Just a quick warning, Toven gets misgendered in this chapter. It's not in a malicious way but I don't want anyone to be blindsided by it. (Also apparently there's a character limit on chapter titles so the one below is what this chapter is actually called)

Chapter 24: While the Whispers of the Brave Began to Fade

Legolas took him into the fortress itself, and opened the door to a tiny room on the north side. Two cots were set up against either wall, and a narrow window provided a slit of sunlight.

"It is not much space for four people," Legolas said. "But there is some privacy, at least."

Toven nodded and sat heavily on one of the cots. "Thank you." He slipped his pack off his shoulder and let it fall to the floor. "Can I have a minute alone?"

"Of course." Legolas stepped out and shut the door.

Toven sat back against the wall, careful not to put any pressure on his shoulder. He felt windblown and ragged, like a banner after a storm. He couldn't stop thinking about Aragorn's broken body lying at the bottom of a cliff, Quinn facing down a legion of orcs…

Hissing through his teeth, he pressed one hand to his wound. If he had not been so weak, if he had been able to follow them across Rohan, perhaps he would have been able to make a difference. What purpose was there in surviving an arrow wound if he couldn't do anything to protect his family?

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, the shadows deepening around him, before a knock sounded at the door.

Toven looked up as Boromir walked in, a bundle of fabric in one hand. His eyes were shadowed with grief, a mirror to his own, but he managed a smile as he closed the door behind him.

"I found a spare tunic for you." He held out the fabric. "I'm not sure it will fit, but…"

He accepted the tunic and examined it. It was made of sturdy green fabric, with some light gold embroidery around the collar. "Thank you," he said, surprised when tears welled up again.

Blinking them away, he undid the clasp of his cloak, putting it off to the side, then untied his sling. Boromir reached out to help him, but Toven shook his head.

"I've got it." He slipped the tunic over his head, working his arms through the sleeves with a wince. It smelled of horses and sweat, as did most things in Rohan. It was slightly loose on his frame, but he felt better with something more than his undershirt to cover him.

"How is your shoulder?" Boromir asked, still hovering over him.

"Still hurts." Toven sat back, deciding to leave his sling off for now. "We've run out of bandages. I'll see if I can find some more later."

Boromir opened his mouth as if he wanted to press the subject, then turned away and sat heavily on the other cot. "I spoke to King Théoden. It is not as we thought. He moved his people here out of precaution, believing they will outlast whatever bands of Wild Men or orcs might attack the villages."

"Then there's still a westward path," Toven murmured, glancing out the window. The light had faded to barely more than a gray glow.

"What do you mean?"

"I would take a horse, steal one if I have to, and ride west." He met Boromir's gaze. "I have to find out what happened to my mother."

Boromir shook his head. "You would be killed. You are injured, and even if you weren't, one man is no match for a pack of orcs or raiders."

"And what would you have me do?" He leaned forward, more vitriol in his voice than he'd expected. "Sit here in this cramped fortress while Saruman turns Rohan to ash? While Frodo and Sam are out there fighting for their lives to bring an end to this? Durin's Folk do not flee from a fight. I may not be a dwarf, but I am one of them in spirit. I cannot give up on the people who need me."

"I would not ask that of you," Boromir said, his tone gentle but firm. He stood up. "I know your pain, because I feel it in my own heart. Would that I could be with my people when they most need me." He sighed. "But I am not there, and you are not yet healed. You would only bring more harm to yourself if you left now, and I…I do not want that."

Toven slumped backwards with a shaky breath. He'd never felt so powerless before. It paralyzed him, and the only thing he could think to do was go.

Boromir crossed the tiny room and half-knelt beside the cot. "Give yourself time to heal. Promise me you will do that."

His gaze was pleading, and the sight made his chest ache. "Why does my life matter so much to you?" he rasped.

"Because you are my friend," Boromir said, his brow furrowed. "And I would not suffer any more grief today."

Toven held his gaze, feeling strangely fragile. He thought of Gimli embracing him, and how Legolas had climbed up the rock face to try and comfort him.

He could no longer deny that if he left, he would be hurting his friends.

"I'll stay," he whispered, tearing his eyes away. "At least until I'm healed."

"Good." Boromir rose to his feet and stepped back. "I…I will give you a moment alone."

