Sorry about the delay, I've been really busy, and wanted to make sure this chapter was up to scratch. It existed in some form yesterday, but I held off updating it and I'm so glad that I did, because I'm much happier with this result. I hope you enjoy it too, and forgive what typos my sleepy eyes missed!

Chapter Forty-Eight: Rise

The moment they crested the hill, Gimli knew that they were too late. He knew it when he saw the pile of orc corpses, when he saw Boromir lying among them. When he saw Merry's sword on the ground, and Pippin's fancy new elf blade beside it.

They were too late.

His axe dripped with the black blood of the uruk-hai, and the rush of battle still surged through his veins, but it had been for naught. The hobbits, his hobbits, were gone.

As soon as they had heard the horn of Gondor, he and Aragorn and Legolas had fought to reach it, but they had been waylaid, beset upon by orcs and uruk-hai alike, and it had been Boromir who paid the price.

A long, black staff, a spear, stood up from his neck like a naked mockery of a flagpole. As they drew closer, Gimli could see that it was pronged, and that there was sharp, black metal pressing against either side of Boromir's neck. The tips of the prongs had been driven into the ground, pinning the man's body in place. There was not much blood, but Gimli's heart sank. If that was a trident, if the third spoke had been driven into his friend's neck –

There was no surviving that.

"Boromir!" cried Aragorn, crashing down to the ground beside the fallen man. Boromir's legs jerked and Gimli gasped, watching as the man's eyes roamed to find them, though his neck stayed still.

"Aragorn," Boromir breathed, before panic took over his tone. "Go, go! They took the little ones, you must hurry!"

Gimli had known that something had happened, that his hobbits were here and now they were not, but to hear confirmation struck him in the gut like a punch from a troll. "Where are they, which way did they go?" he demanded, scouring the trees for any sign of Merry and Pippin, or any of the others.

"Ahead," Boromir said, groaning as he pointed with his left hand to the east. His right arm was pinned beneath him, and there was an ugly red mark on one side of his neck, above the grip of the metal that restrained him. It looked like lash, or a scratch, or a friction burn – Gimli guessed it had come from the grazing of an arrow. Bloodiest was Boromir's face. His nose looked to be broken, and blood smothered his nose and chin.

Though it looked like the bleeding had stopped.

Aragorn took a hold of the staff, bracing himself to pull it up, but the elf stopped him.

"Be careful," said Legolas, scratching away the earth beside Boromir's neck to reveal a metal tip, sharp as a razor. "It is barbed."

"I couldn't stop them," Boromir moaned, his eyes boring into Gimli's with sorrow and regret – and a desperate, unspoken apology. "I tried – there were too many of them, and Pippin…"

"What?" demanded Gimli, fear rising like bile in his throat. "Pippin what?"

Legolas put a hand on Gimli's shoulder, and then bent down to put his hands on either side of Boromir's neck. He pulled up gently, up and back, so that Boromir winced, but his skin was pulled tight, and Aragorn was able to heave the weapon from the ground without splitting open the man's throat. Gimli watched the barbs catch the hands of Legolas, and watched the elf's eye twitch in the smallest flicker of a wince, as blood beaded across the back of his hands. But Boromir was freed, and he let out a shuddering gasp, as he rolled over onto his back, his eyes closed.

"Thank you," he said, "thank you. Pippin – he was unconscious, last I saw him."

Gimli took a deep breath, keeping his voice as even as he could make it. "And Merry?"

Boromir shook his head, slowly sitting up. "I do not know. I am sorry."

"What of Frodo?" Gimli demanded, even as he noticed that the man's arm was bound to his chest with his own belt, and his sleeve was red. He noticed holes, two very visible holes in the Boromir's clothes. And his fear rose. "And Sam? Nelly and Bróin, where are they?"

"I do not know," Boromir repeated, swatting Aragorn's hand from his sleeve. "Do not tend to me! We must find them, we must go!"

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, looking most unimpressed. "You have been shot."

Boromir scowled, tugging down his tunic with his left hand. There was a mail coat against his skin, and though it was dented both by the shoulder and below it, there was no bleeding that Gimli could see. "I sought armour in Lórien when Frodo told us of his vison, I was given this. I am in pain, and I am bruised, but I can run. There is not time-"

"Your arm looks awful," pointed out Legolas. "And it is bleeding."

