Chapter 25: The widening gyre

Pippin had just begun to tell them of Treebeard and the Entmoot when they were interrupted by Thoroniâr walking into the guard room, bowing hastily when he saw he had interrupted a meeting of sorts. "Thoroniâr what is it?" Boromir asked, knowing that if the Captain of the Tower guard came to him something must be astray.

"A rider is approaching the city gate, my Lord, the lookout spotted him. It's hard to tell in the moonlight, but they are sure he is Haradrim and astride a Nazgul steed; might be a messenger of sorts." Thoroniâr reported at once.

Boromir got to his feet, the black lands sometimes would parlay, usually to make demands and sometimes utter threats to back the demands up, but that did not mean they should shoot the messenger on sight. "Thoroniâr have someone send for the Lord Aragorn, inform him as well and ask him to come to the gate. Merry, find Éomer and ask him to come down as well. And send a messenger to the Undercity and find Prince Kili. This will concern all of us."

"Why would the Haradrim send a messenger?" Faramir asked as they hastened down towards the shattered gate of the first wall. "You slew their King up on the second ring, but I doubt it is simply because they want his body back."

"Boromir killed the King of the Haradrim?" Aragorn had caught up to them, as they passed through the scorched first ring.

"He led the storm on the second ring," Boromir said simply. "we fought each other and he lost. But the Haradrim are not the Easterlings, if it was one of them, I'd expect either a challenge by Shakurán's twin or his sword…"

"Nay, he definitely is Haradrim," The Ranger gazed past the ruined gate towards the rider who approached the city on the Pelennor. The moon stood high in the skies, glittering now and then on the man's armor but Boromir saw hardly enough to judge, contrary to Aragorn who had the keen eyes of a Ranger.

"Agreed, the helmet is definitely Haradrim," Faramir said calmly. "but the way he sits on the horse is all wrong, he did not learn to ride in their steppes."

"Could he be one of their sons that were brought to the black land as a child?" Aragorn asked in return, the two Rangers comfortable to exchange observations.

"Then he'd be wearing the black Morgul Armor," Faramir said. "and there again… golden scale armor, definitely a Haradrim."

Boromir saw the wry glance Éomer cast to him, before the Rohirrim warrior gaze back out again. "The horse is tired," he said. "and he is not forcing it to run, he is careful with it. He also rides bareback."

When the rider was closer but still at a position that the archers on the walls could easily aim at him, Boromir called out. "Haradrim! What brings you to the gates of this city?" He called in Westron and then added the same in their Haradic tongue, a messenger of the black lands would of course speak the tongue of the West but Boromir had encountered Haradrim who did not speak anything but their own language and the Dark Tongue.

The Rider stopped the horse, gently nudging it to hold its walk. "Lord Boromir?" he asked. "Is that you Captain?" With one fluid move he removed his helmet and dismounted the huge black horse.

"Anarion?" Heedless for his own safety Boromir left the broken gate and approached the man who stood beside the horse, one hand still at the animal's back. He could see the Haradrim armor and cloak, along with wounds and bruises; a gory gash near the throat, the man looked like he was ready to drop. "Anarion… it is you." Boromir was glad to see the man was alive, he had often wondered what had happened to the young Ranger. "Are Frodo and Sam with you?"

Anarion averted his eyes, looking down. "No, my Lord. We had to split up after I got injured. I stayed behind to draw off the Orcs." Slowly he let go of this hold on the horses' back and went to one knee before Boromir. "I failed the mission you entrusted me with."

"Nay," Boromir grasped the younger man's shoulders and pulled him up. "you did not fail. You went as far as you could, more was never asked of you." He could all too easily tell that Anarion had been through dark things. But when the Ranger failed to meet his eyes again, Boromir looked closer and saw the moonlight reflected in unfocused greyish-green eyes. "What did they do to you?" There was no doubt that Anarion had been captured, the traces were all over him.

Anarion had stepped back, like embarrassed. His eyes going past Boromir, never truly meeting his gaze and Boromir realized horrified that these eyes were now shrouded in darkness. "The usual, Captain, the dance in the Mountains of Shadow, a few rounds of Orc hospitality, and some fun when the Haradrim tried to pull rank on the Orcs, I got away in the chaos."

