked up on the blindness of the man faster than any other, save Aragorn maybe.

                               .                                                              .                                              .

“We split up near the Khadach-zug-dhur, the path of ashen death,” seated with them in the guard room, Anarion gave his account of the events that had transpired since he and the halflings had crossed the river. They had made it across the mountains through several small passes in the range leagues south Minas Morgul, using an ancient passroad across the mountains for the last leg of their journey, before they had run into several encounters with orc troops that had led them to finally split up.  

“So they were already on the Eastern side of the mountains,” Aragorn observed. “somewhere at the thorn of Nurn, the southern edge of Gorgoroth. The enemy was unaware of them?”

“As far as I can tell, they thought that an Elven Warrior was haunting their border.” Anarion confirmed. “they kept asking about him. But they were waiting for someone else to come and take care of the full interrogation.” He spoke of his captivity in detached words, keeping a distance between himself and the events.

Boromir understood why, he had seen enough of the Orcs tender mercies to have a good guess what Anarion had faced. The blinding was only the most pronounced mark on him, some of the scars he received were not visible ones. The Captain knew all too well what sick games Orcs played with their captives. “You did well, you kept them off their tracks while they were busy chasing you, Anarion.” He said.

“Did they get anything from you regarding Frodo or his errand?” Gandalf asked. “What did you tell them?”

Aragorn silenced the wizard with a gesture of his hand. “Anarion,” he spoke to the Ranger, “no one believes it a shame if you spoke… but we need to know what the enemy knows.”

The Ranger’s blinded gaze went to the man whom he did not know, had never met, but who seemed to hold command now. He could not look at him but he could tell from whence the voice had come. “I did not know their errand, my Lord.” He responded politely. “I never knew Frodo’s task, or his destination. He asked me to bring him across the Mountains of Shadow on a route as inconspicuous as possible, and this I did. The Orcs never asked about them either, they wanted the Elven Warrior they believed to be running loose in their area.”  

Boromir could see the sharp glances of several men in the room, that he had send someone to his death, to torture, not knowing why he had to face such horrors, did not sit well with them. It was the hardest part of leading men into this kind of war, you had to be willing to send them to their deaths, to send them into deadly traps fully knowing what would happen, you had to be willing to make those sacrifices to win the battles this war threw at the land. And while it had pained him each time had had been forced to make such a decision, he knew that his men had understood and accepted the deadly risks. It was their opinion, their acceptance that mattered, not what others thought. “How did you escape, Anarion?” he returned to the conversation, the sooner they had heard all they needed to, the sooner Anarion would be able to rest.

“With the armies flooding back from the battlefield chaos ensued. There were no orders from Minas Morgul and the Orcs were speaking of number one being killed.” Anarion recounted the events that had led to his escape. “the last time I overheard some of them talk, there was word that Number two had taken command in Minas Morgul and that Idrákhan had been named Marshal of Udûn to whip the legions back into shape.”

“That is not good,” Aragorn said. “they are regrouping quickly. Boromir, what do you know on this new Captain?”

“Idrákhan? Tough, capable, a strategist, if Shakurán was the blunt club, he is the dancing blade; honorable as far as that can be said of an Easterling. If we go up against him, expect cunning strategies, monsters and a few nasty surprises where you least need them.” Boromir had fought that man before, “If he was raised Marshal of Udûn, he’ll have to muster and order half Gorogorth, which will take him at least a week…”

“And keeps the full might of Sauron’s armies between Frodo and Mount Doom,” Gandalf pointed out. “it will be his death.”

“No.” Aragorn stood up. “Frodo needs time and a chance to cross the plains of Gorgoroth undetected. Coming from the edge of Nurn, he has a long way to go. We need to empty Mordor and draw out Sauron’s army, keep his eye fixed on us.”

“He still fears us,” Boromir understood where Aragorn was going. “he fears you, he fears to see men united under one banner. If we muster all the fighters we can and march on Dargorlad… we will play his fears, the things he remembers.”

“March on the Black Gate?” Aragorn actually smiled. “He will believe we mean it, he will believe that we believe we can win.”

“But we can’t.” Éomer said. “We cannot hope to gain victory through strength of arms. Not with double the armies we still have.”

“It’s a bait,” Kili said to him. “make him think we are the main threat… that maybe even one of us,” he inclined his head towards Aragorn and Boromir, “might yet have the ring. And for that prize he will pour down all his armies right upon us.”

“While Frodo can approach Orodruin unnoticed.” Aragorn finished the thought. “Boromir, you said that the Palantír of this city was still in existence? Can you lead me there?”

“What are you planning, Aragorn?” Gandalf asked.

“Give Sauron a bait he can’t refuse to take.” Aragorn told him. “Boromir, bring me there, I will have need of you. Faramir. and Éomer need to see it that the armies will get ready to march by morning. It is a three days march to the Black Gates.” He looked at the group assembled. “Kili?”

“I’ll have my people ready to march as well.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Opening the door to the King’s tower again, Boromir could not help but feel a sense of dread rise inside him. “I’d prefer to face half of Idrákhan’s hordes alone and only with my sword in hand, instead of using that thing.” He grumbled, pushing the door open.

“You prefer the battle, with your sword drawn in the sunlight,” Aragorn replied. “but some battles can’t be won that way. You do respect this Easterling Captain, don’t you?”

“Aye,” The Gondorian confirmed. “he is tough, brutal even, cunning and a strategist like there are few these days. He keeps his word when he gives it and when he can. I like to think he hates it when forced to break it by those who rule the black lands.”

“You have a strange way of speaking of the enemy.” Aragorn noticed, he had observed this before, but not as strongly.

Boromir shrugged. “Twenty years of war, Thorongil, twenty years of fighting along that accursed border, twenty years of learning that the enemy you face can be a monster or just as much a man as you are. And men like Shakurán or Idrákhan… their loyalty and duty is no less than that of our people, they fight for their land, their oaths, their people, honoring the vows and allegiances of their fathers, living their lives far from the land of their birth. I wonder what their path would have been had the shadow not claimed them…” he stopped turning to Aragorn. “and I will fight them, and kill them and show as little mercy as they’d give me, but I will still respect them for the warriors they are.”

“Thorongil… you keep calling me by that name,” Aragorn said, steering away from the topic. He did not know how Boromir found it in his heart to respect the most hardened, most dangerous men under the Shadow’s command, but he would admit that there were some parallels between both sides, Boromir too had been hardened and shaped by a war that wore on for too long. “Why? You know it was a name I assumed.”

“Maybe I do because it is the name I first knew you under; maybe because it is the name of a man, of a great warrior, I heard stories about for most of my life, a great warrior that was rumored to be the heir to the throne. Maybe I still called you Thorongil, because it is the name of the man that I hoped would return and aid us, when I was still young enough to not know any better.”

They had reached the room with the Palantir, it was unchanged from the time Boromir had last seen it, yet the shade of his father seemed to linger over the place. “Are you sure you want to do this, Aragorn?” he asked, worried what it might do to the man.

The Ranger shook his head, bemused. “A complex riddle you are, Boromir of Gondor. You despise me, because you feel I let your people down in the long years of their war, yet you would protect me from danger at the same instant.” He straightened up, drawing himself to his full height. “It needs to be done, Boromir. When I speak the words “Leithio nin“ you will smash the Palantír.”

“Destroy it? Why?” Boromir asked.

“To make the enemy believe that a power I wielded was too great for the orb to endure.” Aragorn said. “I trust you with my life, Boromir. I know you will do as I ask and only when I tell you to, no matter what you will see before.”

Wordlessly Boromir took the axe and stood at the other side of the stone table when Aragorn removed the cloth from the Palantír.

                               .                                                              .                                              .

Éowyn was seated on a stone bench in one of the yards of the Houses of healing, her strength was returning since she had been called back from the brink of darkness by Lord Aragorn. Still she found no sleep once night fell, her heart restless. She saw her brother quickly entering the courtyard but not to speak to her but shortly address Ingvar who had stood a silent guard leaning against a column of the court. Éowyn watched her brother speak to the soldier of the first éored, she was nearly sure that Gimward had not survived the battle, making the band would be Ingvar’s task.

Only after a few more words her brother left and Ingvar began to wake the sleepers in the court and adjacent rooms, everyone who was able to stand and walk it seemed. The healers came to protest but she could see him cut them off with a few curt words. “Ingvar!” Éowyn’s short call was enough to bring the tall rider to her side.

He bowed. “My Lady?”

“What is happening?” Éowyn asked. “My brother brought orders, did he?”

“That is true, my Lady. The army is to assemble we ride at dawn. Everyone who is able to ride and wield a weapon is to go.”

So the short break they had been given was over, Éowyn thought grimly. She extended a hand towards the rider. “Help me up.”

“My Lady, you are too…”

“Too weak?” Éowyn shook her head. “I am better than some of those your men are waking. Now help me up.” He grabbed his offered arm and pulled herself to her feet, inhaling deeply. “You see, I can stand.” She said with a smile for the embarrassed éored leader. “Now, where did they store our weapons and armor?”

“My Lady,” two voices called out, as Aelfhild and Brithonin came from one of the other halls into the yard, both were youths that had been mustered to fight at Helms Deep originally. “they say that we shall ride to the Black Gate itself,” Aelfhild went on, her voice clearly frightened. “they send us to fight the Black Lord. ,my Lady, how…”

Éowyn could easily see the fear in the girls’ eyes; she well understood what they felt and she silenced her with a glance before she could embarrass herself further. “Then we ride on the Black Gate and call judgment on the Evil Lord who brought so much suffering on the world of men,” when she spoke her voice rang out like a clarion. “Stand tall Aelfhild, you are a soldier of Rohan, not a frightened peasant.”

The girl took heart, as did her companion, albeit Brithonin, Erkenbrand’s daughter was less prone to show her fears, she had been raised to stronger examples. “Aelfhild, go and wake the others, have them assemble in the main yard outside these halls,” Éowyn said, taking charge of the chaos. “Ingvar, find out where our weapons and armor are stored and what Gondor’s armory can spare in replacements. We shall not befoul these halls by arming here, so have them brought to the main yard. Brithonin come with me, the army of Rohan rides at dawn.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

The dawn of the next morning saw the armies march out of the white city, the riders of Rohan, all men Gondor could muster, the dwarves; it was a long column that marched under the King’s banner. Even with an army not expecting much of a return, there were a number of supply carts, camp followers and healers, following with the wagons. The first day they crossed the Pelennor and moved north, along the river banks towards Cair Andos. Moving the entire army across the river at Cair Andos was an undertaking that was going the entire day, but they did not try to speed it. Sauron should see them coming, they were marching openly.

The supply caravan was still standing on the southern riverbank, while the troops and horses were brought across the rushing river. Work was busy in this camp, armorers were doing repairs on armor damaged during the last battle, others were making arrowpoints and the healers were working on whatever preparations could be made for the day the wounded would come streaming in. The supply caravan was naturally the group that would be moved across last, when all the troops were already on the other side.

Anarion sat on the ground in the shadow of one of the wains, working on a bundle of arrows. The work was familiar, the Rangers needed so many arrows that most of them learned to make their own. His hands were well acquainted with the task and even when still able to see he had rarely needed to. Carefully he checked the feathers that he had just cut for the arrow, one diagonal cut to shape them ideally for an archer to aim over long distance. Putting it with the others, he took the next and began the task anew.

“You are really skilled with these,”

Anarion tilted his head, the voice was familiar, a deep baritone, pleasant to hear but just a bit different from the voices of men.  “Kili,” he greeted the dwarf, for it was his voice he had heard. “your people are not yet across the river?”

“Dwalin had them over an hour ago; Boromir bade me stay until the riders go.” Kili replied. “He won’t make the crossing himself before nightfall I guess. I was surprised to see you here, though. They would have sent you to the houses of healing.”