"Then bind it!" yelled Boromir, so loudly that Legolas' eyes widened. "It is not broken, the blade ripped the skin, it did not strike the bone! We have not time for this, we must find the others!"

Silently, Gimli agreed, but Boromir looked decidedly pale.

"Frodo was with you," Aragorn said quietly. "Where is he?"

"I do not know." Boromir's face crumpled from fury to sorrow, and fear, and he shook his head. "I – I came to the decision that I would have to return to Minas Tirith, that we would have to part – I asked for some time to myself. It was perhaps half an hour before I heard Merry and Pippin calling, I do not know."

"They'll've scattered," said Gimli slowly, trying to pretend that his heart was not going so fast it threatened his breathing. "To protect, to protect the quest, they will have scattered. It's the only plan that'd leave the two of them here, alone. The boats – we must get back to the boats, see if they have made it back."

"And if they haven't?" asked Boromir, his voice hollow.

Gimli did not answer. Frodo and Sam would be there, they would have taken the most care, the most direct route. And Nelly and Bróin – why, no one fought better than they did. They would be there, they would be waiting. They had to be waiting.

"Bind his arm, sort his wounds," Gimli said, and the others frowned at him. "I will meet you there."

And then, without a second word, he ran. He could hear them call after him, hear Legolas giving chase, but he did not stop. Merry and Pippin were gone, and going further, and the more time he took running backwards, the further away they became. Gimli had to reach the others. They had to be waiting. He had to know that they were alright. They had to be alright.

His breath came fast and short, and his knees trembled as he drew closer to the beach. He heard no sound of them, saw no sign, and when the shingle sprayed beneath his feet and he skidded to a halt, he found their camp empty.

It looked untouched, but there was a boat missing, and a couple of odd bags, and two packs.

Just two packs gone. Frodo's and Sam's.

And while that meant that the quest was saved, and the orcs had not reached the Ringbearer, it also meant that Frodo and Sam had gone alone towards Mordor. And that two of their party were utterly unaccounted for. Even as relief gave him breath, fear stole it.

"Nelly?" Gimli yelled, his voice cracking at the effort. He pushed it harder, louder, and threw it as far as it could reach. "Bróin?"

"Gimli," Legolas said sharply, grabbing Gimli's shoulders again. "You will give away our position."

"Do you think I care for our position?" Gimli spat, but even as he said it, he saw the sense in the elf's words. He swallowed. "Where are they, Legolas? Where are they?"

"I do not know," said Legolas slowly, and the two men came thundering down from the woods. Gimli sniffed, and scowled.

"I thought I send tend to him," he said, nodding at Boromir.

"Our supplies are here," said Aragorn. "And we must decide what to do."

He sat Boromir down on a nearby rock and drew out their medical bag, and Legolas fetched a water skein to help clean the wounds. Gimli's hands began to shake, and he turned away from them.

"What do you mean, decide what to do?"

He could all but hear the looks Aragorn and Legolas must have exchanged behind his back, and he ground his teeth together.

"We cannot go in three directions," said Aragorn. "So, do we follow Frodo, or track Nelly and Bróin, or do we go after Merry and Pippin? Frodo may yet need our help. It was our quest."

Damn the quest, Gimli thought, but he did not truly mean it. And he was deathly afraid for his young cousin, yet Frodo was free, uncaught, he had a chance. And the littlest ones were at the mercy of devils. Gimli did not know how to verbalise this, but he was spared answering by Boromir.

"I will not rest until I find Merry, and Pippin," the man said, and it sounded like there was a lump in his throat. Gimli turned around, and saw tears sparkling over Boromir's eyes. Aragorn was binding his arm, tightly. "I could not protect them – and I cannot live with that. Go after Frodo if you will. My path is set."

"As would mine be," said Gimli, "but for Nelly and Bróin. We know Frodo's path, we might catch him later, or aid in some other way, but if they have been taken too, do we forsake them, going after Merry and Pippin?"

Even as he spoke, Aragorn finished dressing Boromir's arm, and was securing it to his chest with a sling that would keep it upright and still, even if he ran. The ranger's lips were pursed, and his brow furrowed, and for a moment, Gimli thought that he was being ignored. But then Aragorn spoke, even as he inspected the wound to Boromir's shoulder.

"Our luck may lie in our enemy," he said quietly. "If they have indeed captured Nelly and Bróin, they are likely taking them to the same place they are taking Merry and Pippin. Going after one pair may lead us to the others."

