Chapter 36: The Strengthening Storm

The city slept in silence, dreaming towards a new morning, dawning far away in the East, as Boromir walked with Shakurán through the empty streets towards the sixth ring. The shock and stares of the guards when he had told them to unchain Shakurán had been a sight to behold, though they had obeyed. At least Thoroniâr had taken the situation in hand swiftly. He might not understand either, but he did not question Boromir either, and the same went for Veryan.

"Will your King believe you or even accept this?" Shakurán asked as they passed through the Street of Silence and saw the Rath Dínen to their left. His voice was calmer now, but all the more determined.

"He is a wiser man than you give him credit for," Boromir replied. He knew that a typical Easterling strength was what Shakurán respected most, but he'd learn to respect Aragorn's wisdom, once he had been with them for a while. "And stronger than you believe."

"He must be if you respect him." Shakurán accepted Boromir's judgment and looked around. "Rath Dínen?" He arched an eyebrow. "Why are we going to the crypts?" There was no distrust in his voice and neither was there fear. Shakurán did not fear death and he did not expect treachery from Boromir.

"There is more to the Houses of Silence than just the burial ground," Boromir told him. It was strange to walk an empty city together; it woke eerie reminiscences of the ruins of Númenor. "Though I did not know for the longest time as well."

They left the street that would lead to the crypts of the Kings and followed the narrow path that seemingly ended in a dead end close to the crypts of a long extinguished family. A few oleander bushes grew at the end of the street and their long branches hung far into the path. Boromir carefully pushed them aside, revealing that the path led on. They found another entrance past the bushes, simple white stairs leading underground.

In the past Boromir had felt some echo when he was here, but now he felt the restlessness surge inside him and he had to force himself to continue down the stairs. Shakurán beside him exhaled sharply, tensing, and his step became harder, but when he looked to the side, there was almost a smile on his face. "So you did not forget…?"

"How could I after you forced me to listen to all your translation back there?" Boromir asked. It was another reason why he had kept believing that Shakurán could be free of the Shadow. He had borne the overwhelming presence of the temple on Númenor to translate the ancient writings for Boromir, for reasons he had been careful to explain, but behind it all Boromir knew it had been an attempt to help him, and he had learned there that the Easterling was more of a spiritual man than he was. "When I returned, I kept wondering, and began to dig through the ancient chronicles of the city."

They reached the bottom of the stairs and stood in a wide hallway made of white stone, leading towards a double-arc which was a door. Even without any lights there was a soft radiance coming from that doorway. Shakurán stopped, to brace himself against the pain he felt treading these grounds. "With your lousy Adûnaic, you won't have had much fun doing that. I doubt you even speak the Elven the Faithful might have written."

Boromir stifled a smile; there was the Shakurán he knew, the man who could jab him about his lack of scholarly knowledge and who still would care that he learned the things that he felt important. "I asked my brother for translations and he doubted my sanity for a while." Boromir pointed ahead. "But the clues I found led me here and if you truly want to break free of your old oaths, this is the place to do it." He slowly handed Shakurán the blade that he had Veryan retrieve from the weapons that had been taken from the Easterling after capture.

Shakurán's eyebrows shot up. "You have learned that much and still think that spilling blood – dark blood no less – on such grounds would be right or appropriate? It would desecrate the sanctuary and I won't have it." He pointed back to the exit. "I will do it outside and, if it is your wish, I will swear whatever oath you demand of me down in the sanctuary after."

"Come with me." Boromir had not expected a different answer. Shakurán had always shown a strange respect for the Eru sanctuary on Númenor, to the point of leaving his dark blessed sword outside when he entered it. Silently they walked through the archways, and Boromir had to exercise all control he had to not retreat. He could feel a cold echo from the hall. With who he was becoming, he was not truly welcome here anymore, although it was not the kind of pain Shakurán must endure for treading sacred ground.

The sanctuary was made of white stone and in many way was reminiscent of the hidden temple on Númenor. The only difference was that instead of the black pillar upholding the hall, there was a single dark stone to the left side of the hall. It was carved into the shape of a sea-shell and a blade rested on its rim. Boromir saw Shakurán's eyes widening when he approached the stone bowl. "The Twelve Thousand… Is this where they foreswore?" he asked softly.

