Chapter 1: A Meeting in the dark
75 years later
Thunder was rolling along the valley, sounding like the angry drums of war, the echo riveting from rock face to rock face. Raising his arm to shield his eyes against the pouring rain, Boromir peered up the valley. These Mountains were a maze, if he had ever seen one and he was not sure when he had last seen the traces of a decent path. Behind him Westwind dragged his hoof over the wet ground, like to remind him that standing here would get them nowhere. "You are right, Brawler, we need to find some shelter," Boromir said to the stallion as he led him onwards and up the long winding valley. "and here we thought this journey would be easy."
He usually did not have the habit to talk to his horse, but in the long and lonely months on the road with only Westwind for company talking to another being had been a relief sometimes. Still he had replaced the poetic name the stable master had given the horse, to something that befit the stallions' character. When he had departed from Minas Tirith to find Rivendell his plan had been simple enough. Cross Rohan, go North and find the Elven Kingdom, it had sounded so easy when put like that.
Another bolt of lightning struck the Mountains and fierce thunder rolled along the vale, the echoes even louder than before. Boromir looked back, his eyes squinting as he tried to penetrate the veil of heavy rain. Were the truly voices in the air? He was sure he had heard a shout, laughter. Patting Westwind's wet flank he released a long breath. Ever since he had passed he had felt that something was watching him, for many a night since then he had felt like there were watchful in the darkness, hounding his every step.
The stone ground was slippery with mud and washed out slit, Boromir's boots slipped on the uneven grounds and he was lucky that his horse was surefooted enough to follow him across the side of the valley. Peering to the left Boromir saw a small bend in the rocks that gave way to a narrow winding pathway leading higher up. He had no real intention to climb these Mountains – they were a rough and unwelcoming place, but maybe he could find some shelter from the merciless weather higher up?
The first few steps up the new path were hard, the ground was steep and salacious but only a few more paces up the path became more even and steady. Boromir shook his head, there was truly a path here, half hewn into the rock it wound along under the high rock face that even provided shelter from the worst wind. Nevertheless Boromir checked his weapon at once. Paths in these parts were not to be trusted, he had learned that the hard way in Dunland, were any sign of a path had been sure to lead into another encounter with bandits.
Guiding Westwind around another bend, Boromir was glad to be away from the fierce wind for a while. The rain was still pouring down on them but without the constant gale it was less icy. "Finding an elven kingdom sounded so easy back home, didn't it, Brawler?" he said as they slowly progressed upwards. Imladris was the fabled hidden Elven Kingdom of the North. Hidden, being the problem word. His father had consulted with nearly every wise man in Gondor without being able to shed any light on how to find a kingdom that the Elves had painstakingly hidden away.
A movement above made Boromir stop, gently he placed his hand on Westwind's nostrils, signaling the horse to be absolutely silent. Craning his neck Boromir tried to see what had been moving between the rocks above. Originally he had hoped to find some aid in the reaches of formerly Arnor. While long gone and diminished, he had firmly believed that people of this ancient kingdom lived still. Arnór's people had to be much like Gondor's – they would never give up on their homeland; they would keep fighting, King or no King. And they had been allies of the Elves, they should know where Imladris was to be found.
Nothing moved between the rocks, no person, no animal hiding in the shelter of the jagged stones, whatever he had seen it must have been a trick of the dim light and pouring rain. In that bad light it was easy to see things that were not there. Gently he patted the horse's neck. "There's nothing there, Brawler, not even Men. I wonder if anyone at all lives in these wilds." Leading the horse further along the narrow path, Boromir pondered what he should do. The only vague description he could go by was a letter by King Valandil, which Faramir had dug up from the ancient archives. There it was said that Imladris lay in the western Reaches of the Misty Mountains, close to an ancient road leading towards the western seas. But sticking to the Mountains while trying to find Imladris had only gotten him into this maze of valleys and canyons.
He knew he had to make some haste, Autumn was approaching fast, and soon the icy weather would begin. For now it was just the rain – heavy clouds driven by a western gale unleashing their heavy load upon the mountain range. Never in his whole life had he encountered such a downpour, let alone days and days of pouring rain.
