Prologue: What a serpent knows

Summer, 3018 TA - Edoras

The golden hall of Meduseld was warm to the point of being stuffy on summer days, and Gríma disliked that heat with a passion, there were not windows to open and the main doors could not be left open all day, no matter how much of a relief it would be. On days like these Gríma nearly wished there was a summons calling him to Isengard – anything to get him out of the warm hall would be a blessing. But he had only returned from Isengard a day ago and he would not dare leave again so soon after, or it would be noticed. Prince Theodred and his friend Éomer had already taken to dogging his steps more than he liked. And while Gríma had the ear and a certain influence on King Theoden of Rohan, he could never predict where the moods of the Horse Lord would swing eventually.

To make matters worse the King would not retire early tonight, for the very simple reason that there was a formal visitor in attendance, even as he would be gone by next morning. Boromir of Gondor was not a guest to be disregarded or relegated to Theodred's care alone, albeit the warrior might not even mind such treatment. Gríma was well aware of the fine line Rohan had to walk with Gondor, while they were not liege people in the strictest sense, the land they dwelt on was part of the Kingdom of Gondor, granted to Eorl the Young by Steward Cirion, and that made them sworn allies of Gondor. Which demanded a certain decorum and politeness towards the Steward's eldest son. Decorum… the very word would have worried Gríma as most of the King's household was incapable of it, but luckily Boromir of Gondor was a warrior who seemed to take the welcome he received well, and was tired enough to not expect much else.

At the moment he sat opposite of Theodred on one of the long benches, their conversation just loud enough to be followed by Theoden, who had not said much to either of them. Gríma gravitated closer to listen in.

"I cannot share any more of my errand, Theodred," Boromir just said, his arms leaning lightly on the side of the table. "all I can say is that I have to leave by morning to find the ancient Elven Kingdom of Rivendell – they were old allies of Arnor in the days before the Witch King and I hope that Arnor's survivors can help me find the hidden valley."

Gríma did not pay attention to what Theodred said, the young Prince was too amazed, too taken with the great warrior to say anything remotely useful. No, Gríma considered the words in the context of his own plans. Saruman would certainly be interested to hear that Gondor was trying to rekindle old alliances to aid their failing war effort. Gríma could not calculate how many fighters the Elves still had left, no one had seen an elf in Rohan in four generations, and as far as most Rohirrim were concerned they were fairy tales, figures of legend. What concerned Gríma more than mystical figures that might still care for this world but most likely did not, was the endeavor of Boromir of Gondor. To reach Eriador he would have to cross the gap of Rohan and then turn north, along the Greyflood until he reached the Great East Road.

Usually Gríma would have not cared either way, but today he remembered theprevious night – only one night ago he had stood in the darkness not far from the Fords of Isen, concealed by the shadow of a few Alder trees. He had waited for a messenger from the East, like he had done before when Saruman deemed it below his dignity to consort with the various couriers that came from Mordor. Only… last night, last night he had stood face to face with a Black Rider – with Nine Black Riders – who had questioned him on the goings on in Rohan and on two words; Baggins and Shire. Without lying Gríma could swear he had no idea what a Baggins was, beyond a reference to an ancient type of waterskin, which had not pleased the Riders at all – but Shire, was a word Gríma knew. For years now he had been the caretaker of Isengard's vast stores and there had been a weed, a leaf of sorts that had been traded from the Shire to Isengard in larger quantities. And thus he had told the Riders where they might find said land, high up in the North at the Western Border of ancient Arnor, South of the Hills of Evendim.

