Chapter 10: To pass into silence
The silence rested on Moria like a heavy blanket, smothering all there was in the empty halls and long dark passageways. If Gandalf had spoken of the long dark of Moria, the silence was by far the more oppressive force of this place, or so Boromir felt as he walked at the rear of the group. Their own steps echoed too loudly into the great silence, and every so often when a rock would slip under their boots the noise of stone cluttering on stone would make Boromir wince, like every noise they made, every loud step of them was disturbing the rest of an ancient grave. In the scarce light they had he could only catch glimpses of mines, dark shafts falling into the deeps beside them, broken carts and cranes, the remains of an ore wash and other remains of the great works once done here flickered by in the semi-darkness. Now and then Boromir spotted tools – a heavy hammer, a mining pick or a dropped pickaxe beside the shafts – that had they been left here on the days the mines had been overrun? The sight of them left a deep, sad feeling in his heart – how many had perished when this underground realm had fallen? How had their downfall begun? Had doom fallen swiftly, an inevitable fate striking them all down? Or had it come slowly, in a fight trying to stem the tide of darkness, until there were too few fighters were left and their strength ran out?
He did not know why the sight of the empty mines touched him so – but the longer he walked in the dark, catching glimpses of the deep chasm that the dwarves had built their mines in, the less he could look away. What mighty strength had it taken to create a realm like this? To tunnel these foreboding mountains and build a kingdom like none other in the world and then to defend it against Orcs and Goblins? Sometimes he felt like he could almost see their fading figures fight battles in these tunnels – like he could hear their shouts, their voices…
"Boromir!" Kíli's voice interrupted his thoughts, the dwarf stood only a step before him, he must have headed back to him when he had failed to respond to something said before. "Are you alright?" he asked, his eyes searching Boromir's face.
"I… I am fine, just not used to being underground like this." Inwardly Boromir chastised himself for letting this place, this beautiful, eerie place get to him like this. He needed to focus, not get lost in dreams of the past, a rear guard had to pay attention not to get sucked into a dream, no matter how beautiful and haunting the surroundings were. He had not made such a mistake in many years and felt his cheeks burn.
Kíli light clapped his arm, not noticing his embarrassment. "I know it must be hard for you – especially here in the old mines it feels like half the Mountain is weight down on us. But we'll leave the chasm now – there is an old shaft that climbs up to the outskirts of the city, from which can proceed much more easily." He turned and headed back to the top of the group to guide them towards something that looked like a dead end, but in truth proved to be shaft they could climb.
As they walked on Boromir made himself focus on the group more, consciously trying to ignore the reaches of the mines around him, for they managed to gain his attention time and again. So he kept his eyes on the group. Gandalf was at the front with Kíli, followed by Aragorn, behind them were the Hobbits. The two elves walked with their calm unshaken, though Elrohir had fallen into step beside Anvari and Frodo, talking softly to them as they proceeded through the tunnel.
"No," Anvari just said. "the works where the ore was processed must be somewhere to the North of us, if the wallmarkers are correct, above us the habitation levels begin already, probably mainly the homes of the miners. And maybe the old tradequarters – I think I saw a wallmarker to that effect a while ago." The young dwarf stopped beside a steep shaft, that climbed upwards and checked that none of the group had gone lost, then he helped Sam into the steep shaft, the Hobbit's foot nearly missed the iron bar, but Anvari's unfailing grip steadied him and Sam began the climb up.
"How deep does Moria reach?" Elrohir asked as he helped Frodo up towards the shaft, old iron bars inside were the only help for the climb but the Hobbit grabbed them deftly and began to climb upwards with much greater ease than his friend had done.
"Twenty eight deeps down and twenty three heights up, excluding the watchtowers and the Seat of Kings," Anvari pulled himself up on the bars following Frodo with the practiced ease of someone at home in such surroundings, he went slower to not put pressure to climb fast on their smaller comrades. "The waterworks lie beneath, when it became impossible to pump all the water out of the mines, they were built – a network of deep tunnels beneath the deepest reaches. As water will always flow downwards, all water from the mines goes there and is carried out of the Mountains by several drainage tunnels that carry the water towards either Dunland or the Anduin valley." Albeit Anvari only spoke in a hush, the shaft carried the whisper down to them.