He left the room, leaving Toven among the gray, deepening shadows.

Boromir returned to the room a few hours later, with Gimli in tow. They brought dry provisions for dinner—jerky and boiled potatoes, supplemented with a little of the lembas they had left over. Gimli sat on the cot opposite of Toven's, and Boromir joined him after lighting a small lantern.

"Where is Legolas?" Toven asked as he took a bite of the jerky, and subsequently wondered if someone had mistakenly given them leather instead.

"Out scouting with the men," Gimli said, brushing a few crumbs from his beard. "They have no watchtowers outside the fortress, unfortunately." He rapped his knuckles against the wall behind him. "This is good stone, mind you, but really only a foundation. Give me a year and a hundred of my kin and I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water."

Toven smiled slightly. "I don't doubt it."

Gimli inspected his waterskin with a grumble. "I know these people were packed up in a hurry, but they seemed to have forgotten the beer. I couldn't find so much as a drop when we were looking for food."

Boromir glanced at him. "This fortress may be attacked at any moment. This is hardly the time for drinking."

"Bah! No self-respecting dwarf would go into battle without a pint in his belly."

Toven snickered. "You might have a point." He remembered the flask in his pack, and leaned over to dig it out. "I still have this."

"Oh." Gimli's eyes rounded. "I'd forgotten that I'd given that to you. Is there any left?"

"I haven't touched it since you gave it to me actually." Toven held up the flask, a rectangular thing with Khuzdul runes inscribed on the edges, and shook it. There seemed to be enough to share between three. "Well, now's as good a time as any." He opened it and took a small sip, then immediately began coughing as the liquid ignited the back of his throat. "Mahal, Gimli, what is this?"

"It's a…special concoction my father made." Gimli held his hand out, and Toven passed the flask to him. He took a swig, wincing slightly as it went down.

"God." Toven coughed again and wiped his mouth. "I'm pretty sure that stuff could knock out a war ram."

Gimli offered the flask to Boromir, who hesitated. "Oh, come on, lad. I doubt any orcs will be on our doorstep tonight, eh?"

"All right." Boromir accepted the flask, and within moments was coughing as well. "That is…quite strong," he croaked, handing it back to Gimli.

"Almost as bad as Toven's soup." Gimli took another drink from the flask. "You remember that?"

Toven groaned and rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. That was years ago."

"I think I want to hear this story," Boromir said, a glint of humor in his eyes.

"Well, the lad only wanted to help out with dinner one night." Gimli leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. "And Bombur says to him, 'We'll need two cloves of garlic.' And what does young Toven put in the pot? Two whole bulbs of it." He held up a fist to demonstrate the size.

"I was young," Toven muttered, feeling his face heat up.

"And we all had to sit there, mouths burning, eyes streaming and tell the lad he did a fine job," Gimli finished, chuckling.

Boromir laughed out loud, and the sound instantly eased some of the tension and grief in the room. Toven sat back, trying to hide his own smile. If a little lightheartedness was to come at his expense, he could endure it.

Gimli finished the rest of the flask by himself, and soon enough, he was slumped over on the cot, snoring at his usual volume.

Boromir stood to give the dwarf some more room. "You should take the other," he said to Toven. "Perhaps it will help your shoulder heal."

Toven didn't have it in him to protest. It wasn't often he had the chance to sleep on something softer than the ground. He lay down on his right side to keep the pressure off his left and closed his eyes. A few moments later, Boromir put out the lantern, and the dull orange glow beyond his eyelids faded to black.

The room was far from silent—Gimli was making sure of that—but there was a stillness about it that unnerved him. He'd never had a problem sleeping surrounded by solid stone, but the same unease that had affected him in Moria was creeping back into his consciousness.

It was the feeling of being confined. It was the worry that the stone around him would not protect him, but keep him trapped in here, perhaps even serve as his tomb.

They had never gotten the chance to bury Aragorn. There were only a few alive who carried his memory, who knew what he had done with his final days. How many others would perish here, and with them, the memories of those that had died before?

Toven sat up, the cot creaking with the motion, and ran a hand over his face. He wanted to curl up around the grief and guilt that was spiraling through him like storm clouds. Sitting here in the dark would only make its thunder grow louder.