"But Bróin is not a hobbit," said Gimli, and he noticed that his voice was beginning to shake. "They were trying to capture the hobbits, but they did not care to capture me – I fear they have no desire to take Bróin anywhere."

Boromir closed his eyes and bowed his head, and Gimli could see tears on his lashes. Legolas turned away, and Aragorn paused in his labour. Then he shook his head, and turned his heavy eyes to Gimli.

"I do not know," he said softly. "I do not know what to do, Gimli. I do not know who to chase or who to find. Should we not follow Frodo? Put the quest above all else? Yet is that so noble when it may draw more attention to Frodo and Sam, and leave the Bróin and the hobbits to their fates?"

"I cannot leave them," said Gimli, a sob finally breaking through his voice. He found that he did not care. "I am going after my cousins, I am going now, I need just know which way!"

"I cannot give it to you," mourned Aragorn. "For I know it not myself."

"They have yet a chance of escape," said Legolas, in a voice softer than the wind. "Nelly and Bróin – they may not have yet returned. But who has more chance than they of outwitting such hunters? They are clever and brave and skilled – they may yet be fine. But we know of the peril of Merry and Pippin."

"It sounds as though it has already been decided," said Aragorn slowly. "Our path."

No one spoke. No one wanted to be the one to confirm it, to carry the blame if the choice fell ill. So, they shouldered it together, gathering supplies without speaking, scrounging only what items they were sure to need.

"But if we are to go on foot…" Aragorn trailed off, staring at Boromir.

But there was a fire in Boromir's eyes, and he drew himself up tall. The scratches on either side of his neck looked painful, but he made no sign of discomfort. "I will run until my feet rot on the end of my legs, and my lungs shrivel in surrender. If I fall behind, you are to leave me. You are to leave me, and I will catch up if I may."

"Then take this, and eat," said Legolas, passing him a piece of Lembas, and a delicate elven flask. "And have a sip of this. It is not perhaps as sophisticated as the Miruvor of Rivendell, but the Cordial of the Galadhrim has its own merit. Now, if your legs are to rot, they do not have to subject us to the stink of it."

Despite himself, a half-smile was tugged from Gimli's lips, and Boromir gave a small, strangled laugh. He did as he was told, and then passed around the Lembas, and the Cordial, and Gimli felt a little hope take seed in his heart.

At last, they cast the empty boats into the river, and Gimli carved a single rune into the rock that hid what they left behind.

"For when they come back," he said gruffly, catching Legolas' gaze. "Nelly. And Bróin."

Legolas gave a sad smile. "What does it mean?"

Gimli hid his tears with a sad smile of his own. "We made it up. It means Shire."

They would know, if they found it. Nelly and Bróin would know where he had sent them. And if he held onto that thought, his courage would hold stronger against the terror of what might be befalling Merry and Pippin.

It was easier to run after them believing that Nelly and Bróin were not captured. To believe that Nelly and Bróin would get his message.

To believe – to pray – that Nelly and Bróin would get home.

Tears stung Bróin's eyes, but for the first time in his life, there was no one to hold them back for. He was completely, utterly alone, and it was worse than he could ever have imagined. He was not passing a peaceful evening locked in his room, or seeking solitude on a stroll out of the mountain. There was no one in earshot, no one nearby that he could turn to. And Nelly was gone.

The uruk-hai had taken Nelly, and to Bróin's shame he finally understood what it meant to be frozen in fear. He was afraid, so afraid that if he moved, his body would break entirely. Afraid that if he did not, he would never reach Nelly. That no one would reach Nelly, and she would be left to the mercy of the uruk-hai.

He had heard stories of what orcs did to women. How they would keep them alive longer than male prisoners, what tortures they would inflict to get full 'use' out of their victims, how the women would be forced to bear goblin children –

Bróin let out a sob, and tried once again to move. It hurt so much, every inch of his body was bruised and battered, and he was scared that he was bleeding beneath his skin. His mail had protected him from the piercing nature of the arrows, and stopped the orc blades from hacking into his skin too badly – without it his arm would most likely lie several feet away. But chainmail did little to negate the impact, and the orcs had beaten almost every part of him. His head was pounding and aching, and while his arm was still attached, it screamed in protest when he tried to close his fingers.

"Here, my lad," said Bombur proudly, holding up a gleaming shirt of silver rings. "Finest mail money can by, and no less."