The young Ranger barked a laugh. “Most of my injuries are cuts and bruises, a few burns… the traces of Orc affection. And my eyes no healer can fix. So why take up their time? I’d rather do something useful.” He had affixed the feathers at the next shaft and cut them with a deft hand. “I can’t fight anymore, Kili, I know that well enough. But I still can make arrows and the Rangers will need a myriad of them when the battle begins.”

“I agree, though men to sharpen blades and knives are in even shorter supply, with most of the blacksmiths fixing chainmail shirts and hammering out dents in shields.”

“That’s why you are here, I guess?” Anarion asked, remembering the dwarf’s incredible skill with his hands. “to help until the crossing can be made?”

“Something like that, if you want I can show you.”

Anarion arched an eyebrow. “That would be a waste of time; the caravan master has already decreed me unfit to travel on with the rest.”

“And there won’t be blades to sharpen in Cair Andos and Minas Tirith, when we fail to return?” Kili asked, he lightly put a hand on Anarion’s arm, offering guidance if the younger man was willing to take it.

Getting to his feet, Anarion walked with the dwarf towards the next wagon, he had memorized his surroundings best that he could and was not afraid to move through the camp. Kili guided him to sit down with the sharpening stone. They began with a dagger, Kili’s hands guiding Anarion’s work, showing him how it was done. Time and again the Ranger was amazed how the dwarf knew how to guide him, how to teach him. The next dagger he had to do alone, with corrections, then a sword followed, he began to get a feel for the sort of skill the sharpening wheel needed. When Kili handed him an axe next for examination, Anarion was surprised, but used his hands to examine the weapon’s shape, only twice he felt Kili’s gentle grip, correcting him in his work. “How do you… how do you know…?” He was not quite what he wanted to ask, why Kili was helping him, or how the dwarf knew exactly what help Anarion may need.

“The man who taught me the beginnings of the art when I was still a wee lad was named Narvi,” the dwarf told him. “he was an old bladesmith, about the age of Thrain. When our people fled the mountain, he was injured, blinded by the dragon’s fire. He never let it wear him down; when I met him he was still a great bladesmith and survivor. It is not that you were blinded Anarion, it is what you allow it to do to you that counts. You came here, to help, knowing what it will mean when we are defeated. You knew and came anyway, accepting what lies ahead.”

“I’d rather go down fighting, helping those who fight and make my stand where they find me, than run and hide.” Anarion said fiercely. “Death… death hunts all of us, Kili, and he is the hunter that never fails.”

He felt the dwarf lightly clap his shoulder, a wordless agreement, before Kili called out to another dwarf. “Beris, over here!” Heavy steps approached them as another dwarf came close.

“Anarion, this is Beris, son of Bofur, he is our supply master. Beris, Anarion can go with our people.” The other dwarf squatted down, Anarion heard the jingle of armor and leather. “An arrow maker Kili, gladly, I’ll be happy to have him.”

Touched by the dwarves’ will to allow him to stay, Anarion reached for Kili’s shoulder, he could say where the dwarf was, for he heard him breathe. “What about the caravan master.”

Beris chuckled. “He can report it to his king, if he wants to. We are allies here, Anarion, not liege men. Come, I’ll show you to our camp and bring that menacing horse of yours along. It already knows where we are going.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Éowyn led Stormcaller on the swaying barge, gently speaking to the horse which was nervous at being forced to enter the barge. It was already dawn and the setting sun graced the river with her fiery light. “That would be the last, my Lady,” Brithonin reported, leading two horses on the barge. One was Aeledher, her own horse and another one that Éowyn did not know.

“Good, it’s already late and the supply caravan needs to ship as well,” She said. “Who’s horse is that, Brithonin?” It was a white horse with a beautiful silvery bridle.

“I do not know, my Lady, but it stood by the landing for hours now. I think the soldier it belongs to long shipped over and he should miss his horse.”

“Then we better bring the noble steed back to the lazy master,” Éowyn laughed softly. “and Brithonin, it is Dernhelm from now on. No my Lady, or titles. Just Dernhelm.”

Brithonin answered with a quick salute, acknowledging the orders given, when a man walked on the barge moments before it could push off the landing. “Mayhap the lazy soldier had to take care of too many things,” he said with a good-natured smile. “and his horse found a valiant defender.”

“Lord Faramir,” Éowyn was surprised that the Captain of the Rangers was not yet across the river.

“Only Faramir now,” The Ranger replied. “this is not a time for lofty titles…” his eyes held hers and there was a great sadness in them. “How many of your people, of your women and girls have come to fight for us?” He asked.

“All that passed muster,” Éowyn told him. “but this is no reason to look at us with pity. When your people gave Eorl the Young permission to dwell on the plains of Rohan, he swore an oath to come to Gondor’s aid whenever called. Now the need is dire and we stand to fulfill the oath of our people. Would you have us do any less?”

“Nay,” Faramir replied. “and yet it pains me to see the price your people are paying to fulfill their obligation. Your people are proud, Dernhelm and lucky to have so many like you.”

She smiled at him, leaning against the side of the barge, as the ship moved slowly along the ropes that held it on course. “If this war is lost, there will be no safety anywhere, Faramir. There is no miracle to safe us, no Elven High King from legend coming at the head his army to save us, no ships to come from the west carrying a host like the world has never seen to defeat the darkness, it is up to men to show their quality, to show we can protect this world. This is a burden and a noble obligation, and we are lucky to have the men of Numenór to lead us in it.”

                                               .                                                              .                                              .

The next day the army followed the very same road the Haradrim had taken to the black gates, riding the long road through Ithilien north towards Morannon. By nightfall they had reached the broken lands before the gates of Mordor, afar they could already see the Black Gate’s looming towers. They made camp there that night, knowing the next day they would reach their destination.

Boromir walked among the campfires, the elven cloak allowing him to pass without arousing attention wherever he came. Mood was tense; few would sleep this night, not with the fires of Mordor blazing at the dark horizon. At some fires the mood was grim, determined with warriors sitting together, ready to ride and die. He knew these men, men who had all their life fought at these borders and who knew that each time you walked into the shadow of these mountains could be your last. They expected nothing short of death and would make the enemy work hard for that success. On other fires mood was more subdued, Boromir could see fear in the eyes of many a man there, hope was failing them rapidly. More than once he stopped at such fires, sometimes a few words could help rebuild morale. He spotted Éomer doing much of the same, the Rohirrim had the much harder task, many of his riders were no soldiers, many were too young, and having come out of Helm’s deep to ride to war.

The Gondorian Captain saw Éomer stop between two fires to talk to one such young warrior, there was some familiarity between them, someone he knew obviously. What they spoke of he could not tell, but he saw Éomer clap the younger man’s shoulder, gesturing to follow him as he continued his walk.

Continuing on through the camp he saw the dwarves, Kili and Dwalin too walking among them.  The mood was better here, now and then the tune of a song rose from one of the fires. Dwalin and Kili had stopped with a group by a large fire, where a corpulent dwarf was handing out food. He asked them something and they laughed. When the laughter calmed down, Dwalin nudged Kili slightly, having spotted Boromir watching them. The younger dwarf nodded, leaving the fire, not without asking another one of the group for something.  When Kili walked towards Boromir, a song rose behind them, a sad, dark tune like so many of their songs.

Old grey stone down by the roadside

High above a hawk you hear

Autumns cold greets the new year,

The way back home runs far and wide,

Running along the rivers side

Abandoned in the empty years

it neither voice nor traveler hears.

When will the Moon change our tide?

The Raven's wings so black, dear heart,

no curse will turn them white,

The road will be so long, dear heart

we won't be home tonight.

Dark dank ruin on the mountain

swift falcons high above

broken walls and empty fountain.

The way back home runs far and wide,

following the mountain's side,

but it is never spoken of

do you know a place to hide?

The Raven's wings so black, dear heart,

no curse will turn them white,

The road will be so long, dear heart

we won't be home tonight.

“I’d have asked them for a different song, but we’d have ended with the one of the willow tree,” Kili said as he reached Boromir.

The Gondorian had listened to the dwarven song, as it went on behind them. “It is about the lone lands, is it?” he could easily hear the life of wandering, of being alone and without a home in the words, in the sad tune.

“Aye,” Kili confirmed his suspicions. “we have been wandering those lands for many years… you have seen them for yourself, Boromir. They inspire songs of that kind.”

They had walked a bit, ending up at a small fire with Éomer and Haleth. “Your people seem cheerful,” the younger of the two Rohirrim said after a moment of silence.

“They are a hard people,” Kili replied. “Tough, fierce, loyal… they laugh and sing; because in the lives they lived each day could have been the last. They are a wild kind, a special kind… and I couldn’t wish for better friends or fighters by my side to face the end.”

“Have your people fought many wars?” Éomer asked. “I know little of your kind, except those who would cross Rohan as travelling workers, smiths and tinkers…”

Kili smiled slightly. “I’ve done that too a few times. We had some great battles in the last two hundred years and we always had our share of trouble with the Orcs – there’s no shortage of them in the lone lands.”

Boromir could see that answer was not what Éomer had expected. “During our travels, I have heard bits and pieces of the story how your people reclaimed the lonely mountain, Kili,” he said. “you, Bofur, Dwalin… you were with those who did it. But I never heard the full tale.” 

“It is a long story,” Kili pointed out.

“It is a long night,” Éomer responded, settling down comfortably by the fire. “and a good story would shorten it.”

Sitting down as well, Kili looked at the fire, for a moment lost in thought, when he began to speak he told them of the Kingdom under the Mountain and how the dragon came to destroy it. How Thorin Oakenshield escaped and wandered the world with his people and how he finally called for those willing to risk the journey back. Kili’s words took them along on the journey, to the Shire where they met the burglar, their Hobbit and how they set out on the road. Boromir already knew the story about the trolls, but he did not mind hearing that a second time and hearing what happened after, how they had been hunted by Warg riders right to the gates of Rivendell.  The journey across the mountains and the misadventure in Goblin Town, Kili did not speak of pain or fear, instead he gave a colourful description of the Goblin King and his fear of Orcrist the Goblin-Cleaver, a harrowing flight from the mountain followed and a further attack by Azog and his warg riders, a fight where one small Hobbit saved the life of Thorin Oakenshield. His words carried them away to the house of Beorn and the deeps of Mirkwood, to the dungeons of the elves and to a barrel ride after their Hobbit had rescued them from the cells. They found themselves laughing a lot at these parts, before the journey went on to Lake Town and finally the desolation of Smaug.

When Kili spoke of the dragon’s gold and the curse that had befallen Thorin, Boromir remembered vividly what the dwarf had said to him on Amon Hen. Spellbound he listened to the tale of the Battle of the Five Armies and of Thorin’s heroic last stand against Azog the Defiler.

“They buried Thorin Oakenshield, King under Mountain and his nephew Fili in a stone grave under the pines on the heights that so long ago had blazed in Smaug’s terrible fire.” Kili finished his tale. The first grey light of dawn already rose beyond the clouds. 

“Your great King died, giving his people back their home,” Haleth said softly. “is this what will happen here to? Our King dying to give us a chance?”

Kili looked at the youth. “No,” he said. “we fight to buy more time. Deep in Mordor, Bilbo’s nephew is trying to finish his mission, and when he succeeds the enemy will be finished. He will do it, I know he will. Our Hobbit always came through for us, even when things looked bleakest. And Frodo will too. But we need more time, Haleth, we fight so the world still has a chance.”

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

On the other side of the black gates the night was just as restless, troops were amassing in the shadow of the towers, legions were made ready and orcs were shouting in their shrieking voices. The man striding up the rampart of the gate had a watchful eye on the proceedings, even while he hurried. Idrakhán was an Easterling, a warrior in his prime, he had served the Dark Lord for longer a life than his face might show and while the news of the defeat before Minas Tirith still rankled, the Easterling was all the more itching to get to the field. The dark banner was flying again, and they would march to take the world come morning.