"You cannot sleep?" Boromir's voice issued from the darkness, from the spot on the floor where he'd settled down.

"No." He glanced over his shoulder at his approximate location—it was too dark to see anything. He didn't want to talk any more about his own troubles. "What about you?"

Boromir was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was touched with hoarseness. "When I spoke with the king, I learned that his son had died. Théodred." He spoke the name as if it had passed his lips many times. "He was a friend of mine."

"I'm sorry," Toven whispered.

"He died with honor, defending his kingdom," Boromir continued softly. "I only wish that…"

The rest of his sentence was lost in a sharp intake of breath. The sound was a painful echo of the grief living in Toven's own heart. He curled in on himself a little, feeling pressure build in his chest.

They lay in silence for several minutes as they faint gray moonlight from the window waxed and waned with the passing clouds. Toven was struck with a bone-deep exhaustion, but it did not touch his mind.

"Do you have any stories?" Boromir asked after a while.

"Ones that involve me humiliating myself in the kitchen?"

That earned a low chuckle from him, and a small smile edged onto Toven's face.

"I know a few dwarvish tales," he continued. "But only in Khuzdul, and I'm too tired to translate them now." He sighed, nostalgia overtaking him. "Quinn told me a lot of stories over the years. Most of them are…pretty strange."

"What do they tell stories of, in her world?"

"Well, there's one about a bear that learns to fight. And another about a…talking sponge. But my favorite is called Star Wars. It's about men who fight in great metal ships, among the stars."

"That sounds strange, indeed. But it intrigues me," Boromir said, his voice lighter now.

"I can tell it to you. Or part of it, at least. It's a pretty long tale." Toven shifted to make himself more comfortable. "It starts with a boy in a desert…"

It was midday when Toven finally woke. A lump rose in his throat as he remembered his grief, but he made himself sit up. He couldn't let his despair paralyze him any longer.

The room was empty, and he assumed the others had left to help with whatever miscellaneous tasks needed to be done. He sat up and stretched, then hissed through his teeth as pain shot through his shoulder.

"Bandages. Right." He retied his sling and strapped his sword to his hip, but left his pack by the cot.

The fortress was as busy as it had been the previous day, and few people paid him any mind as he walked outside. There was still a dismal fear that hung in the air like smoke. Everywhere he looked, he saw grim-faced people in dark clothing, minding children or performing what chores they could in such an unfamiliar, cramped environment.

Toven took a deep breath and gathered his courage. He only needed a few short interactions to find what he was after. He could handle that much.

He approached a woman who was kneeling over a wide basket, sorting the stained fabric within, and touched her on the shoulder. "Is there a healer I can speak to?"

She looked up at him, weariness lining her face, and nodded. "Guthwyn. She's out near the wall, by the laundresses."

Toven nodded his thanks and made to leave the fortress proper. In between the wall and the mountain behind was a stretch of flat earth. It was populated by a number of tents, a scattering of campfires, a crude rope paddock for a half dozen horses, and more grim-faced people milling about. He walked close to the wall, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. Eventually, he came to a group of women working over a series of wooden tubs filled with water and damp clothes. Sitting nearby was an elderly woman tending to a young boy's arm. He waited until she was finished, then walked towards her.

"Do you have any bandages?" he asked, making her look up.

Guthwyn looked him up and down, and he half-wished he'd brought his cloak. "None to spare, I'm afraid," she said, her voice raspy. "What do you need them for?"

He gestured to his sling. "Arrow wound. I just want it to heal properly."

"There will be more tomorrow," said a new, younger voice behind him.

He turned to see a blonde woman standing nearby. Her eyes flickered down to his sling for a moment before returning to his face.

"They are boiling strips of cloth to use as bandages, but it will be a while before they dry." She studied his face with clear gray eyes. "I hope your wound is not severe."

"It isn't." His shoulder had been given enough time to heal that it wouldn't hurt to wait another day. "Thank you."

The woman stepped forward, opening her mouth as if she wanted to say something more, but a commotion went up from within the fortress, making them both turn. Toven tensed and hurried across the yard and up the stairs.

People were gathered along the narrow street, muttering to each other, but he couldn't see the cause of their excitement.

Gimli's gruff voice sounded further down the street, near the entrance. "Where is he? Where is he? Get out of the way! I'm going to kill him!"