The Riders had been satisfied and ridden on, passing towards the ford of Isen. And here it was – his chief calamity. If Boromir of Gondor rode the same way by morning who knew what illustrious fate, what calamity of the road or what other stroke of a merciless luck would make him catch up to the Nine? And if he did he would be killed, swiftly and without a chance to escape. With any other traveler this would not concern Gríma, but Boromir's father, Denethor of Gondor would not let it go, he would ask questions and Saruman had warned Gríma time and again that Denethor had the gift of foresight that he would see things no mortal should. And if he found out about the Nine, he would learn of Gríma's true allegiance and all because Boromir of Gondor had to ride to the Elves. Gríma had mastered the skill to sniff danger from the time he was young and he knew that this smelled of disaster. "If you will forgive my interruption, my Prince," Gríma addressed Theodred with a bow, a small nod extended to their honored guest as well.

Theodréd turned, looking at him. "Certainly, Gríma," he said, like always he spoke politely. "What is it you wished to say?"

Gríma looked at the young face, Theodred was so young, so full of potential, he could be shaped into a marvelous Lord of the Mark… it would be a waste to lose him. Though he was not that much of a warrior – he luckily had a crude cousin for that. "I seem to recall an ancient ballad of our people – the Ballad of Eofaine and Egil – that describes an ancient road coming from the East, crossing the Anduin south of the old Framsburg fords, crossing the Misty Mountains and leading right towards the fabled elven kingdom." The ballad in itself claimed that Eofaine had travelled that way to find help for Egil, and Gríma did not need the reference to know that the Men-i-Naugrim led that way, but his people had a tremendous memory for legends and songs, so it was the best reference to use.

Theodred's eyes shone. "You are absolutely right, Gríma. Thank you – I did not think of that."

Boromir looked up at Gríma standing only a few steps away "I know that road is in most old maps of Wilderland," he said, raising one hand slightly opening it in a gesture of not knowing. "but those maps were mostly from Isildur's day, who knows if that road is still there, or if the pass across the Mountains is still open?"

Gríma did not need to answer, he could see Theodred had taken the matter to heart already. "The road is still there, our people have some trade with the Menfolk living upriver, the Woodsmen and the Beornings who dwell along the great River, and they in turn have trade with people from the East along that road. They even claim that they trade with the dwarves, not that our traders ever saw one of them. But the old road is still there and it runs across the Mountains."

The Gondorian's mien became thoughtful at hearing this. "If that road leads directly to the kingdom of the Elves it could spare me much searching and travelling across the empty lands. What way do your traders take when they travel north?"

"The path is dangerous, it is not much more than a bridle track on the eastern side of the Anduin valley, and passing Gladden Fields is dangerous except in High Summers… but on your horse you should make it past that place long before the river rises."

Gríma watched and listened as Boromir and Theodred discussed the details of the route along the river and he slowly relaxed. The Lord Captain of Gondor was a reasonable man – he would not take to a wild search if there was a perfectly reasonable route to take. Inwardly Gríma decided that he would need to report back to Saruman within the next few days. Something was stirring – the Nine crossing the Isen and riding North at the same time that Gondor would send its foremost soldier the same way – whatever it was, it had to be important.

TRB

The High Pass, Ten Weeks later

Boromir's hand closed more firmly around the reins of his horse as they approached the narrow, V shaped valley that the road ran into. The sight of the Mountains alone was daunting, having grown up in the shadow of the White Mountains Boromir had enough experience to travel in the heights, or so he had thought. But the longer he had seen the mighty chain of ice-capped peaks draw nearer the more he realized that there was no compare to the familiar mountains of his homeland. It was not just that these soaring peaks were much higher than even Mindolluin itself, they were also different – the ragged sides and rough valleys were wild, there were hardly any traces of settlements, nor had past populations left their traces on the steep hillsides. There was something lonely and wild about the Misty Mountains that compared to nothing Boromir had seen before. And after the last ten weeks he believed he had seen a good deal of lonely and wild in Wilderland.