The wall was nearly empty, except for one dark figure, standing motionless on the middle of the mighty battlements. Idrakhán approached until he was ten steps away and dropped to one knee, eyes down, waiting to be acknowledged.

Rise

The voice echoed in his mind like a searing whip. Like others who had long served in the Old City he was well used to this and did not flinch. He had walked through the magic rites of Minas Morgul without so much as a groan, the black seal engraven on his very bones. The Nazgul voices were nearly familiar conversation in comparison.

Report.

“Fifteen legions have arrived from Gorogorth, along with nine fists of Olog-hai and a number of Trolls, not as many as I would like, but those units are slow moving. We have picked up any surviving Haradrim and swept then into one legion, they will make serviceable auxiliaries still. The Varigians and Eastern troops that could reach us are here, and we are still getting more Orc troops from Gorgoroth, I’ve send Black and Red fist back to whip on the stragglers.” He ran down the list of troops they had amassed here. “We do not have Drakár to support us this time, your Highness.”

The last was an address the Easterlings would only give one Nazgul, the very one standing here. Khamûl had been a sorcerer and their greatest king, serving him was the greatest honor that could still be bestowed upon any Easterling house, no matter how high or low.

You are concerned about this? The mind-voice asked. They do not have our numbers.

“Numbers don’t win battles, your Highness. And they have to have something up their sleeve, some surprise we don’t see, or they’d not be here. I’d prefer to have monsters or creatures to give them a surprise when needed.”  Idrakhár’s eyes went down over the battlement where he could see the nightly camp, arranged in one main line and four to each side, the campfires formed the white tree of Minas Tirith. Boromir, he thought, that was his style, give the enemy something to see and worry about, tell them I am here and I am ready for you, the Captain of Gondor was a bold and brave man, if he did this then he had a plan and that plan worried Idrakhár.

A gesture of the armored figure pointed him to come closer, he followed the invitation and the invisible hand in the dark gauntlet let two pale keys drop into his palm. Have these send to your best beast commander, to unleash the pale drakes they hold. Two cold drakes, the last of their kind, they will be all what is needed.

Surprised  but glad Idrakhár bowed deeply, that was the kind of thing to break even the most cunning plan the Captain of Gondor could device. “It shall be done immediately, your Highness.” He said, intending to leave, but another gesture of the gloved hand held him back.

Kneel.

Idrakhán followed the command, kneeling at the feet of the great Nazgul, Khamûl King and Lord of the Easterling Empire. The gloved hand touched his bare head and he felt a searing pain rush through his bones, needing all his control to not scream out. It was no harm that came to him, but a spell, a seal of power and protection like only the former sorcerer and now Lord of the Nazgul could grant.

In the battle you shall find their leader. You will slay him for me. And you will bring that which he carries to me. To me. To none else.

“As you ordered it shall be done, my Lord.” Idrakhán had his instructions. 

Chapter Text

The host of the free people had arrived at the Black Gates, going from marching formation to battle grouping, on their right flank the Riders of Rohan formed the long wing, with Aragorn to lead the center, Boromir was on the left wing of the formation, not that he actually hoped to keep any semblance of strategy going through the first encounters, in these grounds the battle would become fractured easily, which was the reason why the most seasoned commanders had been split up on a wide area, to not loose coordination of the field prematurely.

Standing on the broken hillside Boromir hardly heard Aragorn’s speech to the armies, though his voice carried far enough for them all. It was a good speech all in all; something to rouse the men and carry them into the battle to come, yet the Captain had no ears for it. Deep inside, behind the carefully guarded mask of the Captain, Boromir was exhausted. He knew had he not stayed up the last night and tried to sleep the nightmares would have returned. The dreams of the ring had haunted every night for longer than he cared to admit, and without the steadfast support of his brother and friend, he’d have broken weeks before. But he was tired and determined to make an end. Here and now things would find an end, if through the destruction of the ring or through his own demise, probably both.

From afar he watched how Aragorn beheaded Sauron’s mouth, and for the first time he truly cheered the King on, this was the way to deal with Sauron’s demands. The wings of the black gate swung open fully and the host of the dark lands charged at the field, the battle had begun.

The first waves of battle were Orcs, myriads of them poured out of the black gate. Their first ranks cut down by the archers, but there were more coming, no matter how many of them were shot; there was no end to them. Boromir called his men to advance, they caught the Orcs storming for the heart of the army in the flank, much like the Rohirrim did on the other side. The clash of the armies was fierce, a thunder of steel and bodies, death and only the beginning of the end. Boromir’s blade ate its way through the ranks of Orcs like sickle reaping ears, with them hopelessly outnumbered strength lay in attack, in relentlessy pushing the enemy. The Gondorian captain seemed to never stop, always moving, the sword finding one enemy after the next, always stabbing, slashing, always attacking and pressing forward, to his left he knew Veryan of Dol Amroth, covering his flank. He could not tell how long they had been fighting like this, against the endless Horde of Orcs, the endless black wave that got driven against them with the will and fear of the Nazgul, but the sun was already high in the sky when there was a break for the first time.

Boromir found himself standing on one of the foothills east of the black gate and the Orcs were pulling back for the first time in the day. He knew that could only mean the enemy was grouping. “Close ranks!” He bellowed, the foothill was a good point to take on the next attack. Their army had splintered into several groups, he could see that but there was little chance to reunite with them now.

“I’d bet they’ll break out the Olog-hai and Haradrim next, Captain,” Veryan’s face was hidden under the swan helmet he wore, but Boromir could hear the grim humor in the man’s voice. They had come without hopes and there was a brutal satisfaction in the price they’d extract from Sauron for killing them.

“They just wanted to clean out the barracks, because they’ll breed Uruk-hai the next time,” Boromir joked back, just as grimly. He heard some laughter among the ranks of his men, and felt a surge of pride. These were Gondor’s best sons, those who would walk into the heart of the shadow for her and could still laugh at the danger.

It was not Haradrim that took the field, but Easterlings. Their black scale armors, the Morgul armor with the tabard of the blood flame, send a shiver down Boromir’s spine. There came the best the black lands had to offer, and they’d fight to their deaths.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

Idrakhár deftly jumped on the back of the winged terror that the Varigian rider had held ready for him. Two more Varigians were with him, but only to keep the beast alive, for he’d need it quickly again once his task was done. When they swooped down on the field where the Easterlings began to attack the enemy, the Varigian Khan pointed towards one of the smaller groups. “Look there, it’s their damned Numenóran King, get me my arrows and we’ll shorten the war a little.”

“No Brazukh Khan,” Idrakhár said sharply. “you committed two crimes in just one breath. Once you called this Ranger a King and you suggested to make him a martyr to our treachery. No, the enemy needs to see him defeated, humbled, crushed in single combat.” He could see that the King was trying to reach one of the faltering groups of his smashed center and thus had exposed himself. Stupid, stupid, noble but a mistake. “Set me down,” the Easterling ordered.

The fell beast swooped, causing Aragorn’s horse to panic, the Ranger just managed to jump off before the animal fled in a panic. Aragorn drew his sword, Anduril glowing in the light of the spring day, but instead the expected Nazgul he saw himself faced with one Easterling fighter, drawing his sword in almost casual poise. “Did the Orcs slay your Royal Guard or did you leave them… oh I forgot you don’t have one yet.”

Aragorn ignored the mockery; he was far from underestimating the Easterling Captain. Any warrior who won that much of Boromir’s regard while being the enemy had to be supremely dangerous. “I do not need guards,” he replied as he went to attack. Their blades met and the Easterling broke the block in one fluid move, pushing Aragorn back. His attacks came like a hailstorm, with a speed and strength that forced the King to block and dodge swiftly. Had he had not been trained by the elves he would hardly have lasted through the first bout. This man was more than dangerous; he was one of the best swordsmen he had ever encountered. With desperate force he caught the enemy’s blade in a block, Anduril sliding down the curved sword to hit the guard, Aragorn broke the struggle of strength with all the power he had, pushing as hard at his opponent. He managed to land one hard hit at his right shoulder, but the wound did not slow the man down, it seemed like he did not feel any pain or exhaustion. Again he stormed against Aragorn, their swords clashing, metal shrieking under the strain.

It happened faster than Aragorn could have seen it coming, the Easterling showed a flaw in his cover and the Ranger made use of it, intending to drive the blade through the man, but with lightning speed the Easterling dodged and in one fierce strike smashed the blade from Aragorn’s hand. Anduril spun through the air and landed on the ground twenty steps away. Quickly the King drew his elven dagger, he knew his chances had just dropped, but surprisingly he heard the Easterling laugh. “Not so easy, King, I’ll see you dead in my own time.” He picked up the shield of a dead battle troll and tossed it, it hit Aragorn squarely, nailing him to the ground, trapped under the heavy metal that was ground into the bloody earth. The Ranger tried to free himself, but he felt something dark, like an icy magic in the metal that weighed him down to the ground. His sword drawn the Easterling approached and Aragorn knew the man would behead him, he met the enemy’s eyes evenly, daring him to do his worst.

“Oh no, you won’t!” Idrakhán’s sword was blocked by Thoroniâr’s blade, the Captain of the Tower Guard along with his remaining men had managed to fight their way past the Orc troops that had been cutting them off and the Captain stood between the Easterling and his King.

The next minutes Aragorn was forced to watch how the Easterling nearly casually slaughtered most of the Tower Guard, it was an effortless butchery that made the Ranger once more suspect that some kind of vile deadly magic had been worked on the Easterling. Thoroniâr on the other hand was not easily defeated, the Captain had seen his men go down, but never lost focus on the enemy, forcing the Easterling into a deadly dance, that cost him time at least. As fierce as their fight was, it came to a bloody end when Idrakhán send the brave captain to the ground, with several bloody wounds that had smashed his armor. “Well fought, Captain, just not good enough to save your King,” the Easterling said. “No one can save him now.”

“I’d dispute that.”

Idrakhán cursed when he saw that the Ithilien Rangers had managed to reach them, most of them had closed ranks to keep the Orcs from reaching the King. But between him and Aragorn now stood Faramir, sword at the ready; the blade shone in his hand like day itself.

Faramir attacked with a determination few would have believed him capable off, neither fear nor hopes on his mind, his entire focus on the enemy he fought, each attack found its block with him, he parried even the fiercest attacks of the Easterling, neither the strength nor the speed of the enemy exhausting him and when he finally attacked in turn each hit of his blade was cutting through the dark enchantments strengthening the Easterling.

When Aragorn saw the opening in Faramir’s cover he screamed a warning, but it was too late, Idrakhár’s sword found its target, buried in Faramir’s body. But suddenly the Easterling stumbled, breaking down, Faramir’s sword having pierced his heart. In his fall he yanked his own blade free.

Faramir came back to his feet, hurrying to Aragorn, but when he tried to remove the shield trapping the King, he could not move it.

“Your sword,” Aragorn gasped. “it cut through the spells before.” He saw the hesitation in the Ithilien Ranger’s eyes. “I trust you, break this thing.”

Without further hesitation Faramir did as he was order, his blade smashing the troll shield, breaking the dark enchantment used to hold it. The Steward’s son raised his sword; it shone bright like a star, white light flooding over the field. The Orcs surrounding them shrieked and began to flee from the light of the blade.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

The light from one of the other foothills sent the Orcs fleeing, but neither Easterlings nor Haradrim paid it much heed. For a moment Boromir had felt a fierce pain, like a blade stabbed into his body that he could not understand. He had focused on the enemy, who was regrouping quickly coordinated by their General. For the first time during this battle Boromir could peg the enemy commander – a Nazgul on his beast, sitting right between the wings of the Black Gate. With the Orcs in total disarray, running scared from the light, the way was free. He looked to Veryan. “Time to cut off the head,”

“And you always said charging a Nazgul was crazy.” The Swan Knight followed his Captain without any hesitation in spite of his words, the rest of the troop formed up with them.