"Really?" Bróin asked, unable to stop himself from beaming. The respectful sort of demure smile Nelly would give upon receiving presents still eluded him.

"Of course." Bombur laughed, and pinched Bróin's nose as if he were still a child. Grinning. Bróin swatted his hand away. "If we're sending you half way across the world without us, you best believe we're making sure you're safe."

"I thought Mithril was the best mail money could buy," said Bofin, because he had to be pedantic over everything. Bróin scowled at him, but again their father simply laughed.

"It would be, if it were possible to buy it. But there's not been enough mithril around to make a full coat since the fall of Moria. So, this is the best you can buy. The best for my boys."

Bróin could feel broken rings digging into his skin, and the tears broke free from his eyes to burn down his cheeks. There was no one around to hear the word breaking from his lips, but he still felt like a pathetic child, one who could not even control his sobs.

"Adad… Adad…"

He knew that his father was not there. He knew he was alone. But he did not want to be, he wanted to be rescued. To be cradled in the arms of his father or uncle or cousin, to be carried to safety, to be told that Gimli and the others had already got Nelly back. And shame smothered him for even dreaming of it.

"Now, Bróin, why did you knock your sister down?" his mother asked, her voice gentle, but very firm.

Bróin scowled, unaware that on his young face it looked more like a pout, and kicked his heel against the floor. He shrugged. "She was in the way."

"It is her house too," Marta said, taking Bróin's chin and forcing him to meet her eye. "Bofin said that you also told her girls are boring."

"Bofin's a no-good tattle-tale!"

"Bróin."

Furious, Bróin stomped his foot. "It's true! Girls are just, just damsels in distress! In all the stories they just need rescuing and they aren't any fun."

Marta's eyebrows rose so high that they disappeared into her hairline. "Am I no fun? A damsel in distress?"

Bróin blinked, wondering how she could be so silly. "No, you're not a girl."

"Am I not?"

Bróin sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Ama, you're a woman."

Marta laughed, and pinched his nose. "And you are a very cheeky lad. Listen, Bróin, not all girls are damsels in distress. But those that are aren't always boring, or weak. We all need rescuing sometimes, in one way or another. Sometimes it is very small, like when you needed me to rescue you from tying your shoelaces. Sometimes, it is very big, such as a woman who has been captured by an evil dragon, and cannot escape on her own. You can't always save yourself. As long as you do not wallow in self-pity and revel in being a victim, there is no shame in needing help."

Though he had slowly come to recognise the truth in his mother's words, Bróin still felt ashamed at his crying, embarrassed that he was calling out for his father like a lost child. He tried to swallow, but there was a lump in his throat.

There was no one to rescue him.

That meant there was no one to rescue Nelly.

And that meant that he had to get up.

He gritted his teeth so that he would not scream, and drew his legs up towards his chest. They felt like metal bars held too long in the forge – battered, brittle, ready to snap, but he dragged his knees into position. He pressed his palms against the ground, and the shingle felt like broken glass beneath him, and then he pushed with all the strength his trembling arms could muster. The left arm screeched in protest, and his chest wept from exertion and pain.

"And what in the name of Durin's Balls do you think you're doing?"

Bróin looked up sheepishly at Nori, but it was too late to hide the training sword behind his back. "Nothing."

Jumping down into one of Hlín's Arena's many nooks, Nori snorted. "When it comes to lying you've got nothing on Nelly yet, my lad."

"I wasn't trying!" Bróin protested, and Nori grinned. But his eyes remained serious.

"You put that sword down. You're not healed yet."

Bróin rolled his eyes. Everyone kept treating him like a fragile little elf babe – it was just a broken arm! "Dwalin says it's good to push through the pain. That it makes you stronger."

"Yeah, well, Dwalin's an idiot. In an emergency o'course you're going to push through, ignore the pain. But when you're safe, there's no point making things worse. Pain's like a messenger system, from your body to your brain telling you what's wrong. Ignoring the message is the stupidest thing you can do. I don't mean sit around and sulk like a kitten, but you gotta take stock of how you feel. Otherwise, you're going to take a lot longer to heal, I can promise you that."

Bróin did not want to push through the pain. It was too much, too much to handle, and he knew that forcing on would be the worst thing he could do for his body. If his left arm had not been rebroken, he would be very surprised. But it was an emergency, an emergency where he had less choice than a soldier in the heat of battle. He tucked his feet beneath him, pushed up.

Rose.

