Chapter Thirty-One: The Two Tombs

Kíli fought against his tears with all the strength that he had. He could not cry yet, could not break yet – not while Bofin needed him to be strong.

And Bofin needed all the strength he could get.

He whimpered and squirmed weakly, fighting against the sleep tonic Bilbo had all but forced down his throat. Head cradled in Bofur's lap, Bofin's pleading gaze roved from one uncle to the other, but only Bifur seemed able to offer any comfort. His words were meaningless, unknown even to Kíli, but they streamed freely from his lips and his hands combed through Bofin's hair.

It was not enough.

Not when Bofur had shut down completely. The only part of him that moved were his tears, which trailed into his moustache and fell from his nose. Hollow eyes, mouth ajar, white hands – Bofur looked more like a ghost than a dwarf.

He looked like he had been caught in his first battle, too soon, before he was ready – like a terrified and hopeless child too numb to move and too tortured to wail. And Kíli could not blame him – he was close to sobbing himself – but Bofur's torment was doing nothing to ease his nephew.

"Uncle," begged Bofin, slurring a little as his tongue stumbled over the words, "Uncle, please… please…" When Bofur closed his eyes, Bofin turned to the hobbit. "Bilbo… Bilbo, please-"

"Hush now, lad," murmured Bilbo, a slight tremble betraying his anguish. "Sleep now, we are here."

Bofin sobbed, and the sound was as weak as a sigh. Kíli shuddered, and glanced up at Glorfindel, who lingered but two feet away. The elf smiled sadly when he met Kíli's eye, but looked away when Kíli's gaze drifted down to the bright, clean sword that hung at his side. Kíli swallowed.

Behind Glorfindel, Fíli and Erestor were tending their fire, using the skills of elves and dwarves to make it hot. Hot enough.

"I'll wake," Bofin whimpered, "I'll wake an' they'll be gone…"

Bofur groaned and dropped his forehead onto Bofin's, his whole body trembling. Bifur rested his head on Bofur's shoulder for a moment, and then looked up. Resolute.

For the first time, Kíli caught some of his words.

"Strength...in blood… endure…"

"We will be here," Bilbo promised, squeezing Bofin's hand tighter. "We will be here, and you will be safe. And it… it will be better not to see them go, little one."

Half wondering at Bilbo's ability to keep talking when his own throat was stoppered, Kíli nestled further into his father's side, humming his agreement, and tried to calm his breathing. Hearing Kíli panic would do nothing good for Bofin.

"Ada," gasped Bofin, his eyes widening. "Ada's gon' cry… Ama, Ama'll die…"

"No."

The croaking voice made Kíli jump, violently. He had almost forgotten that Bofur could speak.

"No," Bofur repeated, his head rising and his trembling fingers brushing Bofin's fringe from his now open eyes. "Amad will be fine, and so will Adad. So will you. I promise, Bofin, I won't go anywhere, I won't let you go anywhere. And I won't let you give your parents a heart attack."

Bofin's eyelids where fluttering now, and his eyes were glazing over, but what focus he had was trained on his uncle, and a single word slipped from his quivering lips. "P'mise?"

"I promise," sobbed Bofur, and Kíli tasted the salt of his own tears reaching his lips.

He brushed his shoulder across his face and dropped his head onto Bilbo's shoulders, while his trembling thumb kept drawing nonsense onto the Bofin's arm. Bifur

Bofin sighed another sob, and then let his eyes close. Within moments, his frightened, hitched breaths had smoothed into sleep sighs, and Glorfindel stepped forward. Bofur did not look up.

"You save him," he growled, a sound like a snared wolf warning away a hunter. "You get him out of here, you save him."

"I will do all that I can do, and that is not little," said the elf, bowing. Then, he turned to Kíli. "However, we will need more space, and the others ought to know more. Kíli? Fíli?"

The elf's meaning struck Kíli straight away, but Fíli simply blinked, staring at the fire he had built and rocking slightly on the spot. He had not spoken a word since they got here, had not gained any colour to his grey cheeks.