“I learned better, Veryan.” Boromir took point as they moved on the Black Gate. “Hope is the spark of Light. And Hope is the banner of freedom.” Kili had taught him that, and he’d gladly die keeping to this belief, to this hope. They passed the field unopposed, the Nazgul, having sensed their approach brought his beast up and into attack. It swooped over them, grabbing and tossing a dozen of Boromir’s men in the first attack alone. Coldly Boromir turned, there was no fear in him anymore, no horror, not even the black wings of the Nazgul could cause him to freeze any more. When the beast came down again he waited until it was right above him, ramming the black sword into the beast’s belly.

The beast shrieked pained, trashing as it tried to get away, wings flapping in obvious pain but the Captain was not finished, he brought the blade about to cut off the beast’s ugly wing.

                                               .                                                              .                                              .

Across the field Kili nearly broke to his knees when the old wound in his side flared in pain renewed and a wave of dark despair washed over him. “Dragon!!” The panicked shout echoed over the field. Looking up Kili saw a huge form all but eradicating the Rohirrim formation to his right.

He saw long bright lance of eerie blue fire, hissing down from the hill. It failed to hit him only by inches, incinerating the stone ground all along the way, cold blue flames flickering from each stone or body it came in contact with. In the cold winter light of the burning stones Kili saw a gigantic shadow rise, with tall wings, a long neck and an ugly head rising above him. All in him froze from sheer terror. There was only one fire in this world that could burn stones and melt souls that would burn and still be colder than ice: nothing in this world or the next could stand against the winter fire of a cold drake. A dragon had come down from the dens of the Ered Lithui raising his head for another lance of cold fire to scorch the stony grounds under the Black Gates.  Like a burning, melting wave, fear washed over Kili, the deep rooted, warning fear, the terror all of his kind carried ever since they first had ventured into the Grey Mountains or opposed Melkor’s dragons. The drake leapt forward, faster than anything his size should be able to move, paws cleaving the air, swooping down at dwarven warrior. Kili saw the attack coming; he evaded it by jumping sidewards, more a reflex than a decision of his mind. Haleth, one of the Rohirrim still standing, got hit by one of the dragon’s hindpaws and was thrown through the air like a leaf in late autumn. He hit ground somewhere near the flames. Éomer managed to barely evade a similar attack, but a strike with the dragon’s tail he could not escape.

An icy cold feeling fell over Kili’s mind, suppressing all feelings, fear, terror, even the ancestral horror of the drakes was drowned by it, nothing remained but a cold calm feeling. Like he could feel Boromir’s icy calm in the face of danger from afar. From one moment to the other he saw the dragon and Éomer fighting him alone, like through a crystal, clear but cold. Few paces covered the distance to the dragon. He took his blade two handed and led a strike against the dragons paw. Clinking the blade was thrown back by the scaly skin of the dragon; the sword had not even left a scratch on the scaled skin. The throwback force alone made Kili nearly stumble. He might not have done any damage, but now he had the complete and undivided attention of the drake. With an angered evil scowl the dragon’s head turned to him, glowing yellow eyes were sparkling dangerously at the dwarf who had dared to arouse the drake’s ire.

 Instantaneously he realized he was in biting reach of the dragon, and about to become a one bite snack to the unfriendly beast. He saw the open maw with the gigantic teeth and the snakelike tongue coming down on him. With an icy composure he waited for the drake’s mouth to be close enough for a direct attack against the dragon’s head. He had miscalculated slightly on how fast the cold drake moved, Kili’s blade missed the target and hit one of the big glittering teeth instead. Thousands of splinters sprang in any direction, when the tooth smashed by the sword. In pain the dragon screamed and raised his head howling. From the corner of his eye Kili saw Éomer attack the beast again, but his sword was useless against the scales.

In the dragon’s pained howl, Kili saw his only chance, leaning back to give his arm more force he threw his blade at the bright open eye of the dragon. The blade, thrown with all force the dwarven warrior could muster, flashed through the air and hit the amber like eye precisely. The dragon’s deathcry shook the ground, his gigantic wings, ripped Éomer and Kili of their feet, throwing them through the air. The lashing tail broke the rocks of the hillside, stones raining down on them.

Finally the body of the dragon fell , his wings stretched out in death, as if he wanted to fly again, a last time he opened his mouth and a small blue firelance hissed from it, vanishing into the ground, lightening additional fires to all those that were already burning. But it was different this time, it kept on running through the vale, forming an oval circle around them. It took some moments before Kili understood that this was not last breath but a last spell of the dying dragon. Deep in his heart he admired the willpower of the dying creature to muster the strength for a last final spell. “If I can show half this strength and determination when it comes for me to die, I can be proud.” He thought. The circle finished that moment, the ends it met crackling and hissing flames murmuring and muttering coldly.

Éomer and Haleth closed ranks with Kili, the three the only men still standing in this part of the field, A dry whisper flitted through the air, first it was drowned by the cracking of the rocks still on fire and the groaning of the dying dragon.  But when the last light in the eye of the dragon flickered out, they heard the whispering drawing nearer from all sides of the fiery encirclement. It came from everywhere, echoing forth and back like soft voices whispering in the wind. Shocked Kili saw how the flames parted and creatures of burning stone rose from them. They reminded him of the Storm Giants he had seen long ago, only smaller and aflame with the cold dragon’s fire. Many of them rose from the ring of fire. Kili gripped his blade firmly, this battle had just begun.

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Boromir felt pain, like a jab in his side and a fear like a drowning wave; he shut both out, pushing past it. The Nazgul’s beast was dead but the Rider had not fled but dismounted drawing his pale blade. Boromir stood alone, most of his men were dead or wounded, many tossed aside by the beast’s wings. He swallowed hard, both hands gripping the hilt of the black sword. “Till hope dies and life is gone, till dawn fails and light burns out, on the last day to carry hope into the eye of the Shadow.” He whispered the blessing he knew engraved on the black sword, as he faced the Nazgul, he would fight the fell creature to his dying breath, no matter if he had a chance or not.

                                               .                                              .                                              .

“Spread out!” Dwalin shouted when he saw the drake, a second cold drake had come down from the mountains, opposite from where the first had decimated the Rohirrim. Dragons, he should have known. The enemy had had more chances to recruit than just Smaug, old miserable bastard that he had been. The dwarves reacted quickly, dissolving their formation fast enough to note give the beast an easy target. A fire lance shot down on them, cold and glittering. It woke memories in Dwalin, dark memories of the day Erebor fell, of the hopeless day that had started their long years of wandering.

The dragon swooped around his tail aimed at Dwalin, the dwarf only just evading it, he got tossed over the ground and hit hard rock. Drawing Grasper and Keeper, his two axes the warrior growled. He remembered the day the dragon came, he remembered Thorin leading the army against the dragon, standing strong in the face of the beast.  Remembering Thorin’s courage, his strength, Dwalin advanced at the dragon. He’d not let his King down.

Bofur’s hammer came down on the dragon’s paw, it may not have penetrated the scales but it definitely crushed a few bones. The dwarves were tackling the drake from all sides; Bifur’s spear finding a weak spot and nailing the tail to the ground, others doing small damage where they could. But it was the dwarven warmaster who tackled the head of the monster. One axe in each hand, Dwalin fought with the fierceness of all his being and with the absolute disregard for his own life. The blades of the axes smashed the drake’s maw bloody and battered the head scales. Both axes went blunt on the fight. Dwalin dropped them picking up a Haradrim sword, never ceasing the attack. When the drake tried to bite him again, he let it come and drove the sword through the roof of the dragon’s mouth and into his skull.

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Boromir did not know how he could have lasted that long against the Nazgul, but the black sword withstood the hits of the Morgul Blade in his enemy’s hands like it had been forged for exactly this fight. The skies were already darkening around them and their blades still clashed, the Nazgul getting stronger with nightfall. Ducking under one fierce blow, Boromir brought up the blade like he was fighting a mortal man and not an immortal Nazgul. The sword hit the armor cutting through it like butter, the Nazgul shrieked, howling in pain as his body was ripped through and crumbled to ashes.

Pain erupted in Boromir’s mind as the whispers of the ring became a fiery lash, scorching his very soul. A fiery light rose at the horizon, so bright like a second sunset. The Orcs screamed in panic, beginning to flee as parts of the Black Gates broke under the shaking of the ground. The searing pain in Boromir’s mind grew, like a fire burning itself right through his skull, like something dark and vile, more sinister than all he had ever felt reached for him. Through his nightmares and the whispers he had heard for so long it reached to him, and much as he did not want that vile power any more he knew he could not fend it off on his own. He fell to his knees, shaking with pain, with horror, even as he saw Mt. Doom’s fires rise in the distance, heralding the end of the Ring.

The darkness surged, filling him with a pain beyond anything he had ever felt. Boromir knew he would not last long before the escaping power of the Ring would take hold in him. Here and now on the field of death he saw that nothing, neither forsaking power nor setting aside his pride and ambitions could shield him against a darkness that had had a life long time to attack his very soul. His eyes fell on the black sword, there was a way out, he could deny the enemy a vessel for his fleeing power by simply ending it. He could die and be free of this evil. The Captain had never feared death, and when he took up the black sword it was with utter calm, even as his mind was lashed by the fiery whip of the dying darkness.

And then it stopped, the pain ceased and he felt something, a presence standing between his soul and the shadow. Wracked with pain, barley able to stand he looked up, and in the darkness he saw two figures, one tall, one short, both brightly alight in the shadow surrounding him. From afar, from across the field of death, the very souls of his brother and of Kili were with him, protecting him from the shadow.

In the distance Barad-Dûr collapsed, the black tower that had haunted the world of men for so long faltered and failed, crashing into the ground. Tears rose in Boromir’s eyes as he saw it and he was not ashamed to cry. His whole life, from the day he had turned sixteen to this very moment had been dedicated to protect this people, protect his world from this pinnacle of doom and now… finally, it fell. It had not fallen from the hand of men, there never would be a host of armies to break Barad-Dûr, but Boromir was glad for it. He now knew with utmost clarity that no army could have conquered the fortress of darkness, no leader would have gone unchanged by its evil. The dark tower fell thanks to two Halflings, who had done the impossible.

The ground broke up, the black gate collapsed and the stones under Boromir’s feet began to crumble, he struggled to his feet, trying to race away from the destruction but it was too late, the stones fell under his feet and he was tossed into the deep, falling into shadow he knew no more.

Chapter Text

Torches blazing into the night lit the night that covered the battle field and the camp. The supply caravan had moved closer to the field and made camp on the last ridges above the battlefield. Getting the exhausted, the wounded and the dying off the battlefield was a work that kept every soldier still standing on their feet that night. The healers had the hardest task of them all, trying to save as many as they could and still having to leave all lighter injuries to be tended to by other soldiers.

Faramir sat leaning against the side of a rock, trying to steady his breathing. His chest wound had been quickly bandaged and he had sent Beregond away to aid others in greater need than him. But the pain welling inside him was not from the wounds, or the exhaustion, it was something else, which he had felt during the battle several times. Boromir, he was out there, injured and alone in the darkness. How Faramir knew he could not tell, but he felt it like knives cutting into his own body.

“Careful!” He heard a light voice snap at someone in camp. Looking up he saw the girl that had led his horse to the barge on the river, leading a horse that carried two wounded soldiers into camp. She handed the reigns over to one of the people in charge of the wounded. Faramir pushed himself up to his feet and approached her. “Brithonin is it?” he asked, recalling Éowyn calling her that.

The young soldier gave a curt nod. “Lord Faramir, shall I find a healer?”

He waved it off. “No, I was already seen to. Is there any news of my brother? Any at all?”

The Rohirric girl shook her head. “No, no one has found him yet. Éomer King is missing too; Dernhelm is looking for him deeper in the fields where the cold drake came down. My father…” she did not go on, marshaling herself to a semblance of composure.