It would of course hold such reference for him, Boromir knew. "They too," he replied. "But contrary what history wants to remember, a number of dark Númenoran's escaped with Elendil. Some had only joined the dark faith to protect their families, some had been actively trying to shield the Faithful from harm and some were simply friends who had chosen their friendship over their King's madness. And when this city was founded, here they foreswore their dark oaths to become part of the Light again, as did those brave men that you call the Lost Twelve Thousand." History had recorded little of them, but the bits Boromir had been able to glean from chronicles and the writings of several Captains of Gondor, had indicated that they had been good, loyal fighters for their new home.

He pointed to the blade in Shakurán's hands. "The blade is almost identical with the one kept here." The fact that Shakurán had kept the blade told Boromir a lot. The Easterling might hide it behind plans or intelligent excuses, but deep down… deep down Shakurán had already felt a rift inside him, seeking for a way out.

Shakurán stepped right in front of the shell, casting a glance at the other blade. It had to be the second of Bor's blades and again he wondered what had driven the path of Bor and his sons. Their choice to remain loyal to their elven King… He could well understand them now, even as he dreaded the final step on this path. He looked on the black stone bowl that was to catch his blood and prevent the sanctuary from becoming tainted and he wondered if he could do it. Breaking loyalty to the Empire was one thing, but breaking faith to the Great Lord, to the wings of night… Could he do it?

Unbidden and uncalled for an image crept into his mind: the picture of a frail woman, bronze skinned and with the same black hair he too had. She was thin and clutched her cloak tightly around her narrow shoulders. I will not return, little one, a voice whispered from the past, but I pray to HIM to protect you. Do not forget, Shakurán, underneath all you have to become to survive in this cruel land, underneath all your father will teach you, remember, remember for me. Go to the grove beyond the hills and remember there IS a light in this world, and it has not forgotten us, though we live deeply under the shadow.

The memory choked Shakurán. He felt his throat tighten and had to blink hard to not allow tears to his eyes. It had been the last time he had seen his mother; she had not returned that night and later his father had forbidden him to ask about her. The adult in him knew she had to have been a child survivor of the great purge that had followed the Succession, cleansing the land of those who had broken away from the true faith. The son in him wished to cry for her loss, even though he had been trained not to cry before he had been twelve.

He closed his eyes, focusing inwards to be calm. He had chosen this, he had almost agreed to follow Boromir two years ago on Númenor, even as the dark blessing had still been burning inside him, and now… now he had chosen this path. He'd follow his friend, no matter where this road would lead, even if the price to pay was a harsh one. Slowly he slid the blade through his palms, seeing the blood mar the runes on it, until the entire blade shone with the blood spread on it.

"Under the Night that guards me and before the earth that carries me, I Foreswear all Oaths that bind me."

If a power had reached inside him to yank out his bones, it could not have hurt more. The pain soared from his bones, from his flesh and his very soul as the oaths engraved on them broke, as the dark blessings having been carved into his body during a lifetime of service were dissolving. Shakurán managed to bite back a scream of pain, but he could not stop himself from collapsing to his knees as the pain wrecked through his body. Fire rose inside his blood, burning him alive… He doubted he could take much more when the cold came. Like cool water it soothed the worst burning, supported his battered body until he could breathe freely again.

He looked down on his arms and saw the scars gone and the marks too… It was strange to see them like this, to see through his eyes without the sight the dark eyes had given him. Shaking and shivering Shakurán pushed himself up, finding to his surprise that he could stand. He breathed out slowly, his own sense of self having shifted rapidly. He raised his hand and gave the blade back to Boromir.

The taller man shook his head. "There is no need for that."

Inwardly Shakurán wondered how stubborn the man could be. "For one time, do not be foolish, Boromir. I want you to take it back. That way you can be sure I will keep to whatever Oath you will ask of me."

"If I had any doubts about you keeping your oath, I would never have brought you here, Shakurán." Boromir pushed the blade back into his hand.

Before they could debate on, they heard voices from above grounds. They resounded softly in the hall below. "I know it is strange, my Lord, but he sometimes comes here. He found this place two years ago and made sure it was not harmed or destroyed."

Boromir frowned, recognizing Faramir's voice. He gestured Shakurán to follow him as they left the white hall and walked back through the hallway towards the stairs. He could hear Aragorn's reply more clearly. "Boromir discovered this sanctuary, sought it actually? I am surprised, Faramir…"

"And I know someone who could have sent a runner instead of dragging others through the wilderness behind Rath Dínen," Boromir spoke up, meeting them halfway up the stairs. He gave Faramir a sharp glance. His brother might have the uncanny knack to know where Boromir was most of the time, but dragging Aragorn here had not been necessary.