Hesitating, Kíli glanced up at Glorfindel. How could they leave now? The elf bowed his head, and tapped the hilt of his freshly cleaned sword.

"You will not want to watch."

For the first time, a full sob broke from Bilbo, and he twisted to hold Kíli tightly, pressing his forehead to the young dwarf's. "Go. Tell your mother what's happening. Look after Fíli."

Kíli squeezed his eyes closed, but nodded, standing on knees that felt like they were made of water. He stumbled around Bofin, around Bofur, and took Fíli's arm. His brother did not fight him, and allowed himself to be led to his feet, but he swayed, and Kíli dragged Fíli's arm up over his own shoulder.

"Call us," Kíli said hoarsely, his throat protesting. "If something happens?"

"We will," Bilbo vowed, dabbing his eyes on his handkerchief. "Go now."

Kíli swallowed, and led Fíli out into the shallows of the dark water. He did not want to touch it again, he did not want Fíli to touch it again – he did not want Fíli to disappear again beneath the surface, yet they had little choice.

He did not want to walk around those rocks.

Did not want to see what was on the other side.

Did not want to acknowledge that Soren – Soren was –

Kíli stumbled and sent them both towards the water, and he only just managed to catch Fíli before his brother's nose hit the water. He took a sharp breath, and pulled the both of them back up onto his feet, while Fíli gasped and blinked like one struck over the head.

"I'm sorry," Kíli panted. "I'm sorry, Fíli."

Fíli did not speak. He just pressed his forehead against Kíli's, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

Kíli swallowed, and began to walk once more. He had to be strong now, had to look after Fíli. He would cry later. He would mourn when they were safer. When Fíli no longer looked as though he were about to collapse.

As soon as they came in sight of the others, Dís and Nori charged into the water.

"What is happening, what can you tell us?" pressed Dís, putting a hand on each of their cheeks.

Kíli took a deep breath, and glanced at Fíli. He was staring down the beach, down towards –

Kíli would have to do the talking this time. "Bofin… He's alive. They can save him. But – they'll – they're going… he will lose his legs."

With a soft groan, Dís hung her head, but Nori's reaction was a little louder.

"What? That elf said he was crushed, we could move the stones-"

"We couldn't," Kíli moaned, a slight sob shaking his voice. "It would've brought the mountain down upon him, there wasn't time, they're too big, too high, there wasn't… Nori, please – don't, don't blame the elves. Not now…"

Nori glowered at the pile of rocks, and then turned away. Kíli saw his hand move up to knock tears from his eyes. Kíli swallowed, and his own tears burned to be released.

"Come," Dís said softly, taking Fíli's hand. "Let's get you both out of the water. Someone get me a blanket, he's soaked to the bone."

Kíli blinked – he had not even noticed. He was not surprised that it was Vinca who hurried over, wrapping her fur lined cloak over Fíli's shoulders before Kíli could even move.

"We do not have time to grieve." Dís' voice rang out loud and clear across the lake, and Kíli shuddered. "We have suffered great wounds here, yet we cannot afford to linger long. We must regroup, decide what is to be done. And while the elves help Bofin, we… We must attend to the dead."

Kíli's eyes drifted up to the bank, to Soren lay, to where Ehren held Bragi with his head bowed low, to where Ori stood guard with tears glistening on his face.

"How?" asked Vinca, her voice trembling. She was standing very close to Dís, so close that their elbows touched, and her arms were wrapped very tightly around her waist. "We, we don't have any shovels, and we can't, we can't – he, we…"

"We have no lack of stone," said Dís mournfully, turning to the rubble of the doors. For a moment, she stood still and stared, and then she raised his head and drew back her shoulders. "The doors of Durin will make a fitting cairn." She turned to Kíli. "Will we be able to move rock from his side without disturbing Bofin?"

Kíli took a deep breath. "I, I think so. It's more precarious on the other side, and the rocks are bigger."

Dís let her tears flow freely as she nodded. "Very well. If Bragi agrees, that is what we shall do."