So her father had been among the Rohirrim first facing the wrath of the beast, maybe dead, maybe missing. Faramir felt ashamed that he had only cared about his brother, how many brothers, fathers, lovers lay out there dead or dying with their families having to go on. Before he could say something, Brithonin clasped his arm, much as a soldier would. “Do not worry, my Lord, I’ll find someone to help with the search.”

A new surge of pain nearly brought Faramir to his knees, this time he was not sure it was Boromir’s pain he felt, it was somehow different, nearly alien to him. Kili? Could it be he felt the dwarf as much as brother? Looking down on his sword arm, he saw the dragon mark having gone darker, like the fire inside was dying. What kind of link, of bond, had been created when the dragon sword broke? He steadied himself, breathing slowly, deeply. If he could feel them, maybe he could share his remaining strength with them.

“If your horse can carry us, it will be what we need,” Brithonin approached him again, along with a tall black horse and a familiar Ranger walking beside. Faramir frowned. Anarion should not even be here.

“Anarion? What are you doing here?” Faramir asked, his head spinning, he tried to fight off the fresh pain. Boromir was getting worse, like slowly slipping away, was he bleeding out?

“Helping, Captain.” The Ranger replied. “Brithonin says Lord Boromir is still out there. Do you know where he was last seen?”

“His men were pushed towards the Black Gate before the Drakes attacked,” Faramir closed his eyes trying to accept the pain, allowing all he sensed to come to his conscious mind. “There is nothing more, pain and darkness… utter darkness.”

“Some of the men said your Captain was the one who attacked the enemy General,” Brithonin said softly. “that would place him somewhere near the broken gate.”

“We’ll find him, Captain,” Anarion said reassuringly. “we will go at once.”

“I should come with you.” Faramir forced himself to stand, to deal with the cold creeping through the bond. He had to find them, before it was too late and he was glad to have help in this.

                                               .                                                              .                                              .

Éowyn lifted another injured man onto the cart gesturing the old warrior holding the reins to go. She was exhausted beyond belief, her body battered from fighting Orcs, Olog-hai and from the mad charge at the Easterling center. But she could not collapse, she was needed, someone had to keep going. Lord Aragorn was with the healers to save those who were worst injured, her brother was vanished... not yet found on the fields of death. She wanted to scream, to call for her horse and ride find him, like she had done as a girl of barely ten years when her brother had vanished in a bitter winter storm. She had saddled Plainsfire, he late father’s stallion and had ridden into the storm to find him before the cold and the wolves would finish him off. She had killed her first wolf that night, and they had nearly frozen to death but her Uncle had found them in time to bring them home.

Only now her Uncle was resting side by side with his loyal warriors and the black storm that had scoured the world left others depending on her to keep her cool head. She could not go and search for her brother. Not with so many more still out here. She raised her torch, pointing some of her helpers towards a pile of Orc carcasses. “Over there,” she went on, her steps heavy and tired, the torn chainmail and bloodied cloak she still wore, she had only set aside the battered helmet. A soft groan drew her attention; it came from under another stinking pile of bodies. She used a broken spear to remove several dead orcs but beneath them was the carcass of an Olog-hai and she could not move it. Laying the spear aside she grabbed the stinking body with both hands and put all her strength to rolling the vile beast off the wounded man beneath. But this thing wore plate armor, so heavy her arms could not push it enough. She was about to call for some of the others, when two huge tattooed hands grabbed the black troll’s body and pushed it away, freeing the injured rider beneath. Fear and relief warred in Éowyn, when she realized it was not her brother. “Ingvar,” she knelt down beside the brave éored leader, the Olog’s blade had nailed the man through the belly and to the ground. He was barely alive.

She choked, seeing he still lived. “We need to remove the blade,” she whispered.

“He’s beyond your help, M’Lady,” a gruff voice said as a bald dwarf squatted down beside the wounded man. “there’s nothing that can help him now. Let him go home to his father’s gently.”

Éowyn knew the dwarf was right; removing the blade would kill the man as surely as leaving it in. Ingvar was near death, he would not see another day rise. Gently she put her hand to his forehead, not knowing if he still could feel her. “You did so very well, Ingvar,” she said softly in her own tongue. “you are a hero.” Under her hand she felt the skin go cold, a last breath leaving the body rattling, no new breath came.

She forced the lump in her throat down, impatiently wiping the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. A huge hand gently clasped her arm. “Let it out, Lass, he’d not think it a shame that you cried for him.”

Éowyn could hear the gentle concern beneath the gruff voice but she straightened up, forcing herself to stand. “I can’t,” she said. “others need me still.”

The dwarf had risen too, he was a bald, scar faced warrior who’s wild exterior well hid his kind eyes. “I know, lass, you are a daughter of kings, you have to take care of your people. They need your strength to continue. And if the tears came, they’d never stop.” His words echoing an understanding for her, for why she could not allow herself to cry.

“How do you know?” The Princess of Rohan was surprised to see so much understanding in the stranger; usually at this point she’d get a comment about women on battlefields. But he had just said what was in her heart.

“T’was what a dwarven princess told me when she searched the blood field by the gates of Moria for her father, grandfather, brothers… husband…”

“And did she find them?” It was a mercy to think of something else if only for a moment; to think that others had come through horrors like this and went on regardless.

“Her older brother made it; the others sleep on the shores of mirrormere.”  The dwarf looked up at her. “I’ve a few of my men with me, let us help you.”

Together they went to find more survivors on the field. Eventually they reached the devastated grounds the drake had left. No horse would come close to this spot; they shied away from the ashen grounds and the stench. Éowyn looked around, desperately, bodies where she could see in the light of her torch. Had anyone at all survived? Could anyone have made it through this horrible attack? Her boots where covered in a pale ash that also was swirling in the air. “What is this?”

“This cold drake still had the winter fire,” the dwarf replied grimly. “the other only could puff out smoke, but this one… had the cold fire; bad fate for all who faced it.” Suddenly he stilled, listening intently into the darkness. “There,” he pointed left. “survivors.”

Éowyn followed him across the grounds littered with bodies, gingerly stepping across a ring of ash; there were stones everywhere, stones that looked like smashed beings, like stone men of legend. “Over here, lass!” the dwarf called out, clearing away several stone pieces of another such stone man creature. A familiar figure lay beside another broad trace of ash on the ground.

“Éomer,” she hurried over, kneeling down beside her brother. He was still breathing, and while bleeding from several wounds, none seemed immediately deathly, but he was cold, so cold. “What is happening to him?” She could not see a wound that would explain his going cold so quickly.

The dwarf had squatted down on the other side, holding his torch above his pale face, checking his eyes. “He’s a damn lucky bastard,” he said with an affectionate grumble. “he came close to the winter fire, but someone pushed him out of the way. He was touched only a little… and that can be helped. Bofur! Get your ass moving back to camp, tell Beris and Brea I want a kettle of boiling blood cooking by the time we bring this one to camp!” he barked.

“Winter flame?” Éowyn recalled the songs that told of the ancient battles against dragons. “the cold dragon’s fire  that will paralyze him and eat his soul?”

“Aye, lassie,” the dwarf confirmed. “but he was lucky, the touch was fleeting, his eyes are still alive. We’ll help him before it can spread too far. Don’t worry, tis not the first warrior who fought those beasties that my people see.”

Hooves startled her; indeed she saw two horses approach that did not shy away from the dead drake’s body, a lucky turn of events. She rose and waved them close. One was Brithonin back in Aeledher’s saddle, while she saw Faramir and another man on the back of a black mearas. The black horse did not shy from the dragon corpse, while Brithonin had trouble making Aeledher come closer. “I am glad you have reached us,” Éowyn said. “my brother was wounded and we need to bring him back to camp quickly.”

Faramir looked at Éowyn, her brother and Dwalin and his heart clenched. Another man close to death, and the darkness, the cold drawing closer even; how could he give his own brother priority over the lives of others? His thoughts must have been open on his face, for the young Rohirrim could read them. “Aeledher’s could carry us both quickly, my Lord. While Anarion and you could go on and search for your brother.”

“You are searching for your brother, Faramir?” Éowyn stepped closer to the horse, her hand gently touching his arm. “Before the fire erupted I saw him battle the Nazgul over there…” She pointed into the darkness at the black gate. “Go and find him, we’ll get other horses.”

“No,” Faramir dismounted the black horse, his mind made up. “Take your young friend’s offer, and let her help you bring your brother back to camp. He deserves the same consideration.”

Brithonin dismounted and handed Éown the reigns of Aeledher while Faramir deftly joined Anarion on the black steed’s back again, quickly departing into the night towards the region Éowyn had indicated.

They lifted Éomer on the horses’ back; he could not hold himself up there, so Brithonin mounted behind him, holding the wounded man. The dwarf handed Éowyn the reins. “Get them back to camp, lass. Your brother needs you now.”

“I can’t, there’s more wounded out here.” Éowyn knew her duties, even as it tore shreds into her soul to not care for her brother.

“Leave that to an old dwarf, lass. I’ll make sure we find all the survivors on this side of the field. Now go – your brother needs you.” While his voice was gruff, his words were kind.

“What is your name?” she asked, taking the reins to guide the horse across the dark field.

“Dwalin. When you get to camp, find Brea, she’ll have the draught for your brother.”

                                               .                                              .                                              .

Anarion dismounted the horse when Faramir told him that the chasm began ahead of them. Parts of the ground were broken and shattered; the Black Gate had collapsed and added it’s rubble to the destruction. He heard the familiar hiss as Faramir lit a torch. “The smell is lighter here…” he said, allowing his senses to understand his surroundings. “there must be less corpses here.”

Faramir understood what Anarion sensed, how he relied on all he had been trained to as a Ranger to work past his blinded eyes. “There are some dead left of us, let’s begin there.” He said the sense of pain receding and strengthening now and then. He had the sense that they were close, though.

The fell beast’s body was surrounded by corpses; many of the soldiers had been ripped to shreds by the creature. Among them Faramir saw many familiar faces, but foremostly he found Veryan of Dol Amroth, who had been slain by the Nazgul. Gently Faramir closed the dead man’s eyes, another friend fallen.

“There’s someone behind us,” Anarion said softly. “someone is breathing, and moving just slightly.”

Faramir listened and after a moment he heard the same over the wind. “Careful behind you is the chasm.” He said, moving closer, holding the torch over the ledge. His heart nearly jumped when he saw his brother lying down on one of the broken ledges beneath them.

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

Dwalin had quickly organized his people to scour the field for more survivors. This was one of the last psrts not searched yet. He also send Bofur and a surviving Gondorian to take care of the search on the other fringes of the field. They had found several injured Rohirrim, among them Haleth and Erkenbrand of Westfold, who were brought back to the camp immediately, but there were few who still lived. The Rohirrim had been torn apart by the cold dragon’s attack. He then went back to the fiery circle where they had found Éomer, a restless feeling telling him to take another look. Only on the third try he found him. Kili was sitting with his back against the dead dragon, a number of smashed stone creatures all around him. It did not take Dwalin a second guess to know that Kili had been touched by the cold drake’s fire. “Dwalin,” Kili whispered, his voice strained.

Kneeling down beside the injured dwarf, Dwalin at once checked Kili’s eyes, they still were black and alive, the cold fire had not run its full course. “How bad is it?” he asked.

“Not so bad, cold mostly, no pain, not even from the other wounds, if that’s the way to go then it is easy.” Kili replied slowly. “can’t feel much, though.”

“The Winter fire, t’was you who pushed those horse men out of the way, was it?” Dwalin grumbled, he did not need an answer. He knew already. “Listen, Kili, I’ll bring you back to camp but you have to promise me that you stay with me, right? Stay awake.” He slipped one arm under Kili’s shoulder, the other under his knees and lifted the younger dwarf up.

“I am not that young a dwarfling anymore, Dwalin,” Kili’s voice was still a whisper but he kept awake as promised. “even back on that other battle, you hardly could carry me.”

“How would you know?” Dwalin grumbled, knowing to what Kili referred. “I carried you then and you haven’t been putting on that much muscle since.”