When Elrohir was up inside the shaft Boromir followed, the steel bars were easily grabbed though their distance was too short for him, he had to grab every third to make good progress up. Luckily Dwarves were so broad-shouldered that they usually built tunnels broad enough for a Man to pass through without problems. "But it is said that the lower deeps have sunk into water," he pointed out, keeping his voice low to not disturb the silence of the mines. "if the water is drained from the mines like that, how could it happen?"
He could not see Anvari's reaction, as the younger dwarf was up ahead of them, but he heard the soft answer. "Who knows what the Orcs did to the tunnels? Maybe they managed to block one off, thus creating a dam. No one has been in the deeps of Moria in a long time, Boromir – who knows what things sleep down there?"
Again the words touched a strange chord inside Boromir, a painful, almost familiar echo that he had no name for. Not allowing himself to dwell on is any longer he focused on climbing up the shaft, he noticed that the bars were only marginally wet, and the walls had no condensed water. The air systems of the mine must be very good to prevent humidity to spread in the deeps.
It did not take long for them to reach the upper end, the shaft opened into a narrow tunnel that was just so high enough to allow Boromir to stand without hunching. He was grateful that the dwarves seemed to have a penchant for building tall halls, otherwise this journey would have become straining very soon.
"Where now?" he heard Gandalf ask Kíli, the wizard had taken off his hat which had come into conflict with the ceiling.
"We follow the miner's town east, until we reach Thandurion crossing, just before the ninth hall." Kíli replied taking the lead again, moving ahead of them like a shadow. "There we will need to divert our path slightly to avoid crossing the Hall of Heroes and the Hall of Flame." The answer seemed to satisfy the wizard, because he nodded curtly and relit his staff, providing a dim light as they went on.
Aelin had relieved Boromir of rear guard, and he found himself near the top of the group with Aragorn. The Ranger walked on soft feet, his steps hardly causing an echo in the silence around them, though he was tense, eyes always on the dark tunnels surrounding them. And there was a great number of those now – for these were living quarters, stone doorways opened to what had been homes, small hallways linked 'backalley' homes, and stairs led up and down between the housings. More than down in the mines they encountered traces of habitation now – trashed items, broken furniture and leftover items, long destroyed by Orcs were commonplace, and Boromir found it hard to look at them. He was grateful that there were no bones lying around – though that raised the sickening thought what the Orcs would have done to their captives, dead or alive.
An entire city eradicated by legions of Ors – it was what he had been fighting against all his life, to prevent his own home to fall to such a fate, but seeing it for real drove the thought home all the more strongly. He had seen devastated settlements before in Ithilien, but he had always forbidden himself to picture what Minas Tirith would look like after it fell to the dark hordes. Down here in the shadows of a long fallen Kingdom that picture became a frightening image and one he found hard to shake off.
For hours they walked through the narrow hallways, stairs leading up and down and along winding corridors, only guided by marks that were hewn in the walls long ago. Boromir could only guess that they signified some system of orientation that the dwarves were using, something with numbers like Kíli used them when he named halls or crossroads. Boromir kept his attention on the way and on the scarce comments Kíli made about their way, trying to work out how the dwarf navigated the halls. It kept his mind occupied in the nameless hours of walking. They continued onwards, vaguely east he hoped, until Frodo nearly stumbled over his own feet and was swiftly caught by Anvari. The younger dwarf stopped. "Kíli, we need a rest – we all do, I dare say we have been walking for two days straight." He did not raise his voice, but his calm, friendly words reached their hardened guide easily.
"One and a half days, Anvari, but you are right." Kíli took a swift look around, assessing where they were. "sixth well of the city guard is right over there, it should make for a good place to camp."
He led them towards a broader stairwell leading down to a broader road, the pale light of the stone in his hand barely illuminating the hallway as he went, but for a moment Boromir almost believed he could see that stairwell brightly lit by stone lamps and dwarves hustling and bustling to and fro… it went as swiftly as it had come and rubbed his eyes. He had to be tired to start seeing things like that. Kíli led them to an empty quadratic room, with a simple well in one corner. There was nothing else inside the room – not even broken furniture or shattered stones, but it had only one entrance and would be easily defended if necessary.