His voice was steady and firm and Boromir respected the younger soldier's wish to present a strong façade, to not break under what he had been through. How he had made it back here, in his shape bespoke his strength. "Let's go back to the city, Anarion, there is no need to stay out here." He said.

"Of course, Captain." Anarion put his hand back on the back of the horse. "Tarkiz il menûr." He said softly to the horse, which began to walk slowly towards the gate, serving as a guide.

Boromir slowed his step to make it easier on the young soldier. Blinded… he had not noticed at first, but now had realized what must have happened to the Ranger. He knew that it would be cruel to force Anarion to speak of this before all the other warleaders, so me made no direct mention of it. "How did you come by this steed?" Boromir asked, as they approached the waiting group.

"We met by the river, near Amen Ford," Anarion said, patting the beast affectionately. "and helped each other out. I would not have known I was near the ford, had he not met me."

"You freed this horse?" Éomer had approached them, careful to not startle the mighty beast.

"Freed would be saying too much," Anarion replied, he did not know who had spoken to him. "I removed saddle and bridle when we met and he seemed willing to carry me the rest of the way."

"Tis no wonder he would chose you as a friend," Éomer said. "years ago the black land stole horses from Rohan, some of our best and most noble horses were taken. He is one of them."

"You are from Rohan." Anarion knew he should have noticed the accent at once; the Rohirrim had a very distinct way of speaking Westron that came through their mother tongue. This one was more fluent in the western tongue than others Anarion had met. "then he should go back to you, home to the plains."

Éomer laughed. "I could not order him to, even if I wanted. He has chosen you it seems."

While Éomer had paid attention to the horse, Boromir had stepped to Aragorn and Gandalf. "Anarion is the Ranger I send with Frodo and Sam." He said in a hushed voice.

"Then we will need to hear all he can say," Gandalf said firmly. "and hear it quick. I fear it is ill tidings he may bear."

Boromir silently agreed. They made their way back to the citadel; the Captain of Gondor was not surprised to see Faramir use the chance to speak a few words to Anarion while they walked. The Ranger had been one of his men and observant as he was Faramir had picked up on the blindness of the man faster than any other, save Aragorn maybe.

. . .

"We split up near the Khadach-zug-dhur, the path of ashen death," seated with them in the guard room, Anarion gave his account of the events that had transpired since he and the halflings had crossed the river. They had made it across the mountains through several small passes in the range leagues south Minas Morgul, using an ancient passroad across the mountains for the last leg of their journey, before they had run into several encounters with orc troops that had led them to finally split up.

"So they were already on the Eastern side of the mountains," Aragorn observed. "somewhere at the thorn of Nurn, the southern edge of Gorgoroth. The enemy was unaware of them?"

"As far as I can tell, they thought that an Elven Warrior was haunting their border." Anarion confirmed. "they kept asking about him. But they were waiting for someone else to come and take care of the full interrogation." He spoke of his captivity in detached words, keeping a distance between himself and the events.

Boromir understood why, he had seen enough of the Orcs tender mercies to have a good guess what Anarion had faced. The blinding was only the most pronounced mark on him, some of the scars he received were not visible ones. The Captain knew all too well what sick games Orcs played with their captives. "You did well, you kept them off their tracks while they were busy chasing you, Anarion." He said.

"Did they get anything from you regarding Frodo or his errand?" Gandalf asked. "What did you tell them?"

Aragorn silenced the wizard with a gesture of his hand. "Anarion," he spoke to the Ranger, "no one believes it a shame if you spoke… but we need to know what the enemy knows."

The Ranger's blinded gaze went to the man whom he did not know, had never met, but who seemed to hold command now. He could not look at him but he could tell from whence the voice had come. "I did not know their errand, my Lord." He responded politely. "I never knew Frodo's task, or his destination. He asked me to bring him across the Mountains of Shadow on a route as inconspicuous as possible, and this I did. The Orcs never asked about them either, they wanted the Elven Warrior they believed to be running loose in their area."