It was slow work. To be safe, they took stone from the top and edges of the rubble, and piece by broken piece they began to build, until they had a steadfast wall as high as their thighs. As they worked the hours dripped by, and the elves, Bifur, Bofur and Bilbo returned, with Bofin cradled in his uncle's arms. He still slept, and none could stop their eyes from watering at the bandaged stumps of his legs.

Without speaking, Bifur, Bilbo and the elves began to help with the building. Bofur sat with his nephew in his lap, and played a quiet dirge on the flute that was ever tucked in his sleeve. It was all he had the strength to do, all he could do to help, and even Bragi understood. The wolves that circled in an endless guard of the banks howled softly along, all save Nyla. In the absence of Bróin, she curled up close to Bofin, and watched him with unfailing eyes.

Ori was knee deep in the water when he found it – a smooth faced slab of rock that glittered faintly in the moonlight. Alone, he hauled it to shore, and alone he set to work. No one could engrave stone as fast as he could, nor could they create characters of such beauty. Ori wept silently as he worked around the dimming veins of light, beneath an emblem of a long dead king.

It was Dís who announced in a grave voice that the cairn was high enough. That the time had come. The moon was only just past its peak, but few could believe that mere hours had passed. It felt as though they had been building for years.

Wordlessly, Bifur lay his blanket on the ground within the cairn, spreading out the creases as if tucking in a child, and bundled up his good cloak to lay as a pillow at one end. Then, he sank to his knees beside the grave, and closed his eyes.

Bragi carried Soren to the cairn. His knees trembled, and his tears fell upon his brother's chest, but he did not falter. He pressed his forehead against Soren's one last time, and then lowered him onto Bifur's blanket, resting his head on the prepared cloak. His pale fingers combed through Soren's hair, so it would fall just so around his face, and then Bragi gently tugged Soren's beard one last time.

Trembling worse than ever, Fíli passed Soren's sword and bow to Bragi. The albino held them close for a moment, before gently placing them either side of Soren.

Then, Bragi took a knife to his own hair, and severed a thin braid the length of his arm, one that had hung over his shoulder longer than Kíli had known him. With a soft sob, Bragi placed it neatly beside the bow, and then folded the beaded end into Soren's hand. From Soren's body, he took a small knife, and three beads. One of these, he would later braid into his own hair. The others he strung onto a chain around his neck, until he could deliver them to Soren's parents.

Then Bragi stood, and let the others come forward. Nori let fall a bracelet by Soren's head, and Fíli placed one of his best knives beside Soren's sword. Then, to the shock of even Kíli, he removed the beads from the end of his moustache, and lay them in Soren's palm. He tugged Soren's beard, and then collapsed beside Bifur, grabbing Kíli's hand so tight it hurt.

Next came Dís, and she removed one of the rings that never left her fingers. White gold, it had been her grandmother's. She placed it by Soren's fingertips, and then backed away. After only a moment's hesitation, Bofur stepped away from his nephew for a moment, to lay down his flute by Soren's sword.

Vinca had ventured a few steps into the woods, and returned with winter flowers. Flowers that spoke more words than she ever could. Heather, for admiration. Cyclamen, for resignation. And for goodbye. She tied together a bundle with a ribbon from her own hair, and laid them by Soren's head. When she offered Bilbo flowers, he took them at once, and brought out a small trinket that, for a moment, Kíli could not place. But then he saw that it was one of his father's brass buttons. Bearing the symbol of an acorn.

Death. And life.

Kíli swallowed, and watched Bilbo place his flowers down.

Then, with shaking hands, Ehren removed the silver chain that he had worn since coming of age. Sobbing freely, he laid it beside Soren's neck, and moved as though to tug Soren's beard. But then he turned away, and covered his face with his arm.

Then, Kíli let the sobs leave him. He took the first bead that he had ever forged from his hair, and slid the stems of Vinca's remaining flowers through it. He pressed it to his lips for a moment, and then let his pale tribute fall onto Soren's chest.