"You forget I am a Ranger. The wilderness is where I walk." There was a hint of humor in Aragorn's voice. "And this is too strange to have the guard send a runner for you. They will eventually, as soon as it gets lighter and they see it too."

"You said strange, so it cannot be a new army marching in." Boromir breathed a sigh of relief as they were outside of the temple hall. He had never felt such pressure on himself like in that place. Both Aragorn and Faramir had noticed Shakurán, who kept to the background, but they probably had heard from the guard with whom Boromir had left the dungeons hours ago. A shriek in the air made Boromir look up. "Drakhár!" His hand fell to his sword, but Aragorn gestured him to not draw the blade.

"It is circling the city for at least an hour now. Sometimes it calls, so it can hardly be a scout or spy. It was hard to spot as long as it was dark." But Faramir and he had spotted it nevertheless. "Could it be a messenger of sorts?" Aragorn asked Boromir, knowing that the Captain had more experience in dealing with such things.

Boromir shook his head. "A messenger would have landed outside the archers' reach and then approached the gate. Shakurán," he turned to the Easterling, whose eyes were on the grey skies already. "Any insights?"

"A green Drakhár, a big one, definitely not a scout." Shakurán squinted, studying the skies, where he could see the big lizard sail amongst the clouds. "There… He is circling, he wants to land, but the handler must be incapacitated and cannot guide him down."

"These lizards cannot land on their own?" Aragorn asked, his eyes going between the flying beast and the Easterling studying its path in the skies.

"Contrary to what you believe, a Drakhár's own eyesight is very hazy. They are not hunters by nature. They are trained to be hunters and they need the keen eyes of their handler to perform their tasks. I'd venture to guess the handler is wounded or dead and the Drakhár returned to the last campsite, waiting to be guided down."

"Can you guide him down?" Boromir had not looked out for the Drakhár, but was already thinking through possibilities of what this might mean.

Shakurán looked around. "Aye, but not here; these grounds are too narrow and redirecting the Drakhár back into the air would take too much of a toll on the tired beast." He walked away from the place where they stood through the Street of Silence and towards the open grounds before the sixth gate.

Boromir saw the silent glance Shakurán cast to him. It was odd to see, but it also showed that Shakurán was willing to follow his lead, to find his place here. "Do it," he replied to the unspoken question. He had no idea how Shakurán was going to guide the Drakhár down, but only a moment after his words a shrill whistle made his ears ring. It was closely reminiscent of a Drakhár's shriek, and the flying lizard high above answered with its own call.

Aragorn watched the exchange of signals between the Easterling and the Drakhár. The Ranger in him at once recognized that the Drakhár handlers had learned their beasts' tongue to work with them. It made him no more at ease with the Easterling's presence than before. "You truly believe he means it, do you?" he asked Boromir softly as the Drakhár began slowly to descent on the city, the approach painfully slow.

Boromir nodded slowly. "I do. Shakurán always was his own man; he never was a slave. The loyalty he gives, is what he wants to give, for what he believes in. That will never change." Another sharp whistle guided the Drakhár closer. It flapped its wings, like it was unsure how to come closer.

"I admire how you can stand his presence." Aragorn's eyes went back to the Easterling, who had advanced towards the other end of the place, to call for the Drakhár again. "I see him and I see those Easterlings in Moria. You fought them for all your life and yet you can accept him." He raised his hand, asking Boromir not to say anything. "I am not ready to accept the oath of any of them, not yet, maybe not in a good while. Let his oath be to you. He already believes in you and he will follow you." And he trusted Boromir, more than almost any other man.

A harsh wind blew over the place as the Drakhár finally hit ground. Huge scaly claws touched the flagstones of the yard as the green-scaled lizard drew in its mighty wings. Shakurán was already close and petted the powerful, if ugly head, speaking soothingly in his native tongue to the animal. When he looked up, he barked a laugh. "Not a wounded rider, but a thief. Stealing Drakhár always ends badly."

Boromir's eyes widened when he saw Anarion dismount the Drakhár, sword ready and pointed towards Shakurán. "You can sheath your sword, Anarion. The city has not yet fallen," he said, dissolving the situation ere it could get out of hand. "If you chose such an unusual means of return, something must have happened. The next army is already on its way?"