Boromir could see the sharp glances of several men in the room, that he had send someone to his death, to torture, not knowing why he had to face such horrors, did not sit well with them. It was the hardest part of leading men into this kind of war, you had to be willing to send them to their deaths, to send them into deadly traps fully knowing what would happen, you had to be willing to make those sacrifices to win the battles this war threw at the land. And while it had pained him each time had had been forced to make such a decision, he knew that his men had understood and accepted the deadly risks. It was their opinion, their acceptance that mattered, not what others thought. "How did you escape, Anarion?" he returned to the conversation, the sooner they had heard all they needed to, the sooner Anarion would be able to rest.

"With the armies flooding back from the battlefield chaos ensued. There were no orders from Minas Morgul and the Orcs were speaking of number one being killed." Anarion recounted the events that had led to his escape. "the last time I overheard some of them talk, there was word that Number two had taken command in Minas Morgul and that Idrákhan had been named Marshal of Udûn to whip the legions back into shape."

"That is not good," Aragorn said. "they are regrouping quickly. Boromir, what do you know on this new Captain?"

"Idrákhan? Tough, capable, a strategist, if Shakurán was the blunt club, he is the dancing blade; honorable as far as that can be said of an Easterling. If we go up against him, expect cunning strategies, monsters and a few nasty surprises where you least need them." Boromir had fought that man before, "If he was raised Marshal of Udûn, he'll have to muster and order half Gorogorth, which will take him at least a week…"

"And keeps the full might of Sauron's armies between Frodo and Mount Doom," Gandalf pointed out. "it will be his death."

"No." Aragorn stood up. "Frodo needs time and a chance to cross the plains of Gorgoroth undetected. Coming from the edge of Nurn, he has a long way to go. We need to empty Mordor and draw out Sauron's army, keep his eye fixed on us."

"He still fears us," Boromir understood where Aragorn was going. "he fears you, he fears to see men united under one banner. If we muster all the fighters we can and march on Dargorlad… we will play his fears, the things he remembers."

"March on the Black Gate?" Aragorn actually smiled. "He will believe we mean it, he will believe that we believe we can win."

"But we can't." Éomer said. "We cannot hope to gain victory through strength of arms. Not with double the armies we still have."

"It's a bait," Kili said to him. "make him think we are the main threat… that maybe even one of us," he inclined his head towards Aragorn and Boromir, "might yet have the ring. And for that prize he will pour down all his armies right upon us."

"While Frodo can approach Orodruin unnoticed." Aragorn finished the thought. "Boromir, you said that the Palantír of this city was still in existence? Can you lead me there?"

"What are you planning, Aragorn?" Gandalf asked.

"Give Sauron a bait he can't refuse to take." Aragorn told him. "Boromir, bring me there, I will have need of you. Faramir. and Éomer need to see it that the armies will get ready to march by morning. It is a three days march to the Black Gates." He looked at the group assembled. "Kili?"

"I'll have my people ready to march as well."

. . .

Opening the door to the King's tower again, Boromir could not help but feel a sense of dread rise inside him. "I'd prefer to face half of Idrákhan's hordes alone and only with my sword in hand, instead of using that thing." He grumbled, pushing the door open.

"You prefer the battle, with your sword drawn in the sunlight," Aragorn replied. "but some battles can't be won that way. You do respect this Easterling Captain, don't you?"

"Aye," The Gondorian confirmed. "he is tough, brutal even, cunning and a strategist like there are few these days. He keeps his word when he gives it and when he can. I like to think he hates it when forced to break it by those who rule the black lands."

"You have a strange way of speaking of the enemy." Aragorn noticed, he had observed this before, but not as strongly.

Boromir shrugged. "Twenty years of war, Thorongil, twenty years of fighting along that accursed border, twenty years of learning that the enemy you face can be a monster or just as much a man as you are. And men like Shakurán or Idrákhan… their loyalty and duty is no less than that of our people, they fight for their land, their oaths, their people, honoring the vows and allegiances of their fathers, living their lives far from the land of their birth. I wonder what their path would have been had the shadow not claimed them…" he stopped turning to Aragorn. "and I will fight them, and kill them and show as little mercy as they'd give me, but I will still respect them for the warriors they are."

"Thorongil… you keep calling me by that name," Aragorn said, steering away from the topic. He did not know how Boromir found it in his heart to respect the most hardened, most dangerous men under the Shadow's command, but he would admit that there were some parallels between both sides, Boromir too had been hardened and shaped by a war that wore on for too long. "Why? You know it was a name I assumed."