Following the river North had been a good and a bad idea all in itself. The path had been so hard to find that Boromir had sometimes not even tried but simply kept to the river valley, and the lands had been lonely, the few people he had met had been distrustful. The Woodsmen had evaded him when they saw him and the Beornings… they certainly were not people to seek trouble with. They had pointed him towards the ford with little words and a scarce warning that the pass had been restless as of late. Not a message that sounded particularly enticing, but he had traveled on, seeing the mighty range draw closer and closer with each passing day and now he stood here – in the narrow valley that the road wound into, climbing steeply into greater heights. He had dismounted to lead the horse, the path was too narrow to be trusted to ride on.

He had chosen to follow the high path, leaving the valley grounds mainly because it seemed the path more traveled, he had seen tracks of hooves in the wet mud and there was a deep trodden middle to the path that indicating that pony caravans used this trail as well, while the low path had not looked as used. It had been the right choice, Boromir thought as he led the horse around the narrow bend of the pass road and towards the next steep slopes. The road might be in a bad shape, but it was still passable, even the weather was holding and he had no reason to complain. He would not like to get into a storm while up so high in the mountains.

A thunderous noise ripped the quiet of the afternoon apart, as a load of heavy stones crashed down the path from the heights above narrowly missing him. Boromir firmly held onto Brawler's reins, keeping the horse close to the wall as the stones rushed past them, smashing the grounds deep below. Craning his neck he peered up, had this been an overhang dropping or the sign of a great dry avalanche coming loose? His question found an unpleasant answer when he heard the shrieks – shrill shrieks rising above, the high pitched voices left little doubt what kind of creatures were shouting. Orcs! Boromir's hand fell to his sword, in Rohan he had heard that there were wild Orcs in these parts, though he had not believed they were such common an occurrence that he would run into them.

The clashing of steel on steel and the howl of an Orc forced his mind back to the present. Two Orcs sailed past him down into the ravine, their shrieks echoing terribly from the rock faces, Boromir saw that one of them was bleeding. Someone was fighting them further up. Letting go of the reins he strode up the narrow path, the noises of fighting – clashing steel, shrieking orcs and now and then the sickening sound of a blade eating through heavy armor guiding his steps. To shorten the path he had to take, he grabbed the ledge above, pulling himself up – it led him right onto a small plateau in front of a cave mouth. More than two dozen orcs were flooding from the cave mouth at two fighters standing back to back on the plateau, their horses having fled onto the path further up. The two fighters had a tough stand against them, the Orcs rushing at them, forcing them to fight several each. There were already several dead Orcs on the ground, how the two fighters were still holding their own bespoke skill and strength.

Drawing his sword Boromir raced towards them, the first Orc still had his back towards him and was easily stabbed, the next came about and Boromir parried the hit of the crude sabre, he pushed the Orc backwards, the next hit beheading him. These Orcs were smaller and less strong than the black orcs from Mordor, though they were more agile. One of them jumped him and he felt teeth at his neck, reaching back Boromir grabbed his attacker and tossed him down into the ravine. Coming around he stabbed the next of them, having to dodge the attacks of two more. How many were there?

Suddenly one of the Orcs that had flanked him was killed by a long blade in the back, the two fighters had seen him and closed ranks with him. Another group of Orcs came but some of them already hung back and fled when they saw their comrades defeated.

"They won't be gone for long – we better hurry to get away from that den," The fighter standing to Boromir's left had spoken, he was the one with the long blade who had killed the Orc that had flanked Boromir moments before.

"Dragûn nacal," the other one said in a tongue that felt utterly foreign and somehow familiar to Boromir. They both had strangely deep voices.

"Westron, Anvari," the first said sheathing his blade, his eyes still watchful on the cave mouth.

"I said they are becoming bold to come out in daylight," the second repeated, casting an apologetic glance at Boromir.

"They don't usually hunt in daylight?" Boromir knew that Mordor's Orcs hated the daylight and were weakened by it, but they were driven by the whips of those who would not care less for their fears. "Are you injured?" The question was addressed at both fighters. They had fought valiantly against a great number of foes and the fact that they were still standing spoke of their hardiness and skill. He surveyed both of them with a quick glance, they were short – under five feet tall both of them. Both had dark hair, worn long and openly adorned with… braids?

