Chapter 8: What follows in shadow
Kíli's head had been tilted, listening to the rolling of the drums that echoed from the deeps, much like he was able to discern the direction and distance they were emanating from, in spite of the many echoes twisting them. "I can and I will" He turned around to look at the others. "It is one and a half days 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 Kíli 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," Kíli agreed, "but whichever one of you tossed something down the old watcher's well woke too many things…" from deep down they could hear the same doom doom doom again. Drums in the deep. "They are coming up, we need to go down to evade them."
"Would a shorter way not make more sense?" Boromir was not easily deterred. "The quicker we get out of here, the less chance they have to cut us off."
"We don't have much of a head start and they can easily scale steep walls," Kíli replied. "We need to avoid the great halls; they have less of a chance to bring their numbers to bear in small tunnels and narrow passages."
That made sense to Boromir. A passage barely allowing one man to stand in could be held against an army of attackers much better than against encirclement, when they could be overwhelmed easily by numbers – numbers they didn't have.
"Further down?" Aragorn's voice was tense, he stood with the Hobbits, having helped them to swiftly grab their packs again. "Kíli… I may not be sure, but I peered down the lowest archway leading out of here and it looks like it is leading down to the works…" his voice trailed off, the last words so low that they were barely audible.
Kíli who had already walked over to the archway, turned around. "I know," he said, his voice held an edge of understanding, that Boromir could not decipher. "Risking the gallows is our best chance to evade their troops. I'd prefer a different route too."
"And you are sure you know where you are leading us?" Gandalf's eyes were still fixed on the three archways, like he was trying to remember something that had slipped his mind. "You might as well end up leading us into the arms of the horde."
"No, Gandalf, he is right." Aragorn had straightened up, squaring his shoulders. "Kíli found me down there long ago, he knows these halls, better than anyone else." He looked at Kíli. "Lead the way. Legolas, you go last, you the Orcs will not easily kill from behind."
TRB
It was a different journey that now began. It was not just that their guide moved through the vast underground city with ease and familiarity that bespoke knowledge of these halls, but 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, Kíli would sometimes explain in whispers that they were passing the former pewterer's stairs, the lantern maker's cantlet, or the armorer's well. The first time they had to risk a greater hall, it was one filled with constructions. Huge wooden beams lined the wall and were linked to others and connected to large wheels vanishing into the walls. Where the beams reached to the ceiling, they interlinked with the large shafts of no less than twelve huge hammers that hung from the ceiling. Boromir assumed that a movement of the wheels would move the hammers to come down on the huge stone benches.
"What are those?" he asked in a hush as they slipped along the wall of the large room. He could see a gate at the other side but was glad they did not have to move in reach of the hammers; he did not like the idea of one these huge metal heads coming down on one of them.
"First Well of Hammers, often called the First Hammer." Kíli peered up to the ceiling that lay so deeply in shadow that it was impossible to perceive much beyond the vague shape of the hammers. "They used to be driven by water and their main purpose was to hammer sheet metal."
The sheer size of the crafter's quarters astounded Boromir, enough to make him forget for a while the foreboding words about "the gallows" that Aragorn had mentioned when their journey had begun. This city… one might think of fitting Minas Tirith and Minas Ithil in here and still leave room for much more, and this was just the crafter's quarters.
Ahead he saw Kíli raise his hand gesturing them to squat down, seek cover in the shadows while the dwarf scouted ahead towards a narrow tunnel. Boromir cast a glance back to their group, he was right behind Kíli, with Aragorn, behind them came Gandalf with the Hobbits and Gimli and Legolas were at the end of the group. In the dim light he could see Aragorn who pressed a hand against his mouth like to stifle a noise. "Are you alright?" Boromir asked, the deeps affected Aragorn more than any of them.
"That tunnel… it leads into the gallows." Aragorn said in a whisper, and let his hand sink down. "I do not know what the dwarves called the place, Thirán had a name for it, but for most of the captives it was simply the gallows. Walk through those stone gates and you will see the hanged man, and the chains…"
"Neither of which is there at this moment." Kíli's deep voice interrupted them; the dwarf had returned and squatted down beside them. "They gave up on that after someone stirred up Durin's Bane so badly… no one dares to cross him." He looked towards the tunnel. "Come, we need to be swift."