"Maybe I do because it is the name I first knew you under; maybe because it is the name of a man, of a great warrior, I heard stories about for most of my life, a great warrior that was rumored to be the heir to the throne. Maybe I still called you Thorongil, because it is the name of the man that I hoped would return and aid us, when I was still young enough to not know any better."

They had reached the room with the Palantir, it was unchanged from the time Boromir had last seen it, yet the shade of his father seemed to linger over the place. "Are you sure you want to do this, Aragorn?" he asked, worried what it might do to the man.

The Ranger shook his head, bemused. "A complex riddle you are, Boromir of Gondor. You despise me, because you feel I let your people down in the long years of their war, yet you would protect me from danger at the same instant." He straightened up, drawing himself to his full height. "It needs to be done, Boromir. When I speak the words "Leithio nin" you will smash the Palantír."

"Destroy it? Why?" Boromir asked.

"To make the enemy believe that a power I wielded was too great for the orb to endure." Aragorn said. "I trust you with my life, Boromir. I know you will do as I ask and only when I tell you to, no matter what you will see before."

Wordlessly Boromir took the axe and stood at the other side of the stone table when Aragorn removed the cloth from the Palantír.

. . .

Éowyn was seated on a stone bench in one of the yards of the Houses of healing, her strength was returning since she had been called back from the brink of darkness by Lord Aragorn. Still she found no sleep once night fell, her heart restless. She saw her brother quickly entering the courtyard but not to speak to her but shortly address Ingvar who had stood a silent guard leaning against a column of the court. Éowyn watched her brother speak to the soldier of the first éored, she was nearly sure that Gimward had not survived the battle, making the band would be Ingvar's task.

Only after a few more words her brother left and Ingvar began to wake the sleepers in the court and adjacent rooms, everyone who was able to stand and walk it seemed. The healers came to protest but she could see him cut them off with a few curt words. "Ingvar!" Éowyn's short call was enough to bring the tall rider to her side.

He bowed. "My Lady?"

"What is happening?" Éowyn asked. "My brother brought orders, did he?"

"That is true, my Lady. The army is to assemble we ride at dawn. Everyone who is able to ride and wield a weapon is to go."

So the short break they had been given was over, Éowyn thought grimly. She extended a hand towards the rider. "Help me up."

"My Lady, you are too…"

"Too weak?" Éowyn shook her head. "I am better than some of those your men are waking. Now help me up." He grabbed his offered arm and pulled herself to her feet, inhaling deeply. "You see, I can stand." She said with a smile for the embarrassed éored leader. "Now, where did they store our weapons and armor?"

"My Lady," two voices called out, as Aelfhild and Brithonin came from one of the other halls into the yard, both were youths that had been mustered to fight at Helms Deep originally. "they say that we shall ride to the Black Gate itself," Aelfhild went on, her voice clearly frightened. "they send us to fight the Black Lord. ,my Lady, how…"

Éowyn could easily see the fear in the girls' eyes; she well understood what they felt and she silenced her with a glance before she could embarrass herself further. "Then we ride on the Black Gate and call judgment on the Evil Lord who brought so much suffering on the world of men," when she spoke her voice rang out like a clarion. "Stand tall Aelfhild, you are a soldier of Rohan, not a frightened peasant."

The girl took heart, as did her companion, albeit Brithonin, Erkenbrand's daughter was less prone to show her fears, she had been raised to stronger examples. "Aelfhild, go and wake the others, have them assemble in the main yard outside these halls," Éowyn said, taking charge of the chaos. "Ingvar, find out where our weapons and armor are stored and what Gondor's armory can spare in replacements. We shall not befoul these halls by arming here, so have them brought to the main yard. Brithonin come with me, the army of Rohan rides at dawn."

. . .

The dawn of the next morning saw the armies march out of the white city, the riders of Rohan, all men Gondor could muster, the dwarves; it was a long column that marched under the King's banner. Even with an army not expecting much of a return, there were a number of supply carts, camp followers and healers, following with the wagons. The first day they crossed the Pelennor and moved north, along the river banks towards Cair Andos. Moving the entire army across the river at Cair Andos was an undertaking that was going the entire day, but they did not try to speed it. Sauron should see them coming, they were marching openly.