Swayed.

Fell.

He screamed as he hit the beach, and for a moment it was pain that paralysed him. It was in his legs and his arms and torso and head – his head – and his back –

But Nelly…

Wiping tears and snot and sweat from his face, Bróin looked around. He stretched out a hand and grabbed an orc spear, and then drove the handle end into the ground. Then he tried again, onto all fours –

Push.

Pull.

Rise.

Stand.

He gasped, his head spinning, and leant heavily on the spear. His. It was his now. It would help him walk. Help him find Nelly.

But which way should he go? And how would he ever catch up with the orcs?

That does not matter, he thought, if I don't move now, I never will.

He stooped for his sword, and it took him nigh on a minute to straighten up again. But then he began to walk. Step, move the stick, step, move the stick, step, breathe, move the stick, step…

It was so slow. So painfully slow.

He stopped to breathe, and listened. Something caught his attention, a low groan, and he looked over his shoulder. One of the orcs on the beach was stirring, not yet dead, and fury burnt hotter than the pain. But Bróin paused, and watched the orc give a pained gurgle of his own.

"Curse, curse the scum – where is it? Where is it?" it muttered, squirming and writing while it pawed at its own clothing. "Dead to stay, dead to stay, where is it?"

Transfixed by revulsion and hatred, Bróin watched the creature twist, and was reminded of Bilbo's descriptions of Gollum. But this was an orc, and it let out a cruel laugh of triumph.

"A ha! This'll get you running my lad, ha, ha, ha!" Each 'ha' was like the bray of a possessed donkey, and Bróin saw the orc draw out a flask. It drank a long gulp, and then smacked its lips in satisfaction. Then, it sat up, and Bróin could see its eyes growing sharper. His own eyes widened, and he moved quickly, back across the beach – step, stick, step, stick – and the orc shrieked but he twisted the stick and drove its speared end into the creature's eye.

At once, they both fell, as Bróin's legs gave way, and the orc slumped, dead, to the ground. Bróin grabbed the orc's flask from the ground, and stared at it apprehensively. It was some sort of orc draught, and it smelt foul. The colour was dark, dangerously close to blood, and he dared not think what may be in it. But he had heard rumour of some concoction that orcs would use to swiftly increase their energy, and dull their wounds.

Or it could be poison.

He weighed it in his mind as the flask weighed down his shaking hand.

"My motto," said Nori, with Bróin on his back and Nelly on his shoulders, "is that you gotta do what you gotta do. To survive, to help your family, your friends. Whatever you gotta do, do it. But remember, don't have more balls than brains."

For his own sake, he lingered on the edge. It could be blood, it could be poison, it could make him sick. But for his family, for his friends, he raised it to his lips. If there was a chance, a faint hope that he might be able to help Nelly, he would take it.

The second it touched his lips, it burnt, and then seared down his throat hold as scalding tea, and he spluttered and choked. But the hurt lessened, and he could feel his breath deepening, growing easier. He sat up. Grimaced. Took another drink, a longer one. The taste and the sensation were foul beyond belief, but his legs felt fine, and the pain in his torso and legs and head ebbed away to a distant ache. His arm still hurt, but it was no more than he could manage. Swallowing, Bróin grappled to seal the flask, but as he did some of the draught spilled out over his injured arm. It burnt against his skin, and he cried out, but the bruising on his arm lessened, and the agony faded entirely. Eyes widening, he prodded the area, and felt but a dull ache. Quickly, he made sure that what draught was left was secure, and tucked it into a pocket inside his tunic.

He did not know if he could trust this new strength, this respite from the pain. He did not doubt it would be temporary at best, fleeting at worst. All he knew was that now, in this moment, he had the strength to run. He took the spear, and another flask he found on one of the fallen orcs. He found the path, took a deep breath, and pretended that his head was not still spinning.

Then, battered, bruised, and dangerously close to broken, Bróin, son of Bombur, began to run.

I hope you enjoyed that chapter, I'm much happier with it today than I was yesterday. As a head's up, if the orc draught seems too good to be true/ very, very potent right now, don't worry, that will be addressed. Our little Bro isn't out of the woods yet – and I wonder just how fast he and Boromir will be able to keep running…?

Please let me know what you thought, I love to know, and I'll see you next time! I hope it will be Monday, but that will depend on how busy I am over the next few days. If it isn't, I'll do my best to be back on schedule the following week! Thank you for reading!