Boromir kept beside Aragorn as they entered the narrow tunnel. The stench reeking from it was too familiar to not recognize – sweat, urine, dirt and desperation, the stench of an Orc dungeon. So Kíli had been involved in Aragorn's escape from the Deeps and Thirán… Boromir vaguely recalled a Dwarrow of that name in Bofur's settlement; small wonder that the Ranger was apprehensive about these deeps and willing to trust Kíli.
They came out on a broad ledge from an above bridge Boromir saw a chain dangle and was this… was this a skeleton still hanging there? He could clearly make out the shape of pale bones up at the chains; gallows, a fitting name. Kíli used a steel hook that looked like an Orc-tool to fish the chain closer and yanked the bones free, they fell cluttering into the deeps below. "We need to climb up, this brings is five full levels above, and into the lapidary reaches."
A shortcut, if a gruesome one. Boromir waved the Hobbits closer. "Aragorn and I will carry you up," he said.
The first time they climbed the wildly swinging chain, Boromir carried Sam up and Aragorn took Frodo. It was a long climb and the cold metal cut into Boromir's hands as they made their way up into the endless darkness above. His arms were burning when he saw Kíli on a narrow bridge to his right, extending both hands to help them over. Carefully Boromir set down Sam first and then jumped onto the bridge too. It spanned a deep chasm, that harbored the many levels below. He looked for Aragorn who came right after and delivered Frodo to them. With Kíli to guard the two Halflings the two men climbed down again and got Merry and Pippin next, behind them their comrades followed this time.
From the bridge their path led through dark and dirty levels, full of ancient smelters, melting pits and other works, and while they sometimes heard the drums from afar, most of the time they moved in a heavy silence, without the slightest trace of any other living being but themselves.
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."
Boromir 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, but now that he was aware of it, he felt his aching muscles and the tiredness in his bones. "He is right, Kíli. I cannot even begin to tell for how many hours we have walked."
"There is an old watch post 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 watch post lay above the normal level they walked, only available through a hidden stairwell. While it consisted of naught but two empty stone rooms, it was enough. There was a kind of window carved into the wall opposite of the entrance, which Kíli immediately went to, gesturing Boromir to follow him over as the others flung themselves onto the chill stone to claim a few hours' rest. Boromir joined him, quite glad for the opening, as it made him feel less trapped under the low ceiling. But Kíli pointed through the window that opened to a large cavern that lay beyond, so large that Boromir could not catch the slightest glimpse of walls. It nearly felt like staring into a starless night on the surface. There was a light, faint but clearly visible, coming from somewhere in the darkness, sometimes flaring up stronger for moments that never lasted long enough for him to determine its point of origin.
"There are shafts in the ceiling allowing daylight to pass into the halls," Kíli whispered. "In times of old, the light would be caught and amplified by crystals under the ceiling. They were the famous lanterns of Moria and would fill the whole chasm with their shine."
Again, the crystal caught the rays of light and, this time, a bright beam filled the seemingly unending 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 fire-blossom growing from the dark mithril-veined stone itself. The black material with the many silver veins made the stone nearly look alive, shimmering and glistening in the reflected light. "The city of Khazâd-dûm, that your people called Dwarrowdelf," Kíli 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.
TRB
When Boromir woke from a deep and surprisingly restful sleep, he heard the familiar voices of Kíli and Gandalf, even as both tried to keep their tone down as to not disturb those still resting. "We have shaken them off, thanks to your guidance," the old wizard 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." Kíli stood leaning with his back to the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest. "And if they have archers, it will 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's beard quivered angrily as he snapped at Kíli.
"No, you led them onto a territory that you know little of, and your hardly can afford to lose part of the company already." The dwarf's deep voice was harsh, and reminded Boromir of what Kíli had said back in the lone lands, that he linked Gandalf's plans somehow to the death of his family.
"Spare me the stubbornness of your kind." Gandalf clasped his staff, straightening up to his full height so he towered over the Dwarf. "You have all the pride and stubbornness of your uncle."