The supply caravan was still standing on the southern riverbank, while the troops and horses were brought across the rushing river. Work was busy in this camp, armorers were doing repairs on armor damaged during the last battle, others were making arrowpoints and the healers were working on whatever preparations could be made for the day the wounded would come streaming in. The supply caravan was naturally the group that would be moved across last, when all the troops were already on the other side.

Anarion sat on the ground in the shadow of one of the wains, working on a bundle of arrows. The work was familiar, the Rangers needed so many arrows that most of them learned to make their own. His hands were well acquainted with the task and even when still able to see he had rarely needed to. Carefully he checked the feathers that he had just cut for the arrow, one diagonal cut to shape them ideally for an archer to aim over long distance. Putting it with the others, he took the next and began the task anew.

"You are really skilled with these,"

Anarion tilted his head, the voice was familiar, a deep baritone, pleasant to hear but just a bit different from the voices of men. "Kili," he greeted the dwarf, for it was his voice he had heard. "your people are not yet across the river?"

"Dwalin had them over an hour ago; Boromir bade me stay until the riders go." Kili replied. "He won't make the crossing himself before nightfall I guess. I was surprised to see you here, though. They would have sent you to the houses of healing."

The young Ranger barked a laugh. "Most of my injuries are cuts and bruises, a few burns… the traces of Orc affection. And my eyes no healer can fix. So why take up their time? I'd rather do something useful." He had affixed the feathers at the next shaft and cut them with a deft hand. "I can't fight anymore, Kili, I know that well enough. But I still can make arrows and the Rangers will need a myriad of them when the battle begins."

"I agree, though men to sharpen blades and knives are in even shorter supply, with most of the blacksmiths fixing chainmail shirts and hammering out dents in shields."

"That's why you are here, I guess?" Anarion asked, remembering the dwarf's incredible skill with his hands. "to help until the crossing can be made?"

"Something like that, if you want I can show you."

Anarion arched an eyebrow. "That would be a waste of time; the caravan master has already decreed me unfit to travel on with the rest."

"And there won't be blades to sharpen in Cair Andos and Minas Tirith, when we fail to return?" Kili asked, he lightly put a hand on Anarion's arm, offering guidance if the younger man was willing to take it.

Getting to his feet, Anarion walked with the dwarf towards the next wagon, he had memorized his surroundings best that he could and was not afraid to move through the camp. Kili guided him to sit down with the sharpening stone. They began with a dagger, Kili's hands guiding Anarion's work, showing him how it was done. Time and again the Ranger was amazed how the dwarf knew how to guide him, how to teach him. The next dagger he had to do alone, with corrections, then a sword followed, he began to get a feel for the sort of skill the sharpening wheel needed. When Kili handed him an axe next for examination, Anarion was surprised, but used his hands to examine the weapon's shape, only twice he felt Kili's gentle grip, correcting him in his work. "How do you… how do you know…?" He was not quite what he wanted to ask, why Kili was helping him, or how the dwarf knew exactly what help Anarion may need.

"The man who taught me the beginnings of the art when I was still a wee lad was named Narvi," the dwarf told him. "he was an old bladesmith, about the age of Thrain. When our people fled the mountain, he was injured, blinded by the dragon's fire. He never let it wear him down; when I met him he was still a great bladesmith and survivor. It is not that you were blinded Anarion, it is what you allow it to do to you that counts. You came here, to help, knowing what it will mean when we are defeated. You knew and came anyway, accepting what lies ahead."

"I'd rather go down fighting, helping those who fight and make my stand where they find me, than run and hide." Anarion said fiercely. "Death… death hunts all of us, Kili, and he is the hunter that never fails."

He felt the dwarf lightly clap his shoulder, a wordless agreement, before Kili called out to another dwarf. "Beris, over here!" Heavy steps approached them as another dwarf came close.

"Anarion, this is Beris, son of Bofur, he is our supply master. Beris, Anarion can go with our people." The other dwarf squatted down, Anarion heard the jingle of armor and leather. "An arrow maker Kili, gladly, I'll be happy to have him."

Touched by the dwarves' will to allow him to stay, Anarion reached for Kili's shoulder, he could say where the dwarf was, for he heard him breathe. "What about the caravan master."