On the other side of the path Boromir saw a gap in the hillside. A rather large cave entrance lay to the side of the path. Swiping his wet locks out of his face, Boromir led Westwind from the path and up to the cave mouth. He hoped that the cave would have room for them both. After the long months of travelling they both were tired and four days of constant downpour had left Boromir with the feeling to never get dry again.
The cave was rather large, Boromir could enter without having to duck and the sandy cavern was large enough to allow room for himself and the horse. "See, Brawler, we should be able to wait the worst weather out. And then we get down from these Mountains. It might be easier to find this fabled East Road after all."
Boromir loosened the saddle, taking it off, the bridle followed. He had not much to rub Westwind off, but he did what he could to make his faithful companion comfortable.
After he had seen to the horse, Boromir Sat down with his back against the cold stone. After the long march in the dreadful weather sitting in the relative warmth of the cave was quite comfortable, even with the wet clothes. Drawing his sword, Boromir took the whetstone to remove the damage from the last two run-ins with bandits. After he had left Dunland, he truly had hoped for a change because he was closing in on the lands that formerly had been Arnor. But in the weeks of crossing into the lands of the fallen Kingdom he had only found wilderness with denizens so unfriendly that he would have preferred true wilderness instead. It was something that he could not get over yet. It was known that there were survivors of Arnor, Northen Dunedain, they were still organized enough to have leaders if all that Gondor had heard was correct. Why then in the name of the Numenór had they not begun to reclaim their land? If Gondor had dropped Ithilien like this, Minas Tirith would be a second Minas Morgul these days.
Westwind whined softly, nudging his shoulder. "I know, Brawler, brooding does not help us at all." Boromir said to the horse, putting the blade away. He leaned back against the wall, trying to calm hi mind and find some sleep. After an hour or so, the constant sound of the rain helped him to doze off and fall into a leaden sleep..
It was a loud crack that woke him from his slumber: a deep, bursting crack like ice breaking on the river in spring. Was the cave collapsing? His heart racing, Boromir tried to get to his feet. He reached to the side for his sword, trying to roll to the side and get to his feet but the rock wall itself had vanished. He slipped and fell as the ground revolted, and he was tossed into a steep tunnel. He was whirled through a steep fall, tumbling against the walls before he crashed into hard grounds. Creaky sounds and the rough texture of wood under his fingers was the first Boromir registered. He blinked, he lay on some wooden planks right beside a gaping abyss, it had to be kind of bridge or platform.
It was dark around him. Boromir could hardly see; whatever light existed down here fell from holes in the far off cave ceiling and was vague, like the light of a cold pre-dawn. A pained whine made him turn, his horse had been caught in the hard fall before him, lying on the platform at his back. Kneeling down beside the wounded animal, Boromir carefully stroked the Westwind's flank. The animal tried to get up, shaking the creaky platform. Boromir pressed his hand firmly against the stallion's neck. "Drágo, Brawler… drago…" the horse stilled at the command, he had been trained to play dead when ordered to. Carefully Boromir took stock of Westwind's state.
Even in the bad light down here, it was not hard to realize the extent of the injuries: the legs were bent and broken, a wooden spike had impaled his mount, and it was suffering for it. Taking swift mercy on the injured horse was the only thing he could do – even if the fall had happened above ground, the chances to heal such a horribly wounded horse were slim. He had seen such wounds on battlefields before and sometimes the best mercy the rider could give was ending the suffering of the poor beast. He knew that any hesitation on his part would only prolong Westwind's suffering, that his comrade deserved better than to be left to a slow agonizing death. Careful, Boromir kneaded his fingers into the mane, his words to the animal were gentle. He kept up a stream of words, their meaning unimportant, as it was the steady tone that mattered, as it helped to calm Brawler. He could do nothing more to thank his faithful friend that had carried him on that long lonely journey, before he ended the horse's suffering.