Kili leaned his head against Dwalin’s shoulder, much like he had done almost eighty years ago, when Dwalin had carried him off that hill outside Erebor. “I remember, Dwalin, I was awake when you carried me, I heard you talk.” He said softly. “I knew you were there, trying to save me. You barely could carry me.”

Dwalin shivered, he vividly recalled that day but he had never been aware that Kili had been coherent at that time. He had kept talking to the badly wounded young dwarf to somehow let him know he was not alone. “I was injured,” he grumbled. “and you wore that plate armor from the Erebor armory. That flimsy chain mail you use now could be elvish make light as it is.”

“It’s not flimsy, just practical.” Kili closed his eyes. “How is it Dwalin that you are always there when our strength runs out? You were there for Thorin, for me… always; we’d all be long dead without you.”

“Don’t you fall asleep on me, Kili,” Dwalin gently shook him, trying to keep his attention. “I’ve seen two Kings fallen and buried in my lifetime, and I’ve sworn when they bury the next than they’ll have to bury me too. I won’t let another of your house down while I still draw breath.”

“Dwalin,” Kili actually managed to raise a hand, making Dwalin look at him. “You never let us down… never.”

                                               .                                                              .                                              .

Faramir reached the bottom of the ledge, carefully balancing on the narrow rocks. Boromir still lay unmoving, but he also was still breathing which was a good sign. He knelt down beside him and checked for injuries, there were several but none was lethal or vicious, Boromir had made it through better than Faramir actually, but there was something dark about him, like a pained echo Faramir felt time and again. But it receded the longer he was with Boromir, much like his presence was pushing away whatever shadow was trying to keep Boromir form ever waking again. When the Ranger went to check the head for injuries, Boromir stirred, grasping for his sword.

“Calm, you are safe,” Faramir said. “or as safe as it gets.”

Boromir groaned and tried to sit up, holding his head. “What’s the situation?” he asked tiredly.

Faramir shook his head, it was so like his brother to ask for a report at once, going back from wounded soldier to Captain in the blink of an eye. “The battle was won, Barad-Dûr has fallen… and we are still finding wounded on the field. We’ll have to get you back to camp. What about your injuries?”

“Nothing serious, just scratches,” Boromir rubbed his head. “but a cold… icy and painful.”

“You feel it too; I thought it came from you.” The Ranger said. “I felt a pain from you, like something… something ripping through you.”

Their eyes met and in the flickering light of the torch Faramir perceived a glance full of haunting and pain. “When the Ring went… Fari, I do not know how you did it but without you and Kili… the dark would have taken me.” Boromir embraced his brother, drawing him close. “I’d have been lost; the dark was calling for me.”

Wordlessly the brother held each other, grateful they had survived, glad the other lived.  Eventually Boromir was steady enough to climb back up with Faramir, and with the first rays of a grey dawn they made their way back to camp.

                               .                                                              .                                              .

The stench from the cauldron was awful and Éowyn struggled to not choke on it, she certainly was not squeamish but she did not want to know what kind of vile draught needed blood as an ingredient. Nevertheless, the treatment of rubbing the stinking stuff into her brother’s skin already showed good effect, he had gotten warmer and was breathing more normally. Éomer was barely coherent though, trying to push the jar and the hands away forcefully when they tried to give him some of the draught. “We’ll need to get at least one jar of that into him,” Brea told her. “and he doesn’t want to drink, he struggles.”

“Even awake I doubt he’d take this vile brew.” Éowyn, gently tried to calm her brother. “He can be very stubborn.”

“Then you’ll need to marry him very well, if he’s a stubborn one.” Brea handed her a spoon, so she could try to get some sips of the brew into him.

“Are you volunteering?” Éowyn joked, finding that some humor had survived in her.

The dwarf woman laughed. “Me? No. Do not take it as an insult, but he is not even the slightest bit attractive. No beard, skinny and tall…” While she spoke there was humor in her eyes as well and both women found themselves chuckling.

They were interrupted when Dwalin arrived carrying Kili. “Brea we need the draught right away, Kili…”

Éowyn left her brother at the dwarf woman’s tender mercies and fetched a whole jar of the stinking concoction. “There, Dwalin.” She said. “will it help him?”

“I hope so, lass, by rights he should be dead, the fire touched him hours ago.” He nudged the dwarf to swallow the draught. Kili swallowed the brew and made a face. “That tastes worse than the stuff you gave me against the red fever when I was a dwarfling.”

The huge warrior gently ruffled Kili’s dark mane. “Back then at least I could bribe you with stories, so you would drink your medicine.” He said fondly. “Now… another jar, we need to get life back into you, or the cold fire will first paralyze and then kill you.”

                               .                                                              .                                              .

Aragorn was exhausted, he had first treated Frodo whom the Eagles had carried back to them, and then the severely wounded. Any healer was needed with the flood of injured pouring in from the fields. He knew the toll of the battle was high and every life that could be saved as was a small victory.

“No, just leave him die in peace,” he heard one of the others say. “He’s lost so much blood, and these wounds… he won’t make it. Give him some peace.”

Going outside the tent to see which hopeless case it was this time, Aragorn was startled to see Thoroniâr, lying on the ground where he had been put down. Vicious wounds covered his body, he was pale from loss of blood, but he was still breathing. “Get hot water and clean bandages,” he told one of the helpers, who hurried to obey his orders. Squatting down beside the soldier, Aragorn took stock of the wounds, most of them were long cuts along the torso, but luckily no broken ribs or punctured lung.

When he began to clean the wounds and put scalding athelas poultices on them, the wounded Captain was yanked from the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness. “The battle…”

It was hardly more than a whisper but Aragorn’s sharp Ranger ears picked it up. He shuddered; did these sons of Gondor ever stop thinking of their dread task and begin to take care of themselves? “The battle is done,” he said. “and now lie still, I can’t give you something against the pain, not yet.”

“We’re on retreat?”

The sheer stubbornness reminded Aragorn vividly of Boromir, the Captain of Gondor had shaped an entire army like that, an army of lions that would fight until their last breath. And while the reality of it made the healer Aragorn shudder, the King knew what a gift such an army was. Stopping his ministrations for a moment, he took the Captain’s hand with his, drawing the full attention of the injured soldier. “We won. I’d have been dead without you and Faramir.” He said, forestalling the man’s attempt to speak. “And I have need of you, Captain. You will survive, do you understand? You will fight for your life and you will survive, that’s an order.” He would need a Captain of his Guard and Thoroniâr was exactly the material for that.

“Aye, my liege…” The man drifted out of full consciousness again, but Aragorn knew his order had been heard, Thoroniâr would live.

                               .                                                              .                                              .

Sunrise was upon the camp and the last searches were done, when the brothers reached the tent that Bofur had pointed them to. They found Éowyn, Éomer, Dwalin and Kili there. Kili was lying in a leaden sleep, like death itself was creeping closer to him. When they approached both brothers felt it, something was drawing Kili slowly under, like an icy echo of something that would kill him. Instinctively, they went to him, Boromir grasped his sword hand, Faramir putting his hand above it. Warmth seemed to spread through them, as the darkening dragons on their arms slowly began to glow in red fire again. Kili heaved a deep breath, his body shaking as the cold fire finally left him.

Awed Dwalin watched. “The gift of brothers…” he said.

“You know what this means?” Faramir asked, his eyes indicating the identical marks on their arms. He had long deciphered the Adûnaic inscription but had not been able to divine anything useful beyond that.

“It is an ancient legend among my people – among Durin’s folk mostly – the legend tells of Durin the Deathless who lived a life long past normal dwarven lifespans. The legend claims that he shared a bond with his chosen brother and as long as one lived the other survived. Eventually his chosen brother was murdered and Durin I died, yet several times in his bloodline there would be a son born so similar to him in appearance and life that they would be crowned under his name.” Dwalin looked at the marks. “However it happened, this spell bonded you as brothers, intertwining your lives and fates, there is no closer bond. You keep each other alive, yet the death of one of you will call all three of you to the halls of Mahal.”

Chapter Text

The first spring moon rose high in the skies above Ithilien, the winds had turned south and finally the chill of the receding winter had evaporated from the nightly air. It was two weeks after the battle at the Black Gates and the army was now camped in Ithilien, close to Cair Andos. With the great number of wounded it had not been feasible to march any further. The spring night found Boromir wandering the earthen walls of the camp, the Captain had walked alone, until he stood under an Ithilien Elm uphill, seeing the shadow of the Ephal Duath under the silver light of the moon. Silently he recalled the names of his men that had fallen in the last battles. Gerion, Corfalas, Corluin… farmer sons from the western provinces, Hirion, Turan, Nardhel… all sons of the white city who had heard the call of war  as young as Boromir had, other names followed, each of them held a face for him and he did not try to push those memories away. It had been a ritual among them, remembering those who had fallen, or who had been left behind under the Shadow. He would not wish to forget their faces. Veryan of Dol Amroth, the name brought a fresh jab of pain, when he recalled the friend of his youth, the loyal comrade… the man who’d have followed him to hell and back if Boromir had asked him to.  “Farewell, Veryan, may your path lead you home.” The Captain raised his hand, reaching out into the dark, wishing his friend a speedy journey to the lands where pain and darkness were but a memory.

They all had agreed to not mourn each other, it had been the compact between them, to not mourn but never forget. For they all had signed up for this war, they all had known that by placing their name on the recruitment roll they had signed their own death warrant. And while Boromir would never forget any of them, he would not dishonor their bravery by mourning openly.

Soft steps startled him out of his reverie, not a soldier the man was too light on his feet, a Ranger most likely. He sighed, recognizing the step. “Thorongil,” he did not turn around he knew it was the Northern Ranger who approached the Elm. “Is there anything you needed me for?” he asked, letting the Captain snap into place.

Aragorn joined him standing on that hill; he wore the same black and silver armor he had worn when they rode from the city. “I wanted to speak to you, alone, without any of the others close to overhear.” The King said calmly. “But I did not wish to disturb you saying your goodbyes. They all will be commemorated properly.”

Boromir shook his head. “Ceremonies are meaningless, Thorongil, they are something for the survivors, for the families, the lovers, for those who have never seen war and will hopefully never face battle; maybe for their sons even to remember what their fathers fought for. But they have no meaning… not to those who fought.” His eyes went to the dark peaks in the distance. “Twenty-three years ago, this very night, I stood with two hundred men over there, near the crossroads. The Easterlings had raided the Eastern shore and dragged away many of our people, corralling them in the Thorn-fortress.”

He still could feel the glances of the other soldiers, their Captain dead, his second wounded and the other lieutentant in favor of retreat and the soldiers suddenly turning to him. It had not been the sons of any noble house who had spoken up, no it had been others. Turan, the son of an armorer in Minas Tirith, Bran, a woodsman’s son and ten years Boromir’s senior and Eradan, an archer from Ithilien. “There has to be another option, M’Lord.” Bran had spoken; he vividly recalled the deep voice of the twenty-seven year old soldier, leaning on his spear. “We can’t leave them hanging.” They had turned to him to come up with a plan, with an option, no matter what their remaining officer said. And while he remembered the cold fear he had felt that moment, seeing that they expected a plan from him, Boromir could only wonder that he had ever been so young.

“We came up with a plan to free out people from that dreadful place, it was risky and we knew we’d not all make it out alive. We made a compact then, we’d not stop to rescue one man and risk the mission, we’d do what was needed to get our people back from their hands and we would not mourn those who died, we would not mourn but never forget.” Boromir closed his hand around a branch of the elm tree. “I gave them my word to not mourn them, but to never forget them. And looking back now, remembering them, I know that they’d be glad to see it finally done, to see the Dark Tower fallen.”

“Did you get your people home?” Aragorn could see that the Captain’s thoughts were not truly with him, but with all the men he had led against the shadow.

“Aye, we got them home. Lost thirty soldiers and the commander in Osgiliath was not sure if he should commend us or have us whipped for disobeying orders. He decided for both, for good measure.” A smile rose on Boromir’s lips. “Baranor… he was one tough commander, the very best.”