Anvari had squatted down on the rim of the well, pulling something up. "The water looks clean, Kíli," he reported, lifting an old stone bucket onto the side of the well. "at least we won't have to ration water too strictly."
That was good news indeed, until now they had been rationing their water strictly, as it would have to last them until they could reach the other side. But fresh water supplies meant a less thirsty night and full waterskins in the morning. Sam gathered up all waterskins and brought them over to the well. "I wouldn't see the practical use of a stone bucket, Anvari," he said, as the dwarf pulled up another load of water. "but at least it didn't rot, if you get my meaning." He peered down into the long, deep shaft of the well. "Are you sure there never was someone to fall in there? There was a well in Aldelving in the North Farthing where a travelling man drowned in – it poisoned the well."
"I checked the water, Sam, it is clean," Anvari said softly. "it must come from a fresh underground watercourse, as cold as it is." He began to refill the waterskins for them and Sam carried them back to the others, camping down with Frodo in the far corner of the room. The rest of the group began to settle down as well.
"I will take first watch," Elrohir said, sitting down in the doorway of the room, his sword at hand in case someone snuck up on him.
Boromir was glad for the rest, sitting down at the other side of the room, leaning his back against the wall, it was good to finally get some rest. Placing his swords over his knees, Boromir closed his eyes, allowing the gentle silence of Moria to lull him into sleep, and sleep came on soft feet embracing him to carry his dreams away
He stood in a high hill under a strange, icy moon, snow was falling from the skies like a white veil, the glistening of the snowflakes in the silvery light a mockery of the horrors they enshrouded. An Easterling force was being pushed back from the fortress gates – the dwarves fighting like the wild wolves to not allow them inside their walls, while another force covered the retreat of those cut off through a postern. On the hill Boromir saw him – one single warrior, an old dwarf leading those who covered the retreat of his people. One warrior with a mighty blade – one strong enough that the Easterlings fell before him like leaves in a tempest, watching that battle unfold Boromir felt like had seen him before – seen such a battle before, but he could not name it. More enemies came but that one warrior stood – he sent half his men back to the Mountain, then some more – until he was left with very few fighters covering the retreat of the last of his people. Caught up in the duel with one Easterling warrior, he held out… until… Boromir wanted to scream, to warn him, because he knew the tactic the enemy was choosing, he had seen it before. But it was too late, the blade hit home, both adversaries falling in one lethal embrace.
The two blond warriors still standing with the old one closed ranks, and standing over the corpse of the fallen, they made the remaining Easterlings pay a dear price for their success. Of those who still dared to storm that hill, none returned.
With the first rays of dawn the silence came. To him standing on the high hill it came like a strange shadow finally silencing the bloody fields below. He wanted to walk, to look around but his feet were not moving. The mountain valley below was a field of death, black and red. Red with blood and black with corpses, Dwarrow and Men both claimed by the same grim reaper. Snow fell unfettered by pain and loss, uncaring for the many who had thrown themselves at the Easterling advance before their armies could overrun the Mountain, the many that had died to allow their fleeing friends an escape. Boromir's eyes strayed over the field slowly vanishing under a white blanket of snow. It was over... only it did not feel like it. He could see dwarves holding a formation around a foothill – the Easterlings had retracted their forces for now, they were regrouping.
A number of dwarves had reached the two lone defenders, for the moment securing the way back to the postern. The older of the two turned to the leader of the freshly arrived fighters. "Kór, send word to Bofur – he is to close the siege gates. And I will need more of your people quickly – we will not leave any of our brethren to their mercy."
Kór saluted, fist over his heart and headed off to carry out the order, while both defenders knelt down beside the fallen old dwarf. Boromir was not surprised to see their tears…
"… I don't know how long, Mr. Strider, I only noticed him hardly breathing when I came back from the well," Sam's nervous voice echoed from far away to Boromir, like he was hearing him from the bottom of a deep well. It was a feeling like he was trapped under a lot of water the surface only a vague light and the echo of sounds he could not reach. It vividly reminded him of nearly drowning off the Corsair's island almost two years ago, only that here it felt more oppressive, like he could not reach the world at all.