Beris chuckled. "He can report it to his king, if he wants to. We are allies here, Anarion, not liege men. Come, I'll show you to our camp and bring that menacing horse of yours along. It already knows where we are going."

. . .

Éowyn led Stormcaller on the swaying barge, gently speaking to the horse which was nervous at being forced to enter the barge. It was already dawn and the setting sun graced the river with her fiery light. "That would be the last, my Lady," Brithonin reported, leading two horses on the barge. One was Aeledher, her own horse and another one that Éowyn did not know.

"Good, it's already late and the supply caravan needs to ship as well," She said. "Who's horse is that, Brithonin?" It was a white horse with a beautiful silvery bridle.

"I do not know, my Lady, but it stood by the landing for hours now. I think the soldier it belongs to long shipped over and he should miss his horse."

"Then we better bring the noble steed back to the lazy master," Éowyn laughed softly. "and Brithonin, it is Dernhelm from now on. No my Lady, or titles. Just Dernhelm."

Brithonin answered with a quick salute, acknowledging the orders given, when a man walked on the barge moments before it could push off the landing. "Mayhap the lazy soldier had to take care of too many things," he said with a good-natured smile. "and his horse found a valiant defender."

"Lord Faramir," Éowyn was surprised that the Captain of the Rangers was not yet across the river.

"Only Faramir now," The Ranger replied. "this is not a time for lofty titles…" his eyes held hers and there was a great sadness in them. "How many of your people, of your women and girls have come to fight for us?" He asked.

"All that passed muster," Éowyn told him. "but this is no reason to look at us with pity. When your people gave Eorl the Young permission to dwell on the plains of Rohan, he swore an oath to come to Gondor's aid whenever called. Now the need is dire and we stand to fulfill the oath of our people. Would you have us do any less?"

"Nay," Faramir replied. "and yet it pains me to see the price your people are paying to fulfill their obligation. Your people are proud, Dernhelm and lucky to have so many like you."

She smiled at him, leaning against the side of the barge, as the ship moved slowly along the ropes that held it on course. "If this war is lost, there will be no safety anywhere, Faramir. There is no miracle to safe us, no Elven High King from legend coming at the head his army to save us, no ships to come from the west carrying a host like the world has never seen to defeat the darkness, it is up to men to show their quality, to show we can protect this world. This is a burden and a noble obligation, and we are lucky to have the men of Numenór to lead us in it."

. . .

The next day the army followed the very same road the Haradrim had taken to the black gates, riding the long road through Ithilien north towards Morannon. By nightfall they had reached the broken lands before the gates of Mordor, afar they could already see the Black Gate's looming towers. They made camp there that night, knowing the next day they would reach their destination.

Boromir walked among the campfires, the elven cloak allowing him to pass without arousing attention wherever he came. Mood was tense; few would sleep this night, not with the fires of Mordor blazing at the dark horizon. At some fires the mood was grim, determined with warriors sitting together, ready to ride and die. He knew these men, men who had all their life fought at these borders and who knew that each time you walked into the shadow of these mountains could be your last. They expected nothing short of death and would make the enemy work hard for that success. On other fires mood was more subdued, Boromir could see fear in the eyes of many a man there, hope was failing them rapidly. More than once he stopped at such fires, sometimes a few words could help rebuild morale. He spotted Éomer doing much of the same, the Rohirrim had the much harder task, many of his riders were no soldiers, many were too young, and having come out of Helm's deep to ride to war.

The Gondorian Captain saw Éomer stop between two fires to talk to one such young warrior, there was some familiarity between them, someone he knew obviously. What they spoke of he could not tell, but he saw Éomer clap the younger man's shoulder, gesturing to follow him as he continued his walk.

Continuing on through the camp he saw the dwarves, Kili and Dwalin too walking among them. The mood was better here, now and then the tune of a song rose from one of the fires. Dwalin and Kili had stopped with a group by a large fire, where a corpulent dwarf was handing out food. He asked them something and they laughed. When the laughter calmed down, Dwalin nudged Kili slightly, having spotted Boromir watching them. The younger dwarf nodded, leaving the fire, not without asking another one of the group for something. When Kili walked towards Boromir, a song rose behind them, a sad, dark tune like so many of their songs.