He didn't sound angry, exactly, though sometimes it was hard to tell with dwarves. Toven made sure his sword was free in his sheath and weaved through the crowd.

"You are the luckiest, the canniest, and the most reckless man I ever knew," Gimli was saying just as Toven pushed his way through the thickest of the crowd.

His breath caught in his throat. Aragorn was standing beside a tall, muscular horse, looking haggard and worn, and he raised a hand to Gimli's shoulder as the dwarf embraced him.

"Bless you, laddie!"

Disbelief nearly made him lightheaded, but there was no denying what he was seeing. Bloodied skin was visible beneath the torn fabric of his sleeves, but Aragorn was here. He was alive.

Aragorn looked up, his gaze locking onto Toven, and his eyes widened. Once Gimli released him, he stepped forward, crossing the distance between them. "Toven. What are you doing here?"

A smile crept onto his face, even as tears welled in his eyes. "Waiting for you to come back from the dead."

A grin broke across his face, and Aragorn pulled him into an embrace, mindful of his shoulder. Toven leaned against him, his chest shuddering with small sobs. The relief was almost painful as it thundered through him. Aragorn was alive.

Aragorn held him while he composed himself, then pulled back. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat, but there was the same kindness in his eyes that he had always known. "I am glad to see you here."

Toven nodded and wiped his eyes. "So am I."

"Where is the king? I must speak to him."

He frowned. "With open wounds?"

"This is important. It cannot wait."

Aragorn turned to Gimli, who sighed in resignation. "I'll take you to him."

Gimli led the way through the crowd, who continued to stare and murmur even as they made room for them to pass. Toven kept pace with Aragorn, keeping his gaze fixed ahead.

"What happened to you out there?" he asked lowly.

"We were attacked by warg scouts on the road. One of them pulled me off a cliff, right into the river."

Toven let out an exasperated noise. "No one told me there was a fucking river at the bottom of the cliff."

Aragorn chuckled. "Still, I was lucky to have survived. And perhaps it was best that I was delayed. Otherwise I would not have seen the army coming from Isengard."

"Army?" His earlier relief evaporated. It seemed he and Boromir had been correct in their original guess. "Did you…Did you see any sign of Quinn while you were out there?"

"I did not. But the host I saw was hard to miss. She would have had time to avoid them."

Toven nodded. Even Quinn wasn't stupid enough to confront an army head on, but the thought did little to reassure him. It was the not knowing that hurt the most.

Legolas met them at the top of the stairs. "Le ab-dollen." A smile curved his lips. It was the first time Toven had seen such an expression on his face, and it made him look brighter and younger. "You look terrible."

Aragorn grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. Legolas withdrew Arwen's gem from his pocket and held it out to him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Toven noticed the blonde woman from earlier standing a little ways away, clearly watching them. Her expression was a mixture of shock and hope, but she did not approach them. When she noticed Toven looking, she turned away.

Aragorn moved towards the tall wooden doors just beyond, and Toven made to follow him, along with Legolas and Gimli. Inside was a large stone hall, furnished with a few wooden tables laden with scattered maps and a couple of unfinished meals. At the other end was a blond man seated on an ornate chair, speaking in low tones with a group of armored men. Boromir was there as well, and his eyes widened as he caught sight of Aragorn.

The man, who Toven assumed was the king of Rohan, rose to his feet. "Aragorn. We had thought you had fallen in battle."

"I survived, and I come to you now with ill news," Aragorn said, striding forward. "There is a great host marching this way."

"A great host, you say?" The king stepped forward to meet him.

"All Isengard is emptied."

"How many?"

"Ten thousand strong, at least."

Toven felt the air leave his lungs, and the other men shifted uneasily. He couldn't even imagine what a force of that size would look like.

"Ten thousand?" the king repeated, disbelief coloring his voice. He was an older man, his face lined with age and experience despite his lack of gray hair. Toven imagined there were few things that could surprise a man like that.

"It is an army bred for a single purpose—to destroy the world of Men," Aragorn said grimly. "They will be here by nightfall."

The king deliberated for another moment before his eyes narrowed in determination, and he made for the door. "Let them come."