The one with the longsword turned around facing Boromir and for a moment Boromir believed he was dreaming. He had seen this face before – a lean face with proud, noble features and dark eyes, framed by a mane of dark hair streaked with the faintest traces of grey – he had seen it only once, in the darkest hours in the dungeons of Minas Morgul, but he had never forgotten.

"…. Are you alright?" The stranger had closed the gap between them and now looked up at him with a slightly worried expression.

Boromir realized that he must have missed something he had said. Shaking his head he forced himself to not think of the darkness under the dread city – what he had seen then had been a dream, an image he had conjured up to somehow survive the horrors he had been faced with, an illusion of not being alone, the comfort of someone sharing his suffering, but ultimately a dream, he reminded himself. He better not begin to see such things in real life. "I am well. What about you?"

"No injuries beyond scratches, but we better hurry to get away from this place. Come nightfall all of Goblin Town will be crawling up this shaft."

"My horse is still down the ledge, I left it there when it began to rain Orcs," Focusing on the immediate situation helped Boromir to push aside any thoughts of the past. "do you know a safe place that we can reach before nightfall?"

"Safe is a relative word in these parts, but we know a few places that are easily defended."

Without losing any more time, Boromir went down the ledge bringing his horse up to the high path. When he returned he saw that the two had gotten their mounts as well. In spite of their smaller stature they rode tall horses. The path they guided him on for the next two hours was even narrower than the one he had taken before. A part of Boromir wondered if it was a wise choice to follow them, but a stronger side in him felt that they were trustworthy. And they were familiar with these grounds, he decided, the way they moved through the mountains bespoke a familiarity with these paths, an advantage he would not pass up.

When the sun began to set in the west they had climbed up towards a small plateau that was only accessible through the narrow path they had come from, they had ascended steeply and beyond the rocks surrounding them Boromir could see the sun glitter on the first traces of ice gracing the stone grounds. A chill wind fell from the icy peaks that had come that much closer, belying the fact that it was still summer. "It will be a cold night," he said to himself, in these heights the cold could as easily kill a man than any Orc blade would.

"We'll have a fire going soon," the older of his two companions replied, as he handed the reins of the horse to the younger one. "We had no chance to thank you for your timely aid before," he said to Boromir. "but you truly came in the nick of time."

Again Boromir could not strafe off the feeling that he knew this man, that they had met before but he could neither name where or when. Man… that was the question too. The warriors both were under five feet in height, and there was something about them that was strange, foreign. "You are dwarves…" he could only guess that they were, but if the fleeting reads he had given the reports of their ambassador at the dwarven kingdom were any indication, they had to be.

The older one of them smiled, amusement sparkling in his dark eyes. "Kíli," he named himself.

"and Anvari," the other said, before both bowed and added in unison. "at your service."

"Boromir at yours," he truly wished that Faramir were here with him, he would know his way around foreign customs and strange rules of conduct. "You are on your way across the mountains as well?"

Kíli's answer was a curt nod. "Aye, we had hoped to keep to the upper path and avoid any tangles with the denizens of Goblin Town – but it seems we'll have to take the High Pass instead, though it is partially swallowed up by ice these days."

Anvari had taken the reins of Boromir's horse as well, leading it towards the steep rock barrier that would shelter them from the wind, while Kíli had piled up some wood – dry, scarce wood of some mountain firs. "I take it you are on the way across as well?" he asked, as the fire began to burn.

Boromir had often heard that travelers on the long roads were easy to camp together, that they had a similar rapport like soldiers would, but he had never experienced it in practice. Following his instinct to trust those two – they had been fighting the Orcs after all – he sat down by the crackling flames, the warmth welcome in the icy wind. "That's true – though I was warned the pass roads might be restless, I had no idea that there was a Goblin Town nearby. I had not expected Orcs that many leagues away from the black lands."