Her voice trembling, Vinca sang in a low voice, a wordless hymn that filled the silence left by Bofur's flute, as the others began to stack stones into a roof. It was a little slower, with the workers adamant that this cairn would never collapse, but the skill of the dwarves was not wrongly lauded. Halfway between midnight and dawn, they completed their work, and then Ori revealed his labour to Bragi.

The albino let out a low wail, seizing Ori into a brief embrace, and then together they set the stone atop the cairn, above Soren's head. Durin's emblem shone in the moonlight, the last whole remnant of the ancient door, and beneath it were carved fresh words, in the most beautiful runes that Ori ever had created.

Soren, son of Ragan

Truest of guards, greatest of friends, bravest of sons

In sleep eternal here he will rest,

The Doors of Durin upon his breast

Which evermore shall bring starlight,

To banish the darkness of unending night.

When Bróin was a child, he had been enamoured with the idea of Moria. A kingdom like no other – the first hall of the dwarves, a mithril mine, a stronghold in the orc-riddled Misty Mountains – it had been stories of Moria he had searched for, when other children sang of Erebor.

To Bróin, Moria had seemed more tangible. There was a dragon in Erebor, and he had never heard of dwarves killing a dragon before. Of course, he was sure it could be done, and Durin or another hero must have done so at some point, but orcs were much easier foes to fight. They had to be, or the men would not laugh so much when they returned from skirmishes in the Blue Mountains. They almost always returned. Why should Moria be any different?

When Bombur gently told his children that he and Uncle Bofur and Uncle Bifur would be going to reclaim their homeland, Bróin's blood had run cold at the name of Erebor. Why choose Erebor when Moria was closer, and not infested by a dragon?

But of course, Bróin was the strong son, so he had decided that Adad would kill the dragon just fine, and be home in time for Durin's day.

Obviously, that was not how it happened, and Bróin had left on his own adventure (as he liked to think of it) when their mother took them to join Bombur in the reclaimed city. Still, though, Bróin dreamed of Moria. Of Khazad-dûm, of the mines, of the starlit doors.

Then, Erebor had become his home, and its soul seeped into Bróin's, and his dreams changed. He would reconquer Moria, lead the charge and see it restored under Thorin's kingship. And then he would go home, and return to the light-filled city for holidays. How great it would be for his hobbit kin, to have such a city give them passage through the Misty Mountains! Their journeys would be so much easier, so much brighter, and full of wonder at the middle, as well as the beginning and end.

While other children played games of fighting dragons, Bróin and Nelly had played at reclaiming Moria.

He had never really realised what it would be like to enter a dead city.

A tomb – that's what Boromir had called it, whispering to Aragorn as they passed deeper into the mines, and Bróin's heart seized in agreement.

Moria was a tomb.

Perhaps, even his brother's tomb.

At that thought, Bróin clenched his jaw shut and took a breath through his nose. Bofin was alive, and he had no proof otherwise.

Outside the glow of Gandalf's staff, there was only darkness, a black so deep that Bróin could hardly see, and the hobbits could not see at all. Bróin had imagined cobwebs and dust, and even pitfalls and old bones, but he had never envisioned the darkness. It was lapping around his ankles, threatening to swallow him whole. Like that monster –

Bofin was alive. There was no proof otherwise.

The pitfalls and fissures that they passed reminded him of wide open mouths, screaming, lacking teeth. He knew he was not the only one to loathe them – it took the company near ten minutes to coax Pippin into leaping across the largest gap in their path. When they were not persuading the youngest hobbit to vault seven foot fissures, Frodo and Aragorn were explaining their motives to Gandalf, and Bróin paid them no attention.

The stone Bróin stepped on felt distant, foreign. In his daydreams it had welcomed him, had thanked him for freeing it from the foul feet of the orcs – but this was no dream. It was not even a nightmare.

Bróin had freed nothing. Had not reclaimed so much as an inch of dirt. He was not the saviour of this city – just another pair of feet walking in the darkness, trying not to be seen. A spider scuttling across the floor. He had never felt so small.

He had never felt so unsure of his emotions.