Boromir tensed at these words and pushed himself up. Bringing Kíli's fallen Uncle into this was not a wise move on the wizard's part. Both turned around when they saw Boromir's movement. Kíli relaxed his stance only a little, Gandalf's frown deepened. Boromir could feel the anger standing between them like a shadow. Where Kíli had his past with Gandalf, it seemed the wizard was careful to trust him, but then, Gandalf's trust was strangely given, Boromir reminded himself. "We cannot afford to argue amongst ourselves." He pointed out, forcing his voice into the same quiet that he'd use when arguing with Imrahil back home. "You both seem to have a point about the way, yet we need to choose what the best path for us is if we want to escape the deeps."
Kíli looked up at him, and very slowly his stance relaxed more, shoulders easing out of the tension. "Alright, we take the bridge. It is dangerous, and will kill some of us, if the Orcs bring archers… though that is a risk we can handle. The longer I stay here, the greater the chance of waking Durin's Bane, and we stand no chance against him."
TRB
Amid a tense silence, they set out again, climbing up several long stairwells until they finally came out into a much wider set of stairs leading through a huge chasm. Deep below in the dark shaft surrounding the long stairs fires burned, red light shining on the powerful columns supporting the stairs, casting shadows on the surrounding walls. 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. "Kíli!" he called out to their companion, 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 as a number of Orcs scampered 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 foot of 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. He did not know from whence the strength came, how his soul found the spark of defiance, the spark of will that would not quit, nor give in, even when faced with this shadow. He raised Truefire, closing ranks with Kíli and Thorongil, ready to face the night.
"Durin's Bane…" Kíli's eyes had widened, the sword trembling in his hands, and a sheen of sweat shone on his pale face. He could not look away from the beast, from the very thing that had driven his family from these halls so long ago, and that still roamed the ancient deeps of Moria.
"A Balrog. A demon of the ancient world." Gandalf leaned on his staff, shoulders slumping. His voice had become low and raspy, suddenly sounding 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 swirled in the air as the mighty creature swooped down, the storm of the wings alone was too strong to stand against. The companions were swiped aside, thrown towards the walls and pillars of the hall as the Balrog landed in front of Gandalf, a fiery blade appearing in its dark claws. Gandalf's staff glowed with terrible 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 in all directions from the short impact of weapons. The very ground shook under them. Another pass broke a large chunk off the ceiling, and 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. "Kíli – is there another way out of here?" he asked the Dwarf, who had just struggled back to his feet after the storm of the Balrog's wings had thrown him against one of the pillars.
The Dwarf Prince was pale, but standing firmly, no shaking hands nor shocked face betraying fears any more. His face had become a stern, frozen mask. "Follow me," he said, his voice icy and cold.
For the first time he knew him, Boromir heard neither accent nor inflection in Kíli's voice. The words were cold, flat and devoid of anything, even life. He understood that Kíli was building a barrier inside him between the horror he was faced with and the task set before him, creating that distance to being able to function in the midst of battle. It was a skill good soldiers, strong survivors had – the best of them would be able to keep it up right under the wings of a Nazgul. But Boromir could hardly imagine the wealth of emotion frothing beneath the surface of his iced-over words.
They had to cross the hall, an undertaking of deadly proportions because the battle of Balrog and wizard had just begun and neither were using their power sparingly. On the far side of the hall, near the back, 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 sword become a whip and grab Gandalf; however, the dark creature had overextended its own reach, and both fighters plunged 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 Company 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 with every step they took. For more than an hour, they did not know where Kíli was leading them, until their path led them directly into a dark wall. Aragorn and Legolas spun around, their eyes quickly surveying the corridors left and right along with the one they had come from. Shrieks rose from the darkness to their sides as Orcs poured into all three hallways, spears and arrows flying towards the Fellowship. One spear barely missed Sam, and another grazed Frodo. "It's a dead end!" Legolas turned to shoot the first Orcs.
"It isn't." Kíli put his hands on the wall, whispering words none of them understood, and suddenly a glowing doorway 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 at its very end. Behind them, the doorway of stone closed as fast as it had appeared, blocking the Orcs off on the other 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.
TRB
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.