Kíli shrugged. "The Misty Mountains and the Lone lands are crawling with them – Goblins, Mountain Orcs, Gundabad Orcs… they came from Forodwaidh a long time ago and never left."

Boromir quietly studied the two dwarves. It was the first time he ever met some of their kind. He had already noticed the strong, compact build, that was different from any man's, and it was more their faces that held fascination for him. Studying and assessing people was a trait any commander learned quickly, but these two presented riddles. Kíli was clearly the older, his dark hair carrying a touch of gray here and there, though his face did not really fit someone already graying. He also carried himself with the ease and confidence of someone who had often traveled and was well experienced with the dangers of the road. Anvari was younger, but Boromir guessed that the two were related – their looks indicated that quite easily. They shared the same dark mane and basic facial features, and they had also chosen the same style of strange gold adornments for their braids. Brothers maybe, or father and son, depending on dwarven age, something he knew nothing about. "Are they in league with the dark lands?" he asked in regard of the Orcs.

"Whipped into line whenever it suits the east you mean?" Kíli stirred the flames with a branch, a few tongues of fire licking up the wood and touching his hand without harming him. "They are on their own when left as such and under the dark wing whenever someone whips them into obedience. Angmar certainly made liberal use of them, and there have been Easterlings taking command of Orc strongholds in these Mountains before. Mordor has been bleeding off their numbers for their legions for many years – which is ironically a mercy on the surrounding lands."

"Easterlings coming here and… no one hindered their doings?" Boromir sat up straight, this did not sound like the fighting capabilities of the northern kingdoms were that strong.

"I came across them when I was in an Orc den with a friend a few decades ago," Kíli replied. "we were there to free another friend who had been captured and overheard the Easterlings talking of their plans, of whipping Orcs in line and capturing Warg cubs for the breeding masters in the East. But being only two people we snuck past them, freed our people and got away swiftly." He looked up and his dark eyes seemed to shine in the light of the fire. "I wish there was an army that could clean out these Mountains, Boromir, but the Beornings down in Anduin valley are already fighting hard to prevent the Orcs from spreading downriver, the Elves in Rivendell fight a constant war against the Orcs in the Mountains and Eriador… Eriador was a fallen land ever since Angmar destroyed Arnor and it didn't get any better after we left to return home."

There was a grim truth about his words, Boromir could hear it. He was not lamenting anything, it was the simple, hard facts he was recounting. "Your people used to live in Eriador?" Boromir wished he knew his way around dwarven history but what he knew of them was about their Northern Kingdom, which was the best maker of weapons and armor in the world. "I thought you lived at the Mountain Home."

There was a smile on Kíli's face that Boromir could not quite read. "The Mountain Home fell to a dragon more than two hundred years ago, Boromir, and our people wandered the world for a long time before King Thorin eventually led them back to Erebor."

"Where you killed the dragon," Anvari said softly, the youth sat curled up by the fire, content to listen to most of the conversation.

Kíli cast him a glare that reminded Boromir of his own sibling arguments with his little brother. "I did not do it alone, I had help – lots of help – brave friends who dared the dragon, who fought him tooth and nail until I could land a lucky shot." He looked up and there was a strange, almost eerie expression in his eyes, when he looked back to Boromir. "It is a long tale – too long for this night. Let us get some sleep, the pass road will be a hard crossing come morning."

The early night passed peacefully, the fire keeping the cold at bay. Boromir had volunteered for first watch. He had expected the fire to burn out before midnight because they did not have much firewood, but it kept burning steadily like the wood it was blazing on was never spent. Sitting with his back against the rock Boromir listened into the night, his ears more able to pick up dangers than his eyes in the darkness surrounding them. Midnight was slowly creeping by, the moon passing through the skies high above them.