“I think I met him as a young man,” Aragorn recalled a young soldier of that name but he had a hard time picturing him as the old grizzled commander of Osgiliath.

His words actually brought Boromir back from wherever his thoughts had been, and the Captain straightened up. “You said you wished to speak to me,” he said, his voice becoming more formal, an unspoken Sire hung in the air after the sentence.

Aragorn sighed inwardly; he could well see the wall Boromir built up. Was this all he’d ever get from the man, a grudging acceptance, because this was how things had to be? “Can we be as honest as we were that day outside the walls of the city?” Aragorn asked, hoping that Boromir would be willing to be open. “I would like to know where I stand with you.”

The Captain shrugged, leaning back against the tree, his posture slightly relaxing. “I wonder why you feel you have to ask, Thorongil,” he said. “when we reach Minas Tirith you will be crowned, and you will have no opposition from me.”

“That is more than I had a right to expect, given how much you despise me.” Aragorn still wondered why Boromir would do that, he could have given Aragorn a lot of trouble, the armies might be awed by the returned King but they would stand behind their Captain beyond doubt or reason.

Pushing away from the tree Boromir approached him, meeting his eyes calmly as an equal. “I may have been harsh with you at times, Thorongil,” he said. “maybe harsher than you deserved, you had your own struggles and dangers to contend with. Maybe we had to fight this war on our own, to become the army that could hold out on that gate as long as we did. Maybe five decades of war were necessary to hammer out the army you could lead unto the Black Gate itself. Had you been here we might have been too weak to last under the storm, so I will hold your long staying away not against you like I once did.” He looked past Aragorn, back to where the city lay beyond the river. “and I think you may be the best thing that could have happened to Gondor. She had her leaders of war, she had her heroes who sleep in their graves under Ithilien’s moons… but now she needs a King of Peace.” His eyes went back to Aragorn, and for the first time the former Ranger could detect vulnerability in them. “And none of us would know how to be that. No one born in this generation has ever seen peace and our fathers knew little enough of it. You will be the healer to heal Gondor and restore peace to our people. In that you are the very best thing you could happen to Gondor.”

The words touched Aragorn’s heart in unexpected ways, coming from the man who had lived a life of war to protect this nation, who had been ready to die for Gondor, they mean a lot, they indicated a trust Boromir had that Gondor would be in good hands with Aragorn. Yet, there was a distance in the man’s green eyes. “Gondor again,” Aragorn observed. “you will always do what is good for her, Boromir. But what of yourself?  You said you can accept that I would be a good King for Gondor…” among the elves Aragorn had learned insight into the souls of others and he could clearly read what there was in Boromir. “A good King for Gondor but never your King, is it?” he asked without any accusation.

“I had never expected to live beyond the last battle,” Boromir replied with absolute honesty. “nor that I’d see the Dark Tower fall in my lifetime.”

“You did not mind following me to your death, because it was necessary to protect Gondor. But now that you have lived through that night…”

“I will not turn on you, if it is that what you fear.” Boromir shook his head. “I will not steal the throne from the rightful Prince. Much as it leaves me with things to consider.”

“Maybe you struggle so much with it, because you do not want to admit that another holds your loyalties already, Boromir.” Aragorn actually sat down on one the boulders, gesturing Boromir to sit as well. The tension had passed from the Ranger now that he was seeing more clearly.

The Captain followed the gesture and sat down. “My first loyalty was always Gondor,” he told him.

“Nay, I would not doubt your loyalty to your homeland, Boromir,” Aragorn said. “but if you had to place this black sword of yours at the feet of any man and swear to him, it would not be me. Though I think I know whom it might be.”

Now Boromir arched an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”

The Ranger laughed. “Boromir, it was frighteningly obvious, though it confounded me at first. When I first met you and Kili in the trollshaws I was simply surprised to see that I could not tell clearly who of you was the leader. You were willing to follow a dwarf’s lead in some things, something unheard of you any son of your fathers’, or of your own reputation. But I chalked it up for you being stranded in a strange land, trying to fulfill your mission. When I saw you with that Axe and noticed your missing dagger as we set out from Rivendell, I thought that this one dwarf might have impressed you somewhat, but when Gimli questioned you, you were so clearly on Kili’s side that I again was confounded what to think. Only in Moria I began to understand.”

“You are not making much sense.” Boromir pointed out.

“The crossroads, where we met Kili, do you remember that day?” Aragorn asked back. “When I told you that it would be better we had some answers and you asked Kili about them? Do you recall that moment?”

Frowning Boromir thought back, he recalled Kili setting down the pack and himself noticing the dwarf was tired. He had guided Kili over to the broken stones to sit. “I do,” he said, not seeing the point.

“When you guided Kili to sit on that broken wall… you acted much like he was a Prince, even staying close like you were a guard,” Aragorn said directly. “you did not even know who he was then, but the way you treated him was like you already knew.” He could see Boromir frown anew. “and then our travel through that place. Of all among us, even Gimli, you were the only one unafraid, when we others would hardly dare to look at the darkness and the ruins closing in on us, you looked at that dark place like it was the greatest wonder left in the world, like it was something indefinitely precious.”

“It is,” Boromir interrupted him. “it is maybe the greatest kingdom there was in the world, hidden from the prying eyes of mortals… and lost to the shadow. How could any man look at Dwarrowdelf and not admire the greatness and the sheer loss of such a realm?”

“Greatness,” Aragorn slightly arched an eyebrow. “I would deem that one of your weaknesses Boromir, that you seek for a cause of greatness and pride, beyond even that what mortals may achieve.”

“So you are calling me arrogant,” The Captain said. “and… I am still not sure what you are trying to say.” A part of him knew though, if only in whispers, in dreams half remembered at dawn.

“Only you can know what happened between the moment you left us on Amon Hen and the moment we met before the walls of Minas Tirith. But I saw it again when we spoke of your father’s death – Kili would try and protect you like you were one of his men, and you wanted to beg his forgiveness for whatever your father did to him. Am I now closer to the mark?”

Boromir looked down; knowing Aragorn had seen directly into his soul, when he looked up his gaze was utter calm. “You are right, Aragorn, if I had that choice, if I were free to give my loyalties, I’d rather follow this Prince in Exile, than anyone else. That does not mean I will not do my duty for Gondor, for our people. No man’s fears and no man’s dreams may stand in the way of protecting the White City.”

And finally Aragorn understood, Boromir would always place his duty first, he would serve, even if his heart was not in it any more, he would fight for Gondor, if not her King, even if it broke his very soul. The former Ranger regretted that he would never win this man’s loyalties; he had wished they could be friends, much as the stubborn and prideful son of Denethor had sometimes aggravated him. “It leaves one other choice,” he said, rising to his feet, placing his hand on the head of the still siting man. “Boromir, Son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor, the Heir of Isildur declares you free of your oaths and obligations to the White City and the land of Gondor, no duty binds you, no oath ties you to this land or crown. You shall be as a stranger to the White City and free to choose your path from this moment onwards.”

Under the light of the moon Aragorn saw all colour drain from Boromir's face. For a moment it appeared like the man would speak, say anything at all, but whatever words he may have had for the King died on his lips. Pale but steady he rose, backing away from Aragorn, before turning around and walking off into the night outside camp.           

                                               .                                                              .                                              .

Aragorn’s words had driven Boromir to wander aimlessly for two hours, midnight passed and the moon began to sink into the river to find sleep. But there was no rest for Boromir’s restless thoughts. What he felt and thought during those two hours no one except Boromir himself knew. The third watch was being called in the camp when his wanderings brought him upon a fire on the fringe of the dwarven camp, where Kili, Dwalin, Bofur and a number of other dwarves were sitting, talking. Making room for him by the fire, Dwalin invited him with a wave.

Glad for the company Boromir sat down with them, noticing the dwarves’ solemn miens, whatever they had been speaking off, it could not be a happy topic. “Should I leave?” he asked.

“No,” Bofur said. “maybe you can tell us something. How fast will Gondor aspire to reclaim Arnor?”

This was not a question he had expected. “With the coronation of Aragorn, the united realm would be refounded, Gondor and Arnor again united under one crown. Given that the King is a man from the North, I doubt he will tarry to follow up on this claim.” Boromir expected no less.

“Damn,” Bofur said grimly. “that gives us one summer, maybe a year to pull our people out.”

Perplexed Boromir looked at the greying dwarf. “What do you mean, Bofur?”

“A lot of our people are spread out through the lone lands,” Kili replied in Bofur’s stead. “you saw Bofur’s settlement in Rhudaur, there are many like that in Rhudaur, Arthedain and Cardolan.”

“There was no claim to that land anymore; we went where we found ores or stone to make it worth staying.” Bofur told him. “two thirds of our people are there with the other third in Cardemir. But with Arnor’s claim to the land… it’s back to the road.”

“I would never think Aragorn would drive your people off the land,” Boromir said, no matter his own disagreements with the man, Aragorn was a good man and he’d not be stupid enough to drive off an industrious and hardy populace.

“If we wanted to live under a foreign king we could have stayed with Dain eighty years ago,” Dwalin said firmly. “we did not bend knee to Dain and we won’t for Aragorn either.”

“We may not have that many options, old friend,” Kili said to the warrior. “Caldemir can’t support a populace that size. The iron mines in the Ered Luin are ancient, and you know how deep they already go.”

Bofur nodded grimly. “We could move north, towards Forochel, nasty cold place but there’s still a chance to build mines under the ice.”

“We’d still touch the borders of Arnor,” Kili said. “the claim will be made for Arnor’s furthest old reaches, old friend. There won’t be that much room left on that side of the mountains.”

“So it’s back to the road,” Bofur confirmed grimly. “we did it before, Kili, we can do it again.”

Boromir’s heart clenched painfully, these dwarves had fought to protect Gondor, they had bled and died to aid the White City and opposed the shadow bravely, but victory meant for them to lose their homes again. “What of the Southern Ered Luin?” he asked.

“No better than the northern parts,” Bofur told him. “Boromir these iron mines are the oldest in the world, going back all to the first age. We only manage to still mine ore there by digging very deep and support structures, air, not to mention water management can only do so much. We are at our limit there.”

“What of the Misty Mountains?” Boromir asked. “neither Arnor nor Gondor ever held any claim to them.”

“Full of Goblins,” Dwalin told him. “small settlements would have to fight even harder than they do now. With the Black Lands not draining the Goblin supply any more, things will heat up before long. But… you have a point there, Boromir.”

“No.” Kili rose, walking a few steps, so he stood with his back to them. “I won’t let you all go to another life on the road, of suffering and needless death. I’ll do what I should have done eighty years ago.” He inhaled sharply, like to steady his voice. “I will go to Erebor, kneel to Dain and swear to him. It will allow our people to go home.”

“No way.” Dwalin growled. “I swear upon my brother’s grave, the day after I’ll call Dain out, he can’t deny the son of Fundin’s blood status any more than his own. And I’ll hack him to pieces.”

Kili whipped about, facing his old friend. “Dwalin, we can’t sent our people wandering again. You know the southern reaches, neither Dunland nor Enedwaith are places where we will gain a foothold, you were there, you know what it was like there the last time. And Rohan has some vengeance to vent down on the Dunlendings anyway; I’d not get between them and a big grudge. We could try the Ered Mithrin again, but that means contending with the wyrms in the Withered Heath anew.

“And places us on Erebor’s doorstep,” Bladvila threw in. “we might as well move east and see what of the former Kingdom of Rhun we can carve up for our own.”

“We don’t have an army to take on the Easterling Empire,” Brea told him. “and most of us are home in the west.”

Dwalin gestured them to be silent. “What about Moria?” he said. “All say that Gandalf slew Durin’s Bane, so there’s no contending with that beast anymore.”

“Only with legions of Orcs,” Kili pointed out. “Dwalin, returning to Moria will mean ten years of war, at the very least. And we’d need numbers to do it.”