"Not yet, Captain." Anarion cast a distrustful glance towards Shakurán as he sheathed his blade. "But I was bidden by an elf named Aelin to carry a message for you."

Aelin… Boromir could hardly believe it. When he had given his cryptic orders to Anarion, he had not dared to hope the Ranger would truly find any traces of their friends. He gestured Anarion to be silent for the moment. "Shakurán, can you get Anarion's new friend away from here?"

"He is parched, Captain. He will need water and some greens to graze on," Shakurán replied. "With your permission I will bring him out of the city, where he can rest."

There was a care the Drakhár riders showed their beasts that reminded Boromir of the Rohirrim and their horses. "Do that. And Shakurán, if a certain red Drakhár is still around and searching for you, call him in and keep both. We might have need of them soon." He saw the curt nod and then the Easterling mounted the huge beast with practiced east and guided it back into the air.

TRB

Boromir had chosen the Captain's guard room for the meeting, simply because it held a detailed map of Mordor, one that had only one twin, which was in the possession of the Captain of the Rangers. Apart himself and his brother Aragorn was there, along with Gandalf, Éomer, as Theodred was still resting in the Houses of Healing. Kíli had come, as well as Anvari and Russandol. He could tell that the grand assembly of captains and allies made Anarion slightly nervous, but Aragorn had decided that the Ranger's message was best heard by the full circle that stood with them, instead of having to be repeated thrice.

"You said you encountered Aelin, Anarion," Boromir addressed the Ranger, pointing him towards the map. It would be easier if he gave them the places where he'd been that way, because not everyone here knew the borderlands well.

"I originally encountered him and his two companions on Ashtrail pass, assisted them to cross Dark Echoes pass and eventually entered the Morgai about here." Anarion indicated the places on the map. "The Morgai is one army camp, as are the Plains of Gorgoroth and most of Udûn, if the campfires we saw at night are any indication," he went on. "Aelin told me that with these troops standing between them and their destination, they'd have to take the long way round, along the Thorn of Nurn, Gap of Gorgoroth, Ashen path, evading Barad-Dûr narrowly and on… to wherever they need to go. He bade me to bring word back to you that they were still going, though it will take them several more weeks to complete the task."

"What impression did the three make to you?" Aragorn asked. "How was their shape? How were they holding up? Can they last for several weeks inside the dark land?"

Anarion turned to face him, inclining his head slightly. "I am not versed in judging the shape of Elves, my Lord, but they seemed to be well together and neither wounded nor overly exhausted. Aelin certainly is more versed in living off the land in such a dark place than any Ranger I ever met, and they still held onto some provisions they brought from earlier on their path. I left all my own provisions with them, along with several other things that they could use. If they are careful and avoid major injury, they could last for several months before exhaustion and hunger take them."

It was an honest assessment, if Aragorn had ever heard any. Though it amused him that Anarion had mistaken the Halflings for small elves, it seemed that neither Sam nor Frodo had corrected him that, which was in itself a smart decision, as the Enemy was looking for Halflings, not Elves.

"They cannot last." Gandalf's voice was gravelly as he spoke. "Not for weeks in the shadow of Barad-Dûr itself, not with what Frodo carries. The Enemy will sense his presence before long and the hunt will begin."

The Ring, Boromir understood. Sauron would feel the presence close by and send his troops after the three. No matter how stealthy, no one could outlast a full-fledged hunt of the Shadow for long. "Then we need to distract the Enemy, make him focus on other matters, maybe even think that one of us… that one of us has what he desires." The last was not easily said, but it might work.

"What Frodo needs most is time and a safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth, without needing to sneak through half the Black Lands," Aragorn said, his eyes going over the map on the wall. "We need to lure Sauron out, force him to move his troops away from Gorgoroth towards Udûn."

"A challenge he cannot ignore." Kíli's deep voice sounded like he already liked the idea. "Force him to focus on an immediate threat, something he fears, like an attack."

"What hope do we have to gain victory through strength of arms?" Éomer shook his head. "Sauron still has the bulk of his armies intact…"

"And he is not free of fears and doubts yet." Boromir's eyes shone as he spoke. "He fears Aragorn and the world of Men united under one banner, he fears another alliance against him, bringing all the strength of this world to bear. He is not yet as strong to be beyond fear, and the retreating armies will carry the seed of doubt and fear already inside them. We need to carry the war back to him, to drive him into a last risk that will be his undoing."