The first Boromir heard was a scratching noise – like stone scraping on stone, a slurring sound that hurt the ears and made the hair on his neck stand on end. He saw Kíli push himself up from his sleep, Anvari also going from sleep to wakefulness if not quite as instantaneously as his older companion. "You heard that too?" Boromir asked softly, just a whisper to not give them away.

Kíli nodded, pointing east of them towards a small tower of rocks. "Stone door," he replied as softly, "old and long in disuse – might be orcs, might be worse." He grabbed his bow, getting to his feet.

Boromir understood at once, better to check out a danger than to wait for an ambush. It was a good tactic. He too rose, drawing his sword. Kíli took point as they moved out into the darkness. Even under the light of the waning moon, Boromir had trouble following him, so quickly did the dwarf move across the stone grounds. He strained his ears listening into the night, but there was little noise outside the moaning of the cold winds.

Suddenly a shriek – the loud fierce howl of an Orc pierced the night. Whirling around Boromir saw five Orcs up on the hillside, a smaller figure scrambled down the rocky grounds, half running, half slipping down, stones crashing on stone left and right of his path, the Orcs chasing in that direction. Without a moment's hesitation Boromir raced towards the slipping figure – someone else running from the Orcs most likely, placing himself between them and their prey. They reached him within moments, he parried their wild attacks, stabbing the first who was furious enough to make mistakes. Arrows whistled past him, hitting two of the Orcs in their throat. He used the gap that opened, to stab another, while the last fell victim to a precisely thrown blade.

Boromir came around and hastened down the hillside towards where he had last seen the fleeing captive. Even as he was racing towards him his eyes were attentive on the surrounding dark grounds, in case there were more Orcs after their prey. But there was only the silence and their own hasty steps on the rocks. Kíli and he reached the Orc's victim at the same time, he had stumbled and fallen to the ground on an icy stretch between the rocks. Kíli raised his hand and Boromir blinked hard in the white light of a stone the dwarf held up. A short figure in ragged clothes lay unmoving on the ice, Boromir saw a bony frame, clad in torn rags that had no colour beyond dirt in the pale light. Matted grey hair covering head and shoulders of the short figure. "Another dwarf?" he asked, as Kíli knelt down beside the fallen person.

"Definitely," Kíli said, turning the wounded dwarf on the back, he groaned, the feet moving trying to find purchase on the slippery ground. The light of the stone revealed a haggard old face, disfigured by a scar on the cheek. Kíli's eyes widened. "Dori…"

"You know him?" Boromir knew the question was idiotic, it was obvious the dwarves knew each other. He squatted down on the other side. "I can carry him back to camp, he does not look like he is going to walk very far." He said, only now that he was close up he saw the strange expression on Kíli's face, among men he would have said that the dwarf looked like he had seen a ghost, but here Boromir was not sure how to interpret the strange mien.

"Do that," Kíli made his decision. "I'll cover you, there might be more Orcs close by."

The way back to camp was short, but Boromir feared that the wounded dwarf would die on him in the short time. His breathing was ragged and he was shaking like in fever. In spite of his once powerful stature he was lightweight now, easy for Boromir to carry. Kíli and Anvari covered him all the way back, making sure he was not attacked. When they reached the camp he bedded the dwarf down by the fire. He had felt the warm blood seep on his hands while carrying him, but now he could see the injuries across chest and sides that were partially dried, caked over with the dirty rages he wore.

"Anvari, get the salves from my saddlebag and we need more water," Kíli had squatted down beside the old dwarf, taking stock of the injuries. "these look bad."

Dori coughed, his body shaking hard. "Do not concern yourself," his voice was hoarse and raspy as he spoke. "you can't save me… even if you were to try."

"Dori," Kíli's voice was calm but very firm. "I will try to save you, like it or not, after you can go and hate me for not rescuing your brother. And now hold still."