He thought he should hate the dark city, the deadened mirror of his childhood dreams. The doors that came down and wrenched Bofin away, the walls that held despair in and kept hope out, the abyss on either side of the walkway that would turn a slip into death.

It should be a place he would look back on in disgust, in sorrow and fear, and those feelings did take regular swings at his heart. But Bróin's heart grieved for what Moria had been, and what it could be. He yearned for a time when it would be Khazad-dûm again –Dwarrowdelf, and not Moria, the black pit. He ached at the prospect of leaving it thus, abandoned and desolate, and he felt a great affection eat into his bones. It was not the same as the love he held for Erebor, nor the nostalgia for his childhood home in Ered Luin, but it was deep all the same. A respect, an honour, a spark of care for a home that was lost. A city that had survived thousands of years to be gutted and abandoned, lost to history. Bofin was all about history, reading into the past. Bróin preferred making history breathe again.

No proof otherwise.

No proof I've killed my brother.

No – Bróin paused, wrapping an arm around his chest to steady himself. If, by some impossibility, Bofin was dead, it was not Bróin who killed him. It was that monster, that thing, and his brother's own choice to follow.

But why? That was something Bróin still could not fathom. Bofin hated travelling – he had even debated the journey to Frodo's birthday party. He hated conflict, too, and was less use with a sword than the younger hobbits, with the possible exception of Pearl. Despite her grace as a dancer, and Dwalin's exhaustive attempts at teaching, Pearl was still rather poor when it came to swordplay. And so was Bofin – so what on earth had driven him to –

"Omph!"

Bróin staggered as someone very small bumped into him from behind, and then gave a weak smile over his shoulder to a startled hobbit. "Sorry, Merry."

"Nah, that was my fault," the hobbit murmured back, a half-smile twitching across his unusually colourless cheeks. "Should've watched where I was going." He paused, staring intently at Bróin with his sharp brown eyes. "How're you doing?"

"Fine and dandy," Bróin said, raising an eyebrow.

Merry snorted, and Bróin turned back to the front, starting to follow Nelly again. She glanced back at him with pursed lips, but did not say anything. Instead, she cocked her head to touch her shoulder with her ear, smiled a little and then looked turned back ahead. It was their gesture for 'here if you need me.'

Tears dammed in Bróin's throat, and he swallowed, gazing down at his feet. One foot after the other. One step, two steps.

"One step, two steps," sang Marta, helping Bróin into his trousers. His foot got stuck in the bottom, and he grunted, kicking as hard as he could to push it through, and his mother laughed. Bofin ran past, knocking Bróin off his feet.

Why? Why had Bofin come? They were not close, and never had been. Bofin would look after the twins and the little ones, and Bróin would look after himself. Perhaps he had come to take the hobbits home – Bofin had always been particularly protective over Sam – but no, he had run straight to Bróin. Grabbed Bróin's arms.

Why?

"Well," said the wizard, and his voice rang like a shout in the darkness. "I think that will do for today. I have no memory of this place, and deciding such things is always more effective after a rest."

Bróin frowned, peering around Nelly to see what Gandalf meant by 'decisions.' They had reached a crossroads, it seemed – there were three large archways, leading in three directions, and beside them an old stone door. Though his mind and body both screamed for rest, Bróin did not much like the idea of camping here, on an exposed path, with three open passages ahead and one behind.

But then Gandalf pushed the stone door, and it swung back easily to reveal a chamber cut into the rock. Bróin breathed a sigh of relief as the wizard relaxed, pouring light into the little room.

"We can rest here," Gandalf declared, "but take care. There is a large hole in the centre of the floor, and it would not do for one of you to fall in."

The company spilled inside the chamber, and Bróin glanced only briefly at the hole. It looked like a large well, and a stone lid lay beside it in two pieces. Curiosity was the very last thing on his mind.

Wedging himself right at the back of the chamber, Bróin leant his head against the wall and tried to resist the urge to hug his knees to his chest. He could not remember ever being so tired, so worn down. He was not sure he would care at all if he rolled right into the well.

"Here."

Bróin flashed Nelly as much of a smile as he could gather, and took the bread from her pale fingers. "Ta."