"March on the Black Gates." Aragorn felt a cold chill as he spoke. He knew this was the right decision. It was what they needed to do, but a part of him also feared he was using Boromir as the weapon he saw himself as. On the other hand, what choice did they have? He looked up and saw absolute agreement in the green eyes of the Captain of Gondor. "We will assemble our armies, all that we have, and march on the Black Gate. We challenge Sauron so openly and brazenly that he cannot afford to ignore us. In his fear he will focus on us, giving our friends the chance they need."

TRB

Minas Tirith, city of war, Aragorn had never felt it more keenly than in these hours, not even on the day he had seen her scorched, still smoldering from battle, but still standing. Everywhere in the city troops were assembling, being readied to march before nightfall. Messengers ran to and fro, carrying orders, but they were only a small supporting wheel in the well-organized war machine that awoke in the city. Maybe this was why it hurt him so much to see it. He well recalled the marshaling of the troops for the Umbar campaign, back when Turayne had been Captain of Gondor and Ecthelion Steward. It had been a peaceful city slowly awakening to the campaign, but now it was a city of war, and who was still here knew his task, from the highest Captain to the lowest stable hand.

"Someone once told me that a man was as young as his hopes and as old as his doubts." Boromir had joined him on the battlements of the citadel. He was back in full field armor, his horse already being saddled down in the yard.

"Doubts, no. I know we do what we have to," Aragorn replied. "Though I wonder what will await us there." He pointed yonder, where the shadow of Mordor was always visible in the skies.

"Anarion said Khamûl took command of Minas Morgul and named Idrakhán marshal of the legions. Now, that is two names I know very well and they will probably try to play us with cunning tactics and a few monsters, if they get their way." Boromir shrugged. "Shakurán will be able to tell me more about each and every legion leader we'll encounter. I sent him ahead to scout the grounds."

"And you are going with the vanguard." They had already debated that. and Boromir had successfully insisted that Aragorn, as Isildur's Heir, belonged with the main army. "I heard you are taking the dwarves with the vanguard too."

"They can march through the night without too much impact," Boromir told him. "And they will be great at building makeshift bridges for the crossing near Cair Andros. They and the Lord of the Dragon Forges'… I mean Russandol's troops will be the first to reach the river and we will need those arriving first to be swiftly across the river or help facilitate the crossing for the rest. Cair Andros' old bridges were destroyed decades ago when they became a liability."

And again there it was: the war shaping this land, shaping an entire generation of their people. Aragorn wondered how long it would take for Gondor to recover from these wounds. "I hope we will catch up to you in Cair Andros," he said, by way of goodbye. Something warned him against saying goodbye to Boromir yet, for if he did, it might be forever.

TRB

The dusk of the next day saw the island of Cair Andros a bustling warcamp. Thick lines of rope swam in the water, holding chopped tree trunk pieces in place. They formed swimming bridges that moved under every step, but allowed for a quick crossing. Of the ancient ferries the island still had, four had been taken into service, running on long ropes as to not let them drift downriver. They were mainly used to ferry supplies and horses across. Boromir knew the main army would arrive by morning and he was satisfied how fast the progress on the crossing was. The river was a major obstacle for any army and they were making good on preparing for the main bulk of the troops. It had taken a heavy collision with the commander of Cair Andros, who had not been happy about the number of strangers turning his fortified island upside down.

He saw Kíli stride up to him. The dwarf still had an axe shouldered and his wet hair bespoke his time too close to the water. "The third bridge will be done before dark," he said. "And Fion reports that the elven bridge is standing too, although it is only safe for those to use who are not afraid of heights. They built a rope bridge across. Their horses will either swim or need ferrying much as ours do as well."

"The horses and supplies will need to be transported on ferries, but if we can free the river ships from having to bring across the men as well, we will be faster on the other side," he replied. "The Enemy will know we are marching, and he too will prepare."

"Any news from your scout?" Kíli asked, tension audible in his voice. "He is gone long enough as it is."

"I told him not to return to Cair Andros." Boromir could feel the tension radiating from Kíli in intense waves. "It would be too dangerous. He knows where to meet us on the other side." He wished he did not have to have this conversation; Kíli's anger was not something he liked to risk. "I understand you are not happy with my decision regarding Shakurán and I understand that you have every right to hate him."

"The moment you did not kill him on the field, I knew you were not going to kill him at all." Kíli put down the axe, his eyes going back to the river, where darkness settled swiftly and called an end to the workings. "You never were a cruel man, Boromir. You would have killed him on the field, if that had been your intention."