The aged dwarf's hand caught Kíli's wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. "No," he said. "it is too late for me – it is a bitter irony that it should be you who came to my rescue… after all that happened."

"No one deserves to end up in the hands of the orcs," Kíli did not break free from Dori's grip, though he could have. "and no matter the past, you do not need to die of these wounds, you still have a chance."

Dori shook his head. "No… my time is coming. Maybe it is better that way, we all pay for our sins, for our crimes in the end. Much as my brother did."

"Nori," Kíli's voice sank to a growl. "you can't place that death at my feet as well – what he did…"

"What he did was not the plan," Dori said, gasping for air. "you have to believe me that much. The plan was only aimed at you and you alone - no one else was supposed to get hurt. You were to pay for what happened to Ori… but you were not even there. Nori… his allies… you have to believe me, it was never meant to be your mother and that little boy… I told him not to, but he still did it."

Boromir could not begin to guess what this all was about, the scarce words did not allow for a full understanding what the injured dwarf spoke off, but he saw how Kíli closed his eyes and his face became calmer, composed. "I believe you, Dori, you might have hated me but you were not the dwarrow to harm children, or to see Dís murdered. It is sad to know you were involved in the conspiracy."

A rasping laugh escaped Dori, it was a laughter without joy, without humor. "Dwalin came close to catching me, very close… he is the most annoyingly loyal dwarrow I had the misfortune to ever meet. I escaped, I left when Nori kidnapped that poor child… the boy must have died, if they did what they planned."

Anvari had moved close, squatting down on the other side of the old dwarf. "I survived," he said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Kíli found help for me."

"Then you were more lucky than my poor Ori was…" Dori coughed, his eyes went back to Kíli. "I always knew you were lying when you spoke of his death. The words were well chosen… they were what any family would expect to hear, but they were not the truth. When I fled Erebor I went back to Goblin Town, I wanted to truth… I wanted to find what was left of him."

"Mahal's mercy – that was a crazy choice, Goblin Town must have been crawling with Orcs at the time," Kíli nearly barked. "I may not have chosen my words the best way back that day, but I swear by Mahal that there was no chance to save Ori."

"I know," Dori's voice had fallen to a whisper. "I know that now, for I was captured and traded off to Bolg – he is Azog's son, knows and hates you." The hand left Kíli's wrist as Dori sank back, his strength waning. "He was delighted to tell me the tale of what truly happened. My poor little Ori… we should never have come on that quest." The old dwarf looked at Kíli. "The Orcs are strong again, Kíli… there are thousands of captives in the deep. Thousands and thousands… the strongholds of old, the wicked dwarves, the Blacklocks, the Stonefists… they all were overrun by the Orcs, they turned on their allies and dragged them down into the deeps… that's where I was send with all the others, all the captive dwarves that are made forge weapons for the Orc armies."

"The Orcs turned on their allies? They took the Blacklocks?" Kíli gasped, the thought of the thousands of dwarves captive down in the deeps was hard to bear.

"All of them, there is no free dwarven stronghold left in the Misty Mountains," Dori pushed himself up to nearly sit. "that's where I was ever since, working in the forges under the whip of the Orcs… the other captives… they have a legend, a story they tell – the story of a young dwarf Prince who was a slave of the Goblins and freed himself, he even came back and freed the captives in Moria."

"Frérin," Kíli said at once, remembering his brave Uncle and his long captivity under the Mountains.

"You," Dori said shaking his head. "you came to free Frérin, you were marked the Goblin King's plaything and you still freed yourself of that shame. It was my irony that I had the respect of my fellow captives because I once knew you, that I was asked to tell stories about you for the remainder of my time. It was my punishment." He sank back, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe.

"But you still escaped," Kíli said, a little impatiently. "why do you insist on dying here? Why refuse the help you could get?"

"You still would aid me," Dori's voice nearly broke. "and I do not want it. I do not want your mercy, nor your forgiveness, I want peace… I want to die, to sleep in the darkness. Do not burry my body… I know you'd be stupidly noble enough to try. Neither of my brothers had a grave and I do not wish for one either."