She nodded, and began making a nest out of her bedroll, and nudging Bróin into the task of setting out his own. He moved blindly through the familiar motions, wishing that sleep would just take him, until a soft 'plunk' sounded in the dark, magnified by the silence around them.

"What was that?" demanded Gandalf, as all eyes shot to the well.

And saw Pippin stumbling away from it. Going pale.

"I, I, I'm sorry," stammered the young hobbit. "I just wondered how deep it was and…"

Bróin groaned, and Nelly swore, but Gandalf looked almost relieved as he swooped forward.

"Fool of a Took!" he snarled, peering down the well. "Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!" Bróin frowned, and Pippin opened his mouth but Gandalf held up a hand. "Now be quiet!"

An awful silence slipped over them, and seemed to fill every crevice of the room. Nelly was glowering at Pippin, and Bróin knew that the moment Gandalf deemed speech allowed she would let her tongue loose. For his own part, Bróin was both annoyed and disappointed in Pippin – he had never expected him to do something as foolish as that – but he quickly found that he did not have the strength to feel angry.

A faint knocking sound rose from the depths, and Bróin bristled. They stopped, their echoes died, and then they were repeated. Tap, tap, tap-tap. Tap, tap, tap-tap. Were they signals? Bróin's hand rose to his sword hilt and his heart picked up speed, but then the sound faded. He counted his breath several hundred times before finally, Gimli broke the silence.

"That was the sound of a hammer," he said, his voice remarkably calm.

"Yes," Gandalf mused, stroking his beard, "and I don't like it. But we have little choice. It may have nothing to do with us at all, though it is more likely that Peregrin disturbed something that would be best left alone. Let us hope we can rest in peace."

"Should we not move?" asked Nelly sharply. "If he has alerted the enemy to our whereabouts…"

"Moria is a large place." Gandalf sighed heavily, and sat down on the ground. "To pinpoint our location from so little a pebble would not be so simple, and I do not yet know which way we should go. A wrong turn would mean disaster. Moreover, you are in need of rest. We cannot go on much further without someone stumbling into death in this darkness – when did you last rest?"

Bróin cast his mind back, but it stumbled over hours and days of haste and horror. Aragorn answered. "Last night, we slept a few hours each. We had to wait for the light. And we sat a while at the gates. Waiting for the stars."

"Loathe as I am to admit it," added Boromir, "we are spent. Without rest we have little hope, Nelly."

"We shall set up a watch," decreed Gandalf, his sharp eyes pinpointing Pippin. "You shall take the first watch, as a reward for your stupidity. If you hear another sound that comes not from us, you wake me immediately."

Bróin sank down onto his bedroll, as did most of the others, but Nelly stalked straight over to her brother. Bróin turned his face away, but he still heard every word. He did not think he had ever heard such fury in her voice.

"For Mahal's sake, Pippin, could you be more of a damned idiot? 'Oh, I'm mature, Nelly, I can do this Nelly!' – you can't, and you know you can't. You just risked our lives, you just risked everything, because you 'wanted to know how deep it was.' Well, I'm sick of it! Either you grow up, or I'll beat you myself and tie you to a tree so you can't curse our path any further!"

"Nelly," Merry began, but Nelly cut over him with a voice as sharp as her knives.

"You're my brother and I love you, but by Mahal Pippin, I mean it. You're going to get yourself killed, and you're going to take us down with you. I told you not to come. You should have listened to me."

With that, she turned, and stormed back to her bedroll, curling up in a blanket and turning her face towards the wall.

"Pip," Merry began, but then he trailed off, and Pippin did not respond.

The awkward quiet was quick to pull the men and Gimli into sleep, and soon Bróin heard the soft snores of Frodo and Sam as well. Beside him, Nelly was snuffling, her breath hitching slightly in a way that Bróin recognised. But her face was turned away from him, and he knew she did not want his comfort, so he closed his eyes and let her cry herself to sleep.

But still, sleep would not take him. Not even when Nelly's sobs slipped into snores, and Merry's breathing grew slow and deep. He felt the minutes drip through his fingers, and despite the fatigue crushing him like a thousand stones –

Bofin.