Old grey stone down by the roadside

High above a hawk you hear

Autumns cold greets the new year,

The way back home runs far and wide,

Running along the rivers side

Abandoned in the empty years

it neither voice nor traveler hears.

When will the Moon change our tide?

The Raven's wings so black, dear heart,

no curse will turn them white,

The road will be so long, dear heart

we won't be home tonight.

Dark dank ruin on the mountain

swift falcons high above

broken walls and empty fountain.

The way back home runs far and wide,

following the mountain's side,

but it is never spoken of

do you know a place to hide?

The Raven's wings so black, dear heart,

no curse will turn them white,

The road will be so long, dear heart

we won't be home tonight.

"I'd have asked them for a different song, but we'd have ended with the one of the willow tree," Kili said as he reached Boromir.

The Gondorian had listened to the dwarven song, as it went on behind them. "It is about the lone lands, is it?" he could easily hear the life of wandering, of being alone and without a home in the words, in the sad tune.

"Aye," Kili confirmed his suspicions. "we have been wandering those lands for many years… you have seen them for yourself, Boromir. They inspire songs of that kind."

They had walked a bit, ending up at a small fire with Éomer and Haleth. "Your people seem cheerful," the younger of the two Rohirrim said after a moment of silence.

"They are a hard people," Kili replied. "Tough, fierce, loyal… they laugh and sing; because in the lives they lived each day could have been the last. They are a wild kind, a special kind… and I couldn't wish for better friends or fighters by my side to face the end."

"Have your people fought many wars?" Éomer asked. "I know little of your kind, except those who would cross Rohan as travelling workers, smiths and tinkers…"

Kili smiled slightly. "I've done that too a few times. We had some great battles in the last two hundred years and we always had our share of trouble with the Orcs – there's no shortage of them in the lone lands."

Boromir could see that answer was not what Éomer had expected. "During our travels, I have heard bits and pieces of the story how your people reclaimed the lonely mountain, Kili," he said. "you, Bofur, Dwalin… you were with those who did it. But I never heard the full tale."

"It is a long story," Kili pointed out.

"It is a long night," Éomer responded, settling down comfortably by the fire. "and a good story would shorten it."

Sitting down as well, Kili looked at the fire, for a moment lost in thought, when he began to speak he told them of the Kingdom under the Mountain and how the dragon came to destroy it. How Thorin Oakenshield escaped and wandered the world with his people and how he finally called for those willing to risk the journey back. Kili's words took them along on the journey, to the Shire where they met the burglar, their Hobbit and how they set out on the road. Boromir already knew the story about the trolls, but he did not mind hearing that a second time and hearing what happened after, how they had been hunted by Warg riders right to the gates of Rivendell. The journey across the mountains and the misadventure in Goblin Town, Kili did not speak of pain or fear, instead he gave a colourful description of the Goblin King and his fear of Orcrist the Goblin-Cleaver, a harrowing flight from the mountain followed and a further attack by Azog and his warg riders, a fight where one small Hobbit saved the life of Thorin Oakenshield. His words carried them away to the house of Beorn and the deeps of Mirkwood, to the dungeons of the elves and to a barrel ride after their Hobbit had rescued them from the cells. They found themselves laughing a lot at these parts, before the journey went on to Lake Town and finally the desolation of Smaug.

When Kili spoke of the dragon's gold and the curse that had befallen Thorin, Boromir remembered vividly what the dwarf had said to him on Amon Hen. Spellbound he listened to the tale of the Battle of the Five Armies and of Thorin's heroic last stand against Azog the Defiler.

"They buried Thorin Oakenshield, King under Mountain and his nephew Fili in a stone grave under the pines on the heights that so long ago had blazed in Smaug's terrible fire." Kili finished his tale. The first grey light of dawn already rose beyond the clouds.

"Your great King died, giving his people back their home," Haleth said softly. "is this what will happen here to? Our King dying to give us a chance?"

Kili looked at the youth. "No," he said. "we fight to buy more time. Deep in Mordor, Bilbo's nephew is trying to finish his mission, and when he succeeds the enemy will be finished. He will do it, I know he will. Our Hobbit always came through for us, even when things looked bleakest. And Frodo will too. But we need more time, Haleth, we fight so the world still has a chance."