It was an aspect of Kíli that Boromir always found hard to deal with; the cold, matter-of-factly way of dealing with givens and the closing off against anyone else. He had rarely seen it in his friend, but now more pronounced than ever before. "His son killed Thorin… Do not think I did not know it."

"And my father killed his father and sent his head back to the Empire." Kíli's voice was rough as he spoke. "And you probably saw more men fall from his blade than I can count. Do… do you know the story of Terék-Khadar, the Black Mountain?"

"I feel I should have heard the name before, but I cannot place it." Boromir wondered what Kíli meant. The question seemed out of context, but he was relieved that Kíli was talking about it at all.

"There once were several families of Linnar's folk living in the Southern Reaches of the Ered Luin in the Elder days." Kíli's voice changed as he began to speak, like it was a tale he had often heard and maybe told to children. "These families hated each other for many generations, because all of them claimed that they had found a certain spring where rare gemstones were found first. They warred over it. Murder, slander and other crimes heaped up as generations passed until the feud killed the betrothed of one of the families, a noble dwarf from Belegost and a terrible curse befell the families, for they had murdered an innocent dwarrowdam. They tried to lift the curse or free themselves of their guilt, but no judge in Belegost or Nogrod could make heads or tails of their muddled history. Wishing the debt for the death settled, they sought others, but no one could help them until a wise old dwarf advised them to go to Moria and put their case before Durin the Deathless."

As Boromir watched Kíli, he realized it was less anger he could see in him, but pain, a pain tightly held in check. He wanted to reach out and somehow try to help him, but he knew he could not.

"Durin the Deathless welcomed them and had them recount all their story from the very first finding of the creek and the very first murder. His scribes would list all the kills, all the dead, all the misdeeds in one big book, and in the end it was full with their history of blood. Then Durin spoke: You all carry a debt of blood towards the others, he said, for each of you bears his share of misdeeds and hate, of blood and treachery. You owe each other such a debt in life and blood as only brothers and family usually do. So hear my judgment: together you shall sojourn to the Black Mountain in the Northern Reaches of the Hitheaglir and build a city there. You will each help the other, aid one another like he was your brother and never speak an ill word against those you carry a debt with. Only thus you can find forgiveness for what you did. But that your toil may not be without hope, I shall permit you to come here every tenth year and read the book of your deeds. And mayhap, as time passes, you will find it in your hearts to forgive the one or other deed penned down there.

And so it happened: the families ventured to the Black Mountain and began to work there. They chafed under the judgment at first, but as time passed, they got used to each other and began to wonder why they had hated each other in the first place. And by the time their grandchildren were born, they had all but forgotten the reasons for their punishment and the curse finally lifted. The last to remember went to Durin the Deathless and asked him to keep the black book of their deeds well locked away, in case the greed ever overcame her people again. And thus it was done."

As he heard Kíli speak, Boromir slowly recalled Kíli telling him the same story. They had been sitting by a small fire, somewhere in the deeps, and Kíli had told him of the ancient legends of his people. It had been a good, comradely moment between battles, far from their current tension. Suddenly he felt Kíli's hand on his arm and he turned to look at him. The dark eyes of the dwarf were stormy. "I may want to hate Shakurán and I may want to hack him to pieces, and maybe with good cause, but that does not make it right. And no revenge will ever heal the pain we feel. I learned that when I saw Nori hanged… It did not help me to forget how my mother had died. Nothing will ever come of revenge, but more pain, more blood and more suffering, and…" His voice trailed off and Boromir could feel the turmoil that was still inside Kíli.

Wordlessly he grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close. It was as close a hug as could be without their height difference becoming awkward. "I wish… I wish I knew an answer, Kíli, or I knew where you find the strength." He felt the hug returned for a moment before Kíli pulled back. Their eyes met and they both understood. They'd pull through, together, no matter what came their way. There was nothing that could divide them.

Author's Note

LadyDunla was her marvelous self again and sorted through my mistakes in no time. (I am really really sorry about the name confusion, I have most names noted in scrapbook on my desk, but sometimes I wrote down four or five versions of the name and when in my writing sprees, I sometime use the wrong one, like Fion/Fionn. I will try to get better at it.)

This chapter suffered from one of my heavy migraines, my head still feels like someone is hammering on it with a heavy tool… so I can't say if I'll be able to write another chappie for tomorrow or not. But I'll try.