He sat up, and shoved his knuckles into his eyes. No proof otherwise. No proof otherwise.

Another soft, sniffling sound caught his attention, and he glanced up at Pippin. The youngest hobbit was curled up by the door, his arms locked around his knees, and his gaze flicking between the door and the hole. He ran his sleeve over his nose and took a deep breath, a breath that shuddered.

Bróin closed his eyes. He was too tired to tell if Nelly gave Pippin what he deserved. She was right that he put them in danger. Right that he was an idiot, that he should have known better. Right that they may be slaughtered for his curiosity's sake. But Bróin was too tired to care. He stood up, his booted feet making scare more noise than a hobbit's as he wove through slumbering legs to reach his cousin.

"Hey, Pip," he murmured, grief and fatigue making his voice feel very tight. "You get some sleep. I'll take this watch."

Pippin's eyes flickered to Gandalf. The wizard's eyes were closed, but everyone knew that meant very little when it came to Gandalf. Bróin smiled sadly.

"I mean it. I can't sleep. No point us both sitting up."

Pippin nodded gratefully, but then he paused. His lips pursed, as if he was trapping his words inside, but it took only a moment for them to spill out. "I really am sorry," he said, his voice catching. "I wasn't thinking, she's right, I was just so tired and curious, and I'm sorry, Bróin. I didn't mean to put anyone in danger."

"I know," the dwarf promised, squeezing Pippin's shoulder. "It's alright. I know."

"Do you…" Pippin shuffled awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck the way that he always did when trying to act like Merry. "Do you want to talk, about, uh…"

Bróin shook his head. "It's alright. Just sleep."

Finally, Pippin nodded, and then scampered back into place beside Merry. Putting his stubborn eyes to use, Bróin copied Pippin's former motion of turning his head from the door to the hole. He could see a little outside the door – not much, but he could make out the murky passageways – but down the well, he could see nothing. It seemed unfathomably deep, but Pippin's stone had fallen to water somewhere.

Deep, dark water. Like the lake outside the mountain.

"May I join you?"

Bróin started, but his hand left his sword hilt as quickly as it had moved there when he registered Boromir's voice. "Of course."

The man sat down beside him with a sigh. "Sleep evades me, too." After a moment, he added, "You are doing very well, you know. Your brother will be proud when he hears of it."

Slightly surprised by Boromir's words, Bróin gazed at the man's shadowy face. "You did not say 'if'."

"No." Boromir smiled. "I did not, did I?"

Bróin's lip twitched into a half smile of thanks, and a comforting silence fell around them. It was a feeling of safety akin to that of a favourite blanket – you knew that its presence offered little to no protection, but felt safer with it there all the same. It was the same feeling that his older family members and even Frodo could bring – the feeling he had always associated with an older brother. A feeling he had never felt from Bofin.

He hung his head.

"You are doing well," Boromir said softly, "but remember that you are not here alone. If you are in need of anything, by all means ask for it."

"Thanks," muttered Bróin, but if he was honest, he was unsure of what he needed, other than the sleep that danced just out of reach.

After a few moments, Boromir spoke again. "Forgive me, if I pry, and by all means do not answer if you do not wish to, but I was wondering about your family…"

Bróin frowned slightly. "What about it?"

"Well, and I mean no offense, but you are younger than the others, in a manner of speaking. Yet you seemed less worried than the others about the approach and reaction of your elders, and you appeared more irritated than alarmed at your brother's presence, at first." Boromir paused, as if waiting to see if he had upset Bróin. Then he interpreted Bróin's silence as permission to continue, correctly. "I wondered if you believe your taking this journey would have little effect on your family?"

"They are all my family," Bróin said quietly, looking at Frodo.

"Indeed," said Boromir, running a hand through his hair and dropping the subject with equal grace.

"You ought to braid it."

The man frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"You do that a lot," Bróin nodded at the man's hand. "If your hair gets in your face, you should braid it."