"This is no sleep, it is a vision," Aragorn's voice was closer, but still far away, an echo ringing here and there, coming and going, unreachable if susceptible close. He felt a hand touch his forehead, the fleeting contact of the roughened fingers painful, like a sharp blade parting the veil of water and bringing up to the surface. "we must not wake him, waking someone from a vision dream can drive them mad… it is dangous."Aragorn's voice was suddenly much closer, and Boromir felt the cool air of the room pebble against his skin as he drew a ragged breath.
"Nonsense…" Boromir mumbled, his body slowly obeying him again. "Fari went from a vision straight into combat during a night raid… he was right as rain" He slowly managed to open his eyes, his hands were shaking and the blade had slipped off his knees. With the barrier between him in the world gone he became acutely aware of the room and that Aragorn and Sam were beside him. The white light of Gandalf's staff cast a pale halo on him, so bright it almost hurt his eyes.
Aragorn released a relieved breath. "Thank the light you are with us again, Boromir, when Sam found you like this I was worried – especially as you said it was your brother that had the gift." The Ranger studied Boromir thoughtfully, but unable to hide the worry in his gaze.
Rubbing his forehead Boromir tried to distance himself a little from the dream, it was hard, he felt like only moments before he had still been in the battle, feeling the cold wind and the snow – seeing the mighty dwarven warrior fall. Somehow deep in his heart he knew he'd never meet one like him again, and no matter how long ago it had happened, he felt honored he had been allowed to share those few last moments. "Usually he has, Aragorn, I only rarely have such dreams – or visions," he leaned his head back against the stone, trying to answer the question in a useful manner. "it must be this place… it is getting to me. What I saw was the past, I think." He had seen dwarves fighting the shadow – could it have been the second age, the fall of Eregion that he had witnessed? He had been thinking of those events a lot ever since they had left Ost-in-Edhil.
"No, it was not." Boromir could see Kíli come up from where he had slept, sitting up against the wall, like to steady himself and at the same moment he felt a wave of heartbreaking sadness echo from his friend, a pain and grief that were barely held in check by discipline. The feelings were so intense they flooded over to him, thought he could clearly tell it was not his own feelings – they were, different, foreign and yet so familiar.
"You saw…?" he asked, wondering if their bond had somehow allowed the dream to be shared. And what did the dream mean to Kíli? What did it herald for him that Boromir was yet unable to decipher?
"What did you see?" Aragorn's voice was calm, patient but firm; he looked at Boromir with the gaze of a healer wanting some answers, while a worried glance strayed to Kíli every now and then.
"I saw a battlefield in the snow," Boromir said, trying to describe what he had seen, he could not place the landscape he had seen with any place he had ever seen before. But he had not seen much, not more than the hill in the snow and the mighty mountainside at his back. "dwarves defending a fortress against Easterling troops and Varigians. There definitely wee Varigians… they are the only ones to fight under a blood-red banner with a goat for coat of arms. They were trying to take in refugees into their fortress, but had become trapped… the battle was fierce. One old warrior covered their retreat into the fortress with only a few others… I never saw anyone fight like this, Aragorn. He took so many with him – they ran against him, again and again, and he would still stand. Like a rock unbroken and deathly, I… I would have hoped that he'd stand through it all. But one of his opponents… he used the embracing the blade trick on him, let himself be hurt to land the deadly hit, it takes courage to do that… and I think the old warrior could see that in his opponent. He grabbed him in death, I doubt he let go. Two others closed ranks over his body… two dwarven warriors, blond and armed with swords and they fought on where their comrade fell - the Easterlings certainly will have rued having felled this one." He looked at Aragorn, who had listened intently, did the Ranger know where all this had happened… was happening? "But… if it was not the past…"
"Erebor," Kíli's voice was rough, though he audibly fought to keep it level. The dwarf had drawn his legs in and leaned his arms on them, his head was bowed, so his long hair obscured his face. "you saw Erebor, Thorin…" his voice had sunken to a hush.
"Thorin?" Anvari scrambled to his feet, casting his blanket aside, hastening over to Kíli. "what about father? Frérin? … Asutri?" He knelt down beside Kíli, and gently clasped his shoulders, making him look up. "Thorin… is he…?"