Boromir stumbled, his breath ragged. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his tired legs to catch his breath. He saw Legolas standing a few paces away, the Elf still staring at the gate of Moria in disbelieving shock; at his feet were Frodo and Sam, both in tears. Merry and Pippin joined them, to hug both, expressing comfort in the closeness to each other.
Boromir did not need to hear their words – their expressions and tears spoke for themselves. The immediate loss of a comrade and a friend was always a shock to deal with but Aragorn would not allow them to rest. "Come nightfall these hills 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?" Kíli asked, bandaging up a fresh cut on his arm where an Orc arrow had grazed him. He wasted minimal time on cleaning the wound, allowing it to bleed openly for a bit before applying the actual dressing, relying on the Dwarven resistance to infection for the wound to not inflame.
Aragorn came over to help. "You performed the task Lord Elrond gave you well, Kíli," 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, Kíli. You were asked to aid us 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 pointed out, surprised and angered that Thorongil would so easily sent a reliable friend away. "Things will get harder the farther we come south, and will not ease until we reach Minas Tirith. Another fighter should be a welcome addition."
Boromir's words caused a fierce stare from Gimli, who was squatted down beside Merry, helping the Hobbit to clean a cut in the side of his foot. Legolas made an Elven gesture of denial, or maybe simply indicating his disagreement in the quick wave of his hand.
The Dúnedain cast Boromir 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 White 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. "Kíli, a word, please," he said to the Dwarf.
Aragorn's gaze followed the two companions as they walked off to talk unobserved by the others in the group. He could see Gimli frown and Legolas shake his head, none of the Hobbits paid attention. He sighed, his decision to send Kíli away was not one he had made easily. He did trust the dwarf, though Gandalf might have disagreed with that. He well remembered how Kíli had freed him from the deeps, along with the other captives, Yurár and Thirán. He would not be here today had Kíli not helped him escape the darkness of Moria, and yet his own trust was meaningless. Kíli did not know their task, and with him around the company would be unable to speak openly of their plans. That alone was enough to rip a group apart with perceived distrust. And the other reason was harder still – he was planning to take the group to Lothlorien, they'd find help there, Elrond had seen to that. But the Lord of Lothlorien bore little love for the dwarves and the events of Azanulbizar had only widened the gulf. Getting Gimli in would be difficult enough, but the grandson of King Thrór might prove too much for the Elves' pride.
Boromir and Kíli walked a few steps away from the Company, far enough to be safely out of earshot without losing sight of them. "You have to return to your City, do you?" Kíli asked. "Gondor can't spare their Captain indefinitely."
He confirmed that with a curt nod. It had always been clear that he would have to do so. Boromir 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," Kíli 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?" Kíli simply asked.
Boromir wondered how Kíli was able to do that: know what others needed of him and then offer it without a second thought. The kind of compassion and friendship to do so was a rare thing indeed, to say nothing of the loyalty it took to offer to accompany someone, even if it was something of a friend, into a war-torn land. "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 will find you."
TRB
Aragorn's eyes followed the Dwarf's lean figure as he vanished quickly into the shadows of the mountains again. The Ranger was sure Kíli could take care of himself. He gave a grateful nod to Boromir, who rejoined them. "Thank you; I hate 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."
TRB
Entering the Elven kingdom of Lothlórien 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 the roots of Arda. 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 the city, to drive the Shadow out of Minas Ithil.
Blinking hard, he fought against the vision intruding on his mind, the sweet promise of defeating the Shadow – the hope he must not believe. He tried to cast down his eyes, to avoid Galadriel's piercing gaze, but he found he could not.
He was fighting under the silvery lamps of Moria, side by side with Kíli and Dwalin, and Orcs fled their blades…
"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 clear and powerful voice of the Elven Queen, 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. But the unusually deep voice of the Lady went on, speaking of his father and of Gondor. Her whispers drew out the dreams again, the dark, twisted dreams of the Ring, pulled mercilessly out into the light by her, with Boromir powerless to prevent it. Her words touched the other dream too, but only fleetingly. When she finally took mercy on him and looked away, he felt like he'd been interrogated for hours.