Boromir grinned. "Among my people only the women wear braids, Master Dwarf."

The comfortable silence returned, and Bróin pondered on the man's analysis. Then, with a deep sigh, he spoke.

"I have five brothers, Master Boromir, and three sisters. For a dwarf, that is more children than they could dream of. My parents would mourn if I fell, but they would recover, and recover far quicker than the guardians of the others. They have four sons and three daughters to fill the gap. In that sense, I have less to worry about than the others." He sighed. "Besides, I have always been the problematic one. I doubt they'll even be surprised."

For a long while, Boromir did not speak. When he did, his voice was much sadder than before. "The gap will always be hard to fill."

Bróin shrugged. "You have but one brother."

"Yes," Boromir said, fixing Bróin with piercing eyes. "And I know what I would do to protect him. As do you. What you have forgotten is that your brothers will also seek to protect you."

Bróin felt tears rising in his throat and clenched his teeth. "It is different. We are not close."

"Yet the love is no less."

"No, but…" Bróin could feel everything fighting to reach the surface – already tears were leaking from his eyes. He brushed his sleeve angrily across his face. By Mahal, he was old enough for this quest, he was too old to cry. "But…"

"You did not think your brother cared as much as you did, did you?" Boromir asked gently, and Bróin glared tearfully at him. Why did he have to hit the nail on the head?

"Why did he come?" were the words that broke from Bróin's lips. "Why?"

"Because he does," sighed Boromir, his own eyes heavy with sorrow. "He cares for you."

"It can't be that simple!" hissed Bróin, because if it was not a hiss it would be a wail, and he did not want anyone else to wake.

"Then you must keep yourself in good health, so that one day you can ask him to elaborate," said Boromir firmly. "You will see that day come to pass, Bróin. We will fulfil our quest, and Bofin will see it too."

Bróin nodded shakily, wiping at his eyes once again. "You sound very sure of that."

"What is the alternative? If I worried every moment that Faramir is slain in Gondor in my absence, I would never be able to focus. I have no proof he is dead, so he is alive. And I believe the same for Bofin." Boromir ruffled Bróin's hair gently. When the dwarf did not reply, he added softly, "Get some sleep. You need it more than all of us."

"I'm not denying that," Bróin murmured. "But I do not know how to get it."

"Perhaps," said an unexpected voice, "I could help with that."

And as he uttered the spell to send the boy to sleep, Gandalf felt his heart grow heavier. The logic that Frodo and Aragorn had described to him on the way through the mines was sound, and somehow that made things worse. Perhaps sentiment had wrongfully overtaken sense. The wizard himself had insisted on the importance of trusting to love and loyalty over strength of arms, and physically, the young ones were capable, though Pippin's mental capacity could be argued. Gandalf worried especially for Pippin. He was still so young, so foolish...

And then there was the matter of Dís' pregnancy. An unforeseen and quite probably tragic danger that was added to either scenario. Gandalf knew that Bilbo did not know – the hobbit would never have allowed his wife to leave Rivendell if he had known. He would have stayed with her before he let that happen. And Dís was in significant danger – yet they could not turn back to help.

There seemed to be a secret on the tip of Frodo's tongue, a tale he longed to tell, but would not. Gandalf could not help but remember Bilbo telling him of Frodo's reaction to his parents' deaths, when the dwarf who murdered them scared him into silence. If he thought silence could protect his kin, Frodo would keep the most poisonous of secrets. But he had not acted rashly. Save the hesitation at the gates, Frodo had acted perfectly within reason.

Yes, Gandalf understood them.

He wished that he did not, that he could trap them in Lothlórien under the protection of Galadriel and Celeborn, and preserve their innocence a little longer, but Bróin's haunted eyes and the mutters of Pippin's nightmares reminded him that their innocence was already cracked. A broken mirror that would not hold for much longer. No matter how he wished to protect them, or how fiercely their parents wished to rein them back, the brave young folk had sealed their own fates.

This was the fellowship as it was meant to be.

And Gandalf knew it.

That chapter was not any easier to rewrite than it was to write.

:'(