. . .

On the other side of the black gates the night was just as restless, troops were amassing in the shadow of the towers, legions were made ready and orcs were shouting in their shrieking voices. The man striding up the rampart of the gate had a watchful eye on the proceedings, even while he hurried. Idrakhán was an Easterling, a warrior in his prime, he had served the Dark Lord for longer a life than his face might show and while the news of the defeat before Minas Tirith still rankled, the Easterling was all the more itching to get to the field. The dark banner was flying again, and they would march to take the world come morning.

The wall was nearly empty, except for one dark figure, standing motionless on the middle of the mighty battlements. Idrakhán approached until he was ten steps away and dropped to one knee, eyes down, waiting to be acknowledged.

Rise

The voice echoed in his mind like a searing whip. Like others who had long served in the Old City he was well used to this and did not flinch. He had walked through the magic rites of Minas Morgul without so much as a groan, the black seal engraven on his very bones. The Nazgul voices were nearly familiar conversation in comparison.

Report.

"Fifteen legions have arrived from Gorogorth, along with nine fists of Olog-hai and a number of Trolls, not as many as I would like, but those units are slow moving. We have picked up any surviving Haradrim and swept then into one legion, they will make serviceable auxiliaries still. The Varigians and Eastern troops that could reach us are here, and we are still getting more Orc troops from Gorgoroth, I've send Black and Red fist back to whip on the stragglers." He ran down the list of troops they had amassed here. "We do not have Drakár to support us this time, your Highness."

The last was an address the Easterlings would only give one Nazgul, the very one standing here. Khamûl had been a sorcerer and their greatest king, serving him was the greatest honor that could still be bestowed upon any Easterling house, no matter how high or low.

You are concerned about this? The mind-voice asked. They do not have our numbers.

"Numbers don't win battles, your Highness. And they have to have something up their sleeve, some surprise we don't see, or they'd not be here. I'd prefer to have monsters or creatures to give them a surprise when needed." Idrakhár's eyes went down over the battlement where he could see the nightly camp, arranged in one main line and four to each side, the campfires formed the white tree of Minas Tirith. Boromir, he thought, that was his style, give the enemy something to see and worry about, tell them I am here and I am ready for you, the Captain of Gondor was a bold and brave man, if he did this then he had a plan and that plan worried Idrakhár.

A gesture of the armored figure pointed him to come closer, he followed the invitation and the invisible hand in the dark gauntlet let two pale keys drop into his palm. Have these send to your best beast commander, to unleash the pale drakes they hold. Two cold drakes, the last of their kind, they will be all what is needed.

Surprised but glad Idrakhár bowed deeply, that was the kind of thing to break even the most cunning plan the Captain of Gondor could device. "It shall be done immediately, your Highness." He said, intending to leave, but another gesture of the gloved hand held him back.

Kneel.

Idrakhán followed the command, kneeling at the feet of the great Nazgul, Khamûl King and Lord of the Easterling Empire. The gloved hand touched his bare head and he felt a searing pain rush through his bones, needing all his control to not scream out. It was no harm that came to him, but a spell, a seal of power and protection like only the former sorcerer and now Lord of the Nazgul could grant.

In the battle you shall find their leader. You will slay him for me. And you will bring that which he carries to me. To me. To none else.

"As you ordered it shall be done, my Lord." Idrakhán had his instructions.

Author's notes

With many thanks to harrylee94. You were a wonderful help and inspiration again!

As there were a number of questions, I will try to put the answers here.

Anarion's blindness: Anarion was blinded by a method used by the Tartars, Byzanthium and other places up to the early middle ages. A hot iron was brought close to the eyes. This will damage the eye and blind a person without leaving any other visible marks. The method is excruciatingly painful but leaves neither scars nor other traces.

My portrayal of the Haradrim/Easterlings – while the Orcs are clearly monsters in Tolkien's world he makes some difference between them and the Haradrim troops on the Pelennor, naming the Haradrim "cruel and brave." My portrayal of them springs from the belief that the most dangerous evil is not the evil that is bad for the fun of it, but people honestly believing in their cause. And thus I decided to portray the Haradrim and Easterlings as tough, fierce enemies but at the core of it, they are people, no less brave or human than their enemies.