"Mahal called him home, Anvari," Kíli had looked up to face Anvari, gently he grasped the younger dwarf's shoulders, so their foreheads touched. The older dwarf's voice was breaking, the words were nearly choked. "he went on the road from whence there is no return, leaving a mighty battle behind him. He defended the Mountain Home to the very last."
A choked sob escaped Anvari's throat as he held onto Kíli like a drowning man might on a branch from the shore, the young dwarf's shoulders were shaking, thought he struggled to constrain the tears welling up in his eyes.
Again Boromir felt an almost drowning wave of pain from Kíli, and this time he had the distinct impression that he felt another echo inside it. Like there was a second voice echoing into their bond, one that carried a deep anguish, a keening that cut right into the heart. How Kíli, who must feel it much more intensely could keep his calm mien was beyond Boromir. How he found the discipline to not break down in tears. "Fíli is alive, Anvari, I can feel him, he is pained… grieved beyond compare, but he is not alone. Asutri is with him. I do not know about Frérin, but I believe he will make the Easterlings pay for slaying his brother." The older dwarf hugged his young comrade, simply holding him close for a moment.
Aragorn bowed his head, compassion and sadness both warring in his eyes. "So Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain is dead…" he said softly. "May a Light guide him home to the halls of his fathers."
Doom! The loud echo of a drum rang out into the silence, a noise sounding from all shafts and halls, ringing through the darkness. Doom! It went again, rolling like a battle drum. Another drum answered the first call, ringing out from somewhere below at a frantic, angry rythim. Boromir saw Aragorn tense. "Orc drums," the Ranger whispered, his hand sinking to his sword. "we better leave here swiftly."
Pushing himself to his feet, Boromir found he could stand again; the weakness of the vision had passed. He picked up his sword sheathing it again. "Give them a moment's time, Aragorn," he said firmly, the drums were far off and if the Orcs found them in this maze right away was doubtful. If death had its season, so had grief. "they just learned that their King died – that their father and… grandfather died, that their home is under siege…" he looked to the Halflings and saw Frodo's face was streaked with tears too. He had said at the council that he had grown up in Erebor, he too would have known King Thorin.
"We don't have the time, Boromir – if the Orcs find us…" Aragorn met his gaze firmly, it was the first time they clashed like this and neither of them was willing to give ground.
"They won't," Kíli had stood up, pulling Anvari to his feet as well. The older dwarf's face was stern, composed, even as his eyes still shone suspiciously. "not if we are swift and lead them on a chase that they cannot win – so they can go home and whine their woes to Durin's Bane." The dwarf's voice was deep and grim as he grabbed his sword, flipping the belt over his head, so the blade hung against his back again. He turned to look at Anvari, who had been slower to pick up his weapons. "Dranákh drû beltur, côr drukhvár." He said a little more softly, meant only for the dwarf.
The phrase sounded strangely familiar to Boromir, like something he had heard before – like something he knew. Duty first, grief later he could not tell how he knew, but he was sure that it was what Kíli had told Anvari.
"Kíli…" Boromir began but his words were cut off by a curt gesture. "We do not have the time, Boromir," the dwarf said, and while his voice was still husky, it was strong again. "Thorin would not expect us to wallow in grief but to pick ourselves up and march on. So we better get moving. Elrohir – sneak ahead and tell me if you can smell them from any direction – Anvari, you are with Frodo and Sam, they will need your aid – Aelin, can you take rear, they won't sneak up on you easily."
There was a change Boromir saw happen in their comrade. In this moment Kíli shed the role of the companion, the warrior and the leader, the dwarven Prince came into foreground, not brought out by pride but by sheer necessity. Another echo of the drum became audible and Elrohir, standing in the doorway looked at them. "They come from two directions, Kíli, there and there," he pointed to their right and straight ahead.
"Then we go elsewhere," Kíli headed out, to take point as he passed Boromir he gently grasped his arm. "Thank you."
"For what?" Boromir could not bite back the startled question. How the dwarf was able to push past the grief, past the pain was admirable, Boromir knew had he learned of a similar fate befalling his father, he'd have hardly been so steady.
"For allowing me to share your vision, I knew this hour was coming… but knowing the truth is always preferable to wondering how it came to pass." Kíli said, before he headed out and into darkness ahead of them.
Author's Notes
Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories. :D