The horses' powerful body stilled, the last breath gone. Boromir patted the horses neck, a gesture much like the goodbye for a fallen comrade. "Farewell," he knew it was strange to treat his mount with almost the same respect he'd give any fallen comrade, but he still did it. He had already buried too many comrades to pass by another fallen without a word at least.
Noises rose behind him and he got to his feet. Figures emerged from the darkness, no more than silhouettes in the shadowy surroundings, and while he had a hard time discerning more than shapes, they saw him, paused, and suddenly high-pitched shrieks echoed through the tunnels. For one moment, he froze in surprise. Orcs! These were Orcish voices… but he was hundreds of leagues away from Mordor's borders! How was this even possible?
Two small figures rushed forward, trying to jump him. All doubts or wonderings fled his mind as he reacted to their attack. He kicked the first one off the ledge, more in reflex than anything, and grabbed the second to toss it right after, the shriek of the creature echoing through the vast, dark cavern.
Boromir used the short moments this gave him to draw his sword. More Orcs, a whole dozen of them, came at him across the ledge. They were smaller than Mordor's legions, but swifter, too. Making the best of the situation, he advanced on the narrow ledge, forcing them to come at him in pairs. He had stood against superior numbers before, and while there was no fear in him as he faced them, he could not help but wonder where they came from and what strange dark place he was stranded in. They rushed at him armed with daggers and coarse curved swords. Boromir blocked their attacks, his sword a whirling circle of death, stabbing, cutting, slashing through their numbers, corpses falling off the ledge and vanishing into the dark abyss below.
It ended as fast as it had begun the sudden silence deafening to his ears; only the ledge under him creaked. Boromir frowned. What was this thing anyway? His eyes had adjusted to the darkness down here and he could finally see more than just his immediate surroundings. It seemed he was standing on some coarse bridge of wood and ropes spanning a massive chasm. The bridge creaked under his feet. A board snapped when he stepped on it hard, and he had to snatch hold of the fraying rope to prevent himself from falling. There were other boards he had to nearly jump across because they were already broken. Had there been a cave-in recently? That would explain the vanishing wall earlier and the unstable bridge. Even Orcs – crude monsters that they were – built better constructs than the one he was standing on. Boromir had seen enough of their dens in the Ered Lithui to know. Carefully, he followed the bridge towards where it connected with a rocky ledge on a steep cave wall. He had to find a way out of here.
The rock ledge was only marginally better than the rickety bridge before. Crumbling and full of cracks, it had been repaired with more of those wood bridges, many as rotten as the first had been. They swung under his feet as he walked; often he was not sure if they would support his weight at all. He craned his neck to look up from whence he had fallen, but except a hole in a huge cavernous ceiling he could not see anything. And most of that ceiling was shrouded in darkness. The stone walls of the caves were roughly hewn and uneven. There were no markings, no signs like the Mordor Orcs used to mark their tunnels, nor any other system of direction, only a chaos of ways and tunnels. Where they might lead, he could not begin to guess.
Where was he to begin with? He wondered, this did not look like any Orc barrack he had ever seen, nor like an underground fortress of sorts. Much more like a gigantic natural chasm filled with odd contraptions. How was he supposed to find his way out of here? A cold, discouraging doubt spread inside him as he continued onwards. Tunnels and ledges were followed by bridges and pillars in dark chasms, and with no hints where these paths may lead, he knew he was continuously getting lost in these dark reaches if he were not careful. Unfortunately he was not Faramir who never lost his sense of direction even blindfolded in a cavern under the Ered Lithui. How his brother achieved this marvelous feat had always been beyond Boromir. He tried the simpler version of the same and to stick to one course, vaguely keeping to the left, which felt like the direction he had come from, but the further he went, the more he lost his sense of orientation.
A shriek, shrill and angry, rose from the dark of yet another tunnel entrance only a few steps ahead of him. Boromir wondered how much longer he could manage to remain undetected. In the dim light he could see a mass of bodies emerge from the tunnel's mouth. Fire and Blood, there were so many of them! He turned, running the other way, jumping from the bridge onto another ledge, and raced on. There were more adversaries coming his way. He fought them off, sword cutting through them with grim determination. Rounding another corner, he found the bulk of the horde chasing him again.