The fortress gained a new energy as the people set to work. The sharp rhythm of hammers was audible from the front gate, where a group of men were reinforcing the front doors. The yard below was full of movement as people lowered their tents and packed up their belongings, though Toven wasn't sure exactly where they were moving them.

A renewed momentum had replaced the dismal lethargy from before, but it was fueled by fear and anxiety. There was dread in every murmur and movement, and Toven could feel it seeping into his bones.

He was keeping out of the way for the moment, standing on one of the higher walls and watching the horizon for the first sign of the orc army. From his vantage point, he could see Aragorn, Boromir, and the king standing on the lower wall in a tight knot. They seemed to be arguing about something, but he decided to leave them be for the moment. He wasn't one for battle strategies, anyway.

As he turned away from the wall, he noticed the blonde woman approaching him. She looked just as worn and anxious as the others, but she managed a small smile.

"All of the supplies are being moved into the caves," she said. "If you are still in need of bandages, I would retrieve them soon."

"The caves?"

The woman nodded. "There are vast caves in the mountains behind the fortress. The women and children are being sent there for safety…including myself." That last part was added with a small amount of resentment, but he decided not to comment on it.

"I'll look into it," he said, wondering why she'd bothered to seek him out—twice now, it seemed. "Thank you."

Her smile widened. "I am Éowyn, niece of the king. If you are in need of anything else, I will do my best to help you."

"Oh." He blinked. He wasn't sure what etiquette was necessary for speaking with royalty—it had been a long time since he'd met a king who wasn't retired or hiding out in a forest. "Should I…bow, or something?"

Éowyn laughed. "That isn't necessary." She glanced over the edge of the wall, towards where her uncle, Aragorn, and Boromir were speaking. "You are friends with Lord Aragorn?"

Lord Aragorn, huh? His lips twitched. "He's my captain, mentor, whatever you want to call it."

"I have not met a Ranger before the two of you." She turned back to him, eyes bright. "I did not know they allowed women to fight among their ranks."

The smile slid from his face as a hot prickling sensation crawled over his skin. "You're mistaken," he said, and turned away before she could say anything else.

Almost automatically, his feet took him away from the wall, away from prying eyes, and down into the interior of the fortress. He managed a couple of slow breaths to try and calm himself as he walked. He just needed to be alone for a moment.

He reached the door to the room he shared with the others and tried to push it open, but it was locked.

"What the…"

Inside, he could hear a rustling noise, and a moment later, the door opened. Legolas smoothly stepped around him without making eye contact and disappeared down the hall. Toven pushed open the door further, finding Gimli sitting on one of the cots, intensely occupied with lighting his pipe.

He didn't have the energy to ask at the moment, so he went to sit on the empty cot. He let out a shaky sigh and pushed his hair out of his face. He would have to cut it soon.

"What's wrong, laddie?" Gimli leaned forward, taking his pipe out of his mouth. "You look pale."

Toven shook his head and turned his gaze to the window. Speaking about what had just happened would only put salt on the wound.

"You should speak of your troubles to someone," Gimli said. "No sense going into battle when your mind is elsewhere."

"Well, we're going into battle, for starters. We're trapped in this fortress, fighting alongside people we've never met, while half of our friends are elsewhere, facing Mahal knows what kind of danger, and—" His voice wavered. "There's ten thousand of them, Gimli. They're coming tonight."

"Aye. Ten thousand, and I doubt all of them will fall beneath our axes and swords. But I plan to put a dent in them, sure as daylight." He patted his axe where it leaned against the wall beside the cot. "Only thing left to do is fight, laddie. And we'd all better make sure we do a damn good job of it."

Toven nodded and closed his eyes. It was what any dwarf would do, what any man would do—face death with courage. And if any of those orcs had hurt his mother, he would make them pay dearly for it.

Gimli crossed the room and patted him on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's see what's in the armory, before all the good arms are taken."

The garlic story that Gimli talks about actually happened to me when I was younger. I was a dumbass and didn't recognize the difference between a clove and a bulb.

I don't think it's canon that Boromir and Theodred ever met, but someone pointed out that they were born the same year and died a day apart (among other similarities) and I thought it would be cool if they were friends (or maybe more…? I just think it's interesting neither of them married/had kids)

Next chapter will be Helm's Deep and Quinn's return! I'm excited to share that with you guys, it's going to be...interesting ;)