“If we have every dwarf of Eriador and the Ered Luin in on it, we have the numbers,” Bofur stood too. “and if we call on those of Durin’s folk who still live in exile beyond the mountains, we’d get even more. Kili, Dwalin is right, we have a chance now and… you have the right by blood to claim Khazad-Dum, you are the last of the line.”

By now all of them were at their feet. Kili looked at them, each of them, taking in their faces, their expressions. “It will mean another war, and a tough one at that,” he said calmly. “is that truly what you wish?”

“Yes.” Bofur was the first to speak, the others nodding in agreement, a few soft “Ayes” sounding in between. “we know it will be hard, but we are used to that. Kili… let us go home, let us retake our true home… and make sure no one will ever take it away from us again.”

Guide me Raven’s wing, I shall follow you home. Kili recalled the runes on his sword. Thorin had left him a legacy much greater and much heavier than he had ever known. But backing out or letting down his people was not possible, not with that trust they put into him. He straightened up, meeting their eyes evenly. “Then it is decided, I will return to Moria, I am calling on all of Durin’s folk who are willing to follow me to the gates of our ancestral home, let it be known that any of Durin’s folk coming freely and willingly will be welcome amongst mine, and so will be those of Var’s folk,” he added with a warm smile to Bofur, who had originally been a Blacklock, and “Linnar’s folk,” a glance to Brea who had been born a Broadbeam, “that are willing to cast their lots with us.”

“We will stand with you,” Dwalin’s firm voice echoed what all the dwarves present felt.

Boromir had been awed to watch this moment, seeing how the dwarves found together to chart the course their people would follow. Again he recalled that dream he had had in Moria months ago; he had never considered that it might have been a portent, a dream emerging from the foresight the blood of Numenor was gifted with. And now he knew that he’d gladly follow it, no matter what. He stepped forward and drew the black sword. “I will stand with you too, if you’ll have me.”

                               .                                                              .                                                              .

After Boromir had hastened off into the night, Aragorn felt doubts. Had he done the right thing? Boromir’s reaction indicated that the Gondorian may not have wished to leave Gondor after all. Aragorn thought he had read him right, but what if he had been wrong? Boromir was a strong, proud warrior; he would never ask to be allowed to stay now that Aragorn had released him, even if he wished so. Worried Aragorn began to look for the man, who knew what such a perceived dishonor might drive him to?

After two hours of fruitless search, Aragorn heard light steps approach him; only his trained Ranger ears picked up on the man shadowing him. “You can come out,” he said, turning towards the point where he knew him to be.

Faramir stepped from the shadows of a tree, his ranger cloak having provided him with good cover. “Forgive the intrusion, my Lord,” he said with a light bow. “I was you wander deep in thought and without guard… these lands may be freed but no one knows how many escaped dark soldiers would gladly take their revenge where they can find it.”

“Do not apologize for your watchfulness,” Aragorn replied, gesturing the other Ranger to walk with him. Up till now he had perceived Faramir mostly through his great likeness to his brother. They both were much alike in appearance, the same light hair and familiar features, only that Faramir seemed less scarred by the long war. Yet he had stepped between Aragorn and the Easterling foe and stood his ground where others had failed. Now Aragorn noticed other things as well, that set both brothers apart. “I was looking for your brother,” he said. “we had a misunderstanding and I fear what may come of it.”

“He passed the camp an hour ago, going towards the river, my liege,” Faramir spoke calmly, no worry or contention marring his voice. “he often does so when he wants to think. Whatever words were spoken between you, I doubt he misread you that badly.”

Aragorn nearly smiled at Faramir’s unspoken assumption that there could neither have been harm nor enmity in Aragorn towards them; it was a trust that came as a surprise from Boromir’s brother. “I may have misread him, Faramir.” He said, telling him of their conversation in words as simple as possible. “I believed he wished to be free, to chart his own path from hereon, but… I fear I misread his love to this land.”

The Ithilien Ranger neither spoke nor passed judgment; he simply accepted Aragorn’s words, something for which the King was grateful in this moment of worry. A blink of his eyes, nothing more than that asked Aragorn to follow him, and the Northern Ranger understood that Faramir knew something that might help.

Moving silently through the nightly forest, Faramir led Aragorn down to the river, along the bank and then back to the other fringe of the camp. There Aragorn saw Boromir standing among a group of dwarves, the light of a fire and several torches illuminated the scene. Before he could approach the warrior, even try to talk to him, he saw Boromir draw his sword and approach Kili. The wind had not allowed him to hear what had been said previously, but he did not need to, for Boromir knelt before Kili, presenting the black blade on his open palms.

The Gondorian’s voice was firm and steady as his words rang out into the night: “Here do I swear fealty and service to Kili son of Dis daughter of Thrain, and to the line of Durin hereafter, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my King release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Boromir, son of Denethor of the House of Húrin.”

Chapter Text

Guiding his future King towards where he had seen Boromir headed, Faramir had carried his own worries; he had not failed to notice the contention between his brother and heir of Elendil. Knowing his brother like none other Faramir had seen the countless times that his brother had curbed his pride, or held back on a sharp tongued reaction. And it made Faramir fear for the future, for he could also see that Lord Aragorn held the same amount of tension towards Boromir.

When they came within earshot of the dwarven camp, Faramir could hear the voices of the dwarfs. “We will stand with you,” it was not hard to recognize the voice of Dwalin, the warmaster. The dwarves all stood in a near perfect semi-circle, their faces turned towards Prince Kili.

Faramir’s eyes widened when his brother, who stood with them drew his sword. “I will stand with you too, if you’ll have me.”

Had the world gone up in flames the Ranger could not have been more surprised. Across the distance he saw the Dwarf Prince and while his expression was certainly controlled, no one could deny the shock in his dark eyes. “What of you obligations to Gondor, Boromir?” he asked, when he found his voice again.

The Gondorian warrior stood sword in hand in the firelight, the torches illuminating his bright hair and reflected in his eyes. “I gave her all I could,” he said steadily. “I fought for her against the shadow until the end. But I cannot go further for her and Lord Aragorn has released me of my oaths to her. I stand here with you, having no bonds, nor country to call my home any more. I will follow you, if you’ll have me.”

“I should have spoken to him sooner,” Aragorn whispered, watching Boromir stepping forward and bent knee to Kili.

“No,” Faramir said softly. “this is no anger Aragorn… he is free. Finally, the chain that held him through duty and obligation since he was a youth is broken. You set him free.” It hurt horribly to see it and it was exhilarating to watch but Faramir knew that this was his brother’s choice, the cause he chose freely and that he would gladly follow.

“‘Here do I swear fealty and service to Kili son of Dis daughter of Thrain, and to the line of Durin hereafter, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my King release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Boromir, son of Denethor of the House of Húrin.”

Faramir winced, this was not the way dwarves swore their loyalties, their oaths were as ancient as their people were, he had read some of that in old books about them. But Prince Kili did not correct nor rebuke the oath; he took the blade, accepting the offered loyalties. "And I have heard your oath, as have Mahal and the forefathers, under their eyes it was spoken and it was heard by world below and the skies above, may it endure until the world ends. Hear you then my vow to you: no loyalty shall be forgotten, nor valor remain unhonored, if to the lawcourt you are called, in legal tangles twisted and tied, then I and all of my kin shall stand as oath-helpers if you should need this; and finally, my sword shall stand between you and your enemies, my strength beside you boldly, for no arm alone will win battle.”

Being used to the stark promise of Gondor’s oaths Faramir could not help to be touched by the kind of loyalty these oaths exchanged. He knew that this oath was not traditional dwarven either, with Boromir invoking neither Mahal nor Eru in his vow, Kili had to call upon Mahal and the world itself, to satisfy dwarven propriety. Also the last part of the oath had been changed, but Faramir understood why Kili would not use the brotherless phrase in this context. He saw Boromir receive the blade back and Kili lifting him up, the following embrace conveyed a wealth of feeling. The other dwarves cheered, a ring closing, as Boromir was welcomed into their ranks.

The Ithilien Ranger looked to Aragorn, who had watched this scene unfold, much like himself. What was the future King thinking about this? He had seen how worried he had been when he thought he had pushed Boromir too far, and yet he watched that scene with a palpable amount of sadness.  “I am sorry it came to that, my liege,” Faramir said. “he was Gondor’s best soldier.”

“Nay,” Aragorn turned towards Faramir. “it is well done. He may have been her finest, most ruthless soldier, but he was not the man who stood between me and certain death at the Black Gates. Boromir follows his heart; there can be no better path to choose. And I have the man I would wish for by my side.”

Never used to praise or acknowledgement Faramir felt his cheeks heat, glad that the darkness hid it. He bowed respectfully, surprised to see Aragorn smile. “ Go to your brother. I fear it may be the last chance for you to speak for a long time.”

Seeing his brother between his new chosen comrades was something Faramir would have to get used to, he thought. They were the wildest, toughest bunch of fighters and travelers he had ever seen, but somehow that was made him think why Boromir would be alright with them. His brother had always been the warrior, the fighter, and the war had shaped him. They too had been formed and hammered by a merciless world. He knew his brother had chosen another war to join, but if he was brutally honest with himself, he could not picture his brother in a peaceful City going over the peacetime duties of a Captain.

“Fari!” Boromir called out to him, it had been years since Faramir had seen his brother smile so easily. But he also could see that Boromir was searching for words to explain what had just transpired.

“I saw, Boromir,” he simply stated. “and I am happy if this is your choice. Even as you have charted your path straight into the next war.”

“It is my choice, Fari. And if someone does not begin to fight the Orcs in the Misty Mountains, we might as well send envoys to that Goblin King under Mt. Gundalbad.” The brother’s eyes met and many things did not need saying, they both understood wordlessly. “Will you be alright?” Boromir asked. “With the new King…”

“…whom you dislike.” Faramir slapped his brother’s shoulder. “You serve the King you chose, and so will I.”

                                               .                                                              .                                              .

The road wound up the high hills of Mindolluin before it would bring them to the entrance of an ancient dwarven road, long forgotten and abandoned. The column moved slowly past the sharp turn in the road, taking the steep path up. Boromir had guided his horse to the side of the road and turned back. Down there in the shadow of the mountain lay the white city, a thorn of pearl and silver glittering in the morning light. Finally free and finally at peace. The last time he had looked back on the city, he had begun a journey into uncertain lands for an even more uncertain reason; following a haunting dream his brother and he had shared after retaking Osgiliath. Fear and darkness had accompanied his ride north, as had doubts gnawing on his soul. He would always be grateful for that dream, for it had led him to not only find hope, but also the friendship and strength to see this through to the very end.

He could not have returned to the Citadel, to Minas Tirith, without feeling the cold echo of his father's crazed end, or expecting Veryan to be right at his shoulder. He had loved this city with all his heart; she had been what had made him stand strong even when he had felt he’d break under the strain and yet… he had given her all he could. From the time he had turned sixteen the duty to her had been an iron weight upon his shoulders, supporting the failing rule of his father, fighting the war. Twenty five years, and now she was save and in the hands of one who would heal her. Like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, a duty that had always threatened to crush him lifted. Boromir smiled and raised his hand in goodbye, saying that the white city was no longer his city, no longer his home did not hurt.

Hooves approached from the side and he saw Kili approach him astride his white pony. “Ready to move out?” he asked, his voice indicating understanding if Boromir needed time.

“Ready,” Boromir turned his horse following Kili as they galloped past the marchers to the head of the column. No need for time and no regrets, no second thoughts. He was free and they were going to reclaim the greatest kingdom of middle-earth. He would not have it any other way. As their horses sped towards the dwarven road, the Gondorian laughed.

One warm summer night, he rode out of sight

On a wild mare that was so perfectly white
I'd dreamed I’d go with him and I was right
Wishes can come true when you wish with all your might

(Blackmore’s Night: The peasant’s promise)