Boromir ran through the dark, the rickety bridges streaking under his feet, screams of Orcs echoing in the tunnels. He did not know how many he had killed, nor how many were still after him. He had lost his sense of direction, and no longer knew where he was going, if he ever had to begin with. Several Orcs spilled from a side tunnel; he attacked before they could, killing two before having to shake off the others. A blunt blade cut his arm – not the first scratch he had received. He kicked the creature off the ledge, hastening on.
Jumping down from one ledge to a bridge below Boromir swiftly ducked into the shadows, he heard the Orcs trample by above him, their shouts echoing off in the distance. Releasing a slow breath he crept on, ahead he could see a new tunnel. Was there ever an end to them? A strange thought came to him – what if this vast chasm reached under the whole breadth of the Misty Mountains and he only found an exit on the other side? No, it would take at least a week on foot to get to the other side and he'd be dead by then if he did not find water in this place.
He shook his head, the Orcs needed water too and usually had wells in their dens, all he'd need to do was find one of them. Still, he was alone in maybe the greatest Orc den he had ever encountered and his hopes of escape were slim. The tunnel opened before him to a large crossing of pathways. A few torches lit the sandy crossing littered with crude carvings in the stone. A few of the strangely small orcs of this place where lingering in the crossing. Boromir ducked deeper into the shadows, he would have to wait for them to move on.
"I say, Shagrat you are making too much fuss of yourself!" One of the Orcs spoke and Boromir was surprised to hear him speak in a crude version of Westron. "Tell your Master at Mt. Gundabad that we do not have HIM here."
"Ah, Breshgnat and who shot your little piglets at the upper entrance? HE is here, I tell you." A larger Orc replied, his voice was more guttural and gurgling. "And my Master wants him."
"He can want all he wants if he does the catching." A third orc spoke up, gleefully rubbing his hands. "but he did not get HIM the last time and not the one before."
"You are only stupid enough to go robbing where you'll be hunted," the big Orc barked. "and then they come after you with fire and axes and hunt you underground like in the old days. Mark my words, they are a worse blight on your tails than the elves."
Boromir frowned, trying to make some sense out of the Orc's debate. It seemed to be different groups arguing over a captive or catch. But he could not see anyone except the orcs on the crossing. He grabbed the hard rock of the wall, to steady himself, there was no use in hoping to find a captive he could free, just to be less alone in this dratted place. He had endured months on his own with no to watch his back he would go on alone to the very end.
"We did not get caught, Shagrat," one of them spoke again. "we got away clean, with none of the longbeards following all while you and your Master wasted time on sending messages all across the Mountains. Like this was the old days when there still was a big boss up North."
"There might soon be one again, Breshgnat, there is orders coming from High Up, they are here and they want…"
"And you always listen for orders from High Up," the other orc mocked. "High up lets things slip and it is us who's got to see them done after."
The orcs finally moved off, still arguing about Him and Orders and about what they wanted, Boromir waited unmoving in the shadows until they were off into another direction. Keeping towards the left Boromir followed another tunnel, it was warmer and smelled of fire and dirt, the stench of the Orcs was stronger here than up in the cavern where the greater volume of air had dispersed it.
The rancid smell stuck in his throat, recalling unpleasant memories of other places in the deeps under the Mountains of Shadow. The tunnel was empty and Boromir became more successful in sticking to the shadows, to avoid being seen. Though in his heart the unease grew, he could not ignore the tight feeling constricting his chest, all this reminded him all too vividly of the day he had crawled from the dungeons below Minas Morgul.
He passed through tunnels and over ledges, climbing up the walls two times towards higher ledges, hoping he could eventually reach an exit. After hours and hours of sneaking through the darkness he was exhausted, and when he reached the next bridge, he noticed the silence. Yes, it was unusually quiet in this tunnel, he had not realized it at once but now the deafening silence fell on him like a sticky blanket. The only noise he could hear was his own breath and the creaking of the wooden contraption beneath his boots, which was older than others he had seen down here.