TRB
These woods seemed endless and unchanging. Boromir could not perceive any hint of a difference when he walked them. Trees, grass and wells, strewn along windings paths all so similar it was easy to get lost in these woods. The white trees shone in the night and their branches roofed to wide domes, but he felt like he was in a maze without a means to chart his way out. "I will not sleep peacefully in this place," he said as he walked away from the others, who were resting in the camp the Elves had provided for them by one of the many wellsprings.
His brisk stride barely concealed the anger he felt and could only direct at himself. Why had he even tried to speak of his fears and his hopes to Thorongil? 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 – could not – 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 the throne would actually take up the mantle and share the crushing weight before it overwhelmed and crushed the entire house of Stewards.
Boromir had been young when he had first perceived his father's failing strength and resolve, when he had first seen Men turn to him, not his father, for hope and for answers – warriors ten years his senior – but they had turned to him, the eldest son of the Steward, for leadership. He had given all he could, thrown all his strength into the long war, and fought with all the will and determination he had… but sometimes, in the long, lonely nights, he wondered how long he still could go on, how long he would be able to stem the tide, and he wished with all his heart that there would be something, a bright ray of hope for his people, someone who would be there to defend them against the dark hordes on the day that would inevitably come when Boromir's strength or luck ran out and he fell.
Frustrated, Boromir lay down under a tree far enough away from the others to neither hear their voices and only barely see them. He would not move away beyond guard distance – it was bad discipline to leave a group and move out of sight – but he needed some space, some time to be alone. He was tired in mind and body, yet he dreaded sleep because the dreams would come again. No sooner had he settled down than 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 the desecrated city, leaving nothing but ashes. 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, the cuirass with the engraved swan showing a deep dent; the left spaulder was cracked, probably by the same weapon, and there was blood trickling through the rings of the hauberk, marring the Swan Knight's tabard. Still, his proud face did not betray any pain or weakness. "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?" His 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 sunrise," 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 when he lay down. The Moon still shone low through the branches of the surrounding trees. He could not have slept more than two hours. Rising, he found a well and drank a few sips of the cool water. Those dreams… How could he resist them? Could he stop to believe in any kind of good outcome, could he stop to look forward, to allow himself to believe in any future for Gondor, 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? The hope to find a way to defeat Mordor, to one day having the strength to march across that accursed pass and crush the Shadow… it was what had kept him strong, when all other hopes seemed vague. Like all Men, he too needed hope, and he had kept hoping on finding a way, finding that strength to not just save his people, but to win this war, to spare another generation from having to fight like he had done since he was young. How… how could he let go of this hope? Was it possible to fight on hoping for nothing, expecting nothing? He could not imagine the emptiness. 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 from his side, and rested 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 the arms of restless dreams.
"That'll send all the Orcs running home to Mount Gundabad." 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. The corpses had been removed and the dirt and grime they had left scrubbed away. These halls were looking like they had not been in centuries. "Where are we going?"
"The city proper," Dwalin explained. "No one has been in there since Khazâd-dûm fell. Only Durin's blood may open these Gates. Moria is more than just mines and a maze of workshops."
"Dwarrowdelf." Boromir preferred the Man word to the Elven Moria. Moria would always remind him of dark things, of the shadowy pit it described, home of the nameless horror of shadow and flame, but Dwarrowdelf… Dwarrowdelf was something else entirely: it was this sprawling underground city, a place of lights and lanterns, a dream they were recapturing step by step. A place that would one day be the city of lights again. "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.
In 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. In the days to come, 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 involve water, sand, and scrubbing until the Orc stench never dared return to the halls of Kings.
"Dwalin, Boromir." Kíli, who had been speaking 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."
Dwalin grinned. "They ran like rabbits. I had to find our Gondorian friend here first before meeting with you." 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, Kíli turned around to them. "We're here, lad." Dwalin's voice held a wealth of warmth. After the long way he had gone with Kíli's family, this moment meant much to him. With Dwalin and Boromir at his side, Kíli 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 Thorongil 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 Dúnedain'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." Boromir did not know why he had quoted one of his best friends at home. He should not have quoted Veryan, not after these dreams. The words invoked the memory of the Swan Knight: the way Veryan's lips would quirk into a grim smile that usually accompanied such quotes or jabs of poetry. Veryan was the man with whom one could stand on the failing bridges of Osgiliath and hear him say something like that right in the moment when the message came that reinforcements would not come and then follow Boromir into the next desperate attack, making a dent into the Orc ranks that even Mordor would not account as expected losses. But now these memories invoked the dreams, and as Boromir had no doubt Veryan would follow him, even if he came back with the Ring, even if he had acquired it through…. No, he must not think of it, never again. He forced the picture of his friend from his mind, along with all thoughts of the shining gold bauble that held hope of victory. "Thorongil, has there ever been another attempt to retake Moria?" he asked to somehow distract himself, as he sat up straighter, slipping into the way he'd sit when taking second watch to one of his comrades. "One other than Balin's, I mean?"