Boromir had risen and gone to retrieve one of their waterskins from the horses. He came back handing it to Kíli, this Dori-fellow no matter if he died or not would find some clean water a relief. Dori's eyes widened when he saw him, a frown creasing his brows. "But they said you died…" he whispered, his body convulsing. Kíli grasped him but it was too late, the end came swiftly.

TRB

Boromir had helped Kíli to carry the body of the dead dwarrow towards an overhang of rocks and ice only a dozen paces off their own camp. The words of the dying dwarf were still fresh on his mind, because he could not place the old dwarf's face with any person he had ever encountered and yet the dwarf had recognized him instantly. Or had he put together a description and some rumour of Boromir's demise? He did not know. They placed the body under the overhang, so it nearly formed a rough crypt of sorts. "He said he did not want a grave," Boromir observed, he was not sure if he should even interfere in the entire dwarven matter, yet he somehow felt he could not stay outside. He did not know why or how, but in a way he felt linked to what had transpired. "and he bore you no love."

Kíli bowed his head, long tresses of hair obscuring his face. "He blamed me for the death of his youngest brother – Ori. A brave young dwarrow… and I wish there had been a way to save him, Boromir. But there wasn't, there never was, from the moment that burning bridge collapsed our choices were limited and his wounds…" He looked up to Boromir, a strange expression shining in his black eyes. "my mind knows that there was nothing I could do, my heart wishes differently and no matter both, it remains on my shoulders, my responsibility."

There was an openness in this moment that puzzled Boromir, he knew that Kíli had just let him past his defences, letting him see something that no one would share with a stranger. Maybe he did not want to burden his young companion, maybe he felt that Boromir himself knew that situation all too well, he could not tell and yet he wanted to reach out and help this stranger. It was not an impulse he had often. "Sometimes we lose people, Kíli, because some fate, some power beyond the sundering seas has decreed it so, none of us knows when his hour may come, bearing anger for those that were lost is a waste of strength and emotion – at least that's what I keep telling myself." He did not know why he had opened up to share his thoughts like this, but it felt right.

Reaching up Kíli clapped his arm in a gesture of understanding and wordless thanks. "Dori is at rest now – Mahal shelter him and guide him home." There was a grave finality to his words, a last prayer for the fallen and now it was time to move on.

Boromir understood that tone very well. "Should we move out?" he peered up to the skies. "It must be three hours past midnight already, I doubt any of us will find sleep."

"Agreed, we can be further up before the sun rises." They returned to the horses, saddling their mounts again and headed out soon after, leaving behind the camp and silent grave of one lone dwarf.

Author's Note

And here we finally are at the fourth part of the Raven's Blade. I'll freely admit I am nervous about it still – because of the massive changes the other three parts bring to the Ring War, and because of all the consequences these changes will have for the story.

To all who read and commented on the first three parts: Welcome back! Big hugs! Take a seat by the fire and bring some ale. To all who are new: welcome as well. I really suggest you read the first three parts of the Raven's blade or this will feel like the weirdest fic ever to you.

Many many thanks to Harrylee94 again, who hopped onto reading this prologue the moment I came back online. You rock.

And a very special thanks to ScribeofRed who is working patiently with me on editing the first part of the Raven's Blade – your questions make me think a lot while typing like crazy. I'll try to make this a bit easier for my favorite Aragorn fangirl ;).

Like always: comments, critique, insights and questions are very welcome.

Valandhir

Disclaimer

This is a work of non-profit fan fiction using characters from the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings world, which is trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien. All characters created and owned by Tolkien INC, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Middle Earth. The story I tell here is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.R.R. Tolkien's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I am grateful to J.R.R. Tolkien for his wonderful stories about Middle Earth, for without his books, my story would not exist.