He stopped, wondering whether he should continue. If this path led even farther into the mountain, his chances of finding an exit were waning with each plank he stepped across. But going back wasn't an option, not with the number of Orcs inhabiting these caves. He peered back into the dark where he knew more Orcs were lying in wait. Going back meant certain death, once they found him, and going forth meant getting lost. He had never felt more alone or farther from home than in this moment in the dark under the mountains.
As he moved ahead he saw that the bridge he crossed was not just rickety, it must have been badly damaged a long time ago and it seemed never to have seen any useful repairs. Carefully, Boromir stepped on the failing construction; it creaked loudly but bore his weight. He began to walk, each step shaking the ancient crossing. When he was halfway across, he heard fierce howls and angry shrieks from behind. A few Orcs had come out on a higher ledge, shaking their swords at him and hurling stones in his direction. Boromir ducked, moving on with more haste, disregarding the feeble bridge beneath his feet.
That proved to be a grave mistake – only a few running strides out, the ancient wood broke under his step. Only one step further was enough and a board broke under his feet, the ropes frayed and the entire construction collapsed. He fell into darkness, desperately trying to somehow slow the deathly fall. Shards of wood spiked the air around him, pricking his body whenever he flailed his arms, blindly seeking the side of the cavern, a rope tethering a bridge, a plank of sturdy wood – anything that wouldn't shatter under his weight. His hands managed to grab the protruding rocks of another ledge, his own weight ripping against his shoulders; he was hardly able to prevent himself from letting go under the cruel jolt running through his shoulders. Still his hands clung to the stones that were like honed knives, cutting into his palms without mercy. Grunting, teeth clenched against the pain, he barely managed to hang on.
A spear flew from the darkness, shattering on the stones beside him. Boromir tried to pull himself up, but another spear missing him only by a hair's breadth nearly made him fall again. A sharp hiss sounded from the ledge above his rapidly numbing fingertips: the familiar whistle of arrows. Somewhere behind him, Orcs shrieked as their bodies dropped into the darkness. One foul smelling creature nearly landed on Boromir; as it was, the Orc slammed into his shoulder, and Boromir was jostled into almost relinquishing his precarious hold on the rocks. Another arrow hissed into the darkness, resulting in another corpse dropping into the chasm. For one single exhausted moment Boromir imagined that Faramir had found him even in this place and had come to get him out. But this was neither an Orc barrack nor was this the Mountains of Shadow, these were the Misty Mountains and he was still in danger.
"That will teach the black brood," a deep bronze voice grumbled speaking in a soft, rich accent that Boromir had never heard before. He had heard many dialects of the Common Tongue before, but none with this almost musical quality to it. A figure appeared above him. A faint light made him blink hard, he could not really identify what kind of source the pale light on the edge had. But surprised by the fresh light, Boromir could not see much more than a head and shoulders, both cast in shadow, but he felt a strong hand grabbing his arm, supporting his fleeting hold. "Grab my shoulder; I'll pull you up."
The relief Boromir felt flooding through him nearly made him lose his tenuous hold on the rocks. It seemed too much like good fortune to have been found by anyone other than Orcs in these depths. He did not waste time, and used what strength he had left to grab the stranger's shoulder, and was pulled up by surprisingly strong arms. Few men would have so easily been able to lift him like that. Not a moment later he was on stable ground. "That's better," the stranger said, grabbing his pack that he must have dropped when he came to Boromir's aid. He also picked the source of the light up, a small white crystal that illuminated their immediate surroundings. .
Boromir blinked into the light of the flame. His helper was strange: standing, he did not even reach Boromir's shoulder, though he carried a blade and an axe on his back and the way he stood left little doubt that he was absolutely comfortable with the weapons. Certainly not someone to discount for diminutive stature. His hair was long and fell freely around his shoulders… and was he really wearing braids at his temples like