The Ranger sat down on the grass beside Boromir, thinking. "King Thrór tried to reclaim Moria," he said after a moment. "He led an army of his people to Azanulbizar – that is what the Dwarves call Dimril Dale – by the Eastern Gate. It was maybe the greatest army that tried to retake the ancient kingdom since its fall. But they encountered legions of Orcs, led by the most infamous Orc to ever rise from Mount Gundabad: Azog the Defiler, a huge pale Orc that held sway over most of the Orcs and Goblins in the Misty Mountains. His unnumbered legions stood against the Dwarves when they marched into Azanulbizar."
Boromir listened, enraptured, to the Ranger's tale. He had never thought or believed that such masses of Orcs would live outside of Mordor, and while he had seen enough in Moria to know better now, the tale of a great battle against their kind had his undivided attention.
"The Dwarves stood outnumbered ten to one against the Orcs and they fought fiercely," Thorongil went on, "but Azog was a cruel and sly creature, knowing that he had to break their leadership. He confronted and killed King Thrór, beheading him. He threw the King's head at the Dwarven armies, to break their spirit. It worked… at first. Thrain son of Thrór broke under the strain, his mind fleeing the horrors he saw." There was a hint of compassion in Thorongil's voice as he spoke of Thrain's failure, Boromir noticed. It was not the disdain of a fellow warrior, nor the scorn of a King… but the compassion of a healer seeing a being that had shouldered too much.
"The Dwarves were losing." Thorongil looked directly at Boromir. "Their ranks were breaking, and they were leaderless. Until…" He paused, and the smile that shone in his eyes told Boromir that this was on purpose: this was the way a bard would pause to make an audience nervous. "Until Thorin son of Thrain confronted the pale Orc. He went alone against the beast that had slain his father and his brother Frérin, He stood alone, his armor torn by the long battle behind him, his shield smashed by Azog's mace, using only an oaken branch to protect against the heavy blows raining down on him. He fell to the ground and the pale Orc moved in to destroy him like he had already destroyed his family, but Thorin grabbed his sword, he came to his feet, and his blade cut through Azog's arm in one fell blow, causing him to lose hold of his weapon.
"The Orcs began to retreat into the gate of Moria, trying to recover their wounded leader. Thorin rallied the Dwarven army and they charged at them. With their spirits rekindled and the Orc leader wounded, the Orcs lost control of the battle, and were slaughtered. It was their greatest defeat since the fall of Angmar and their numbers were reduced greatly. The Dwarven victory gave peace to the lands on both sides of mountains for decades to come… but the Dwarves had lost so many of their people, their death toll so high, they could not continue their campaign. It is said that the flower of an entire generation fell in Azanulbizar."
Boromir looked down, the story of the great battle touching him deeply. The sacrifice of so many, giving the plagues lands some time of peace. Again, he was astonished to find parallels between his own people and the Dwarves. As little as their great deeds had helped them, they had helped others. "Has Kíli any connection to that battle?"
"Kíli? No. He must have been but a child at the time. His uncle, Thorin Oakenshield, was there, of course, and King Thrór would have been his great-grandfather. I believe Kíli'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 Kíli impressed you, did it not?"
"He is an impressive fighter," Boromir answered. "I have rarely seen someone with the stubbornness and the courage to 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." Thorongil leaned back against the tree he was sitting under, hands resting beside him on the soft grass as he stretched his long legs to sit more comfortably – and a rare smile lit up his drawn features. "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 – like one of the old Dwarven kings of legend. A warrior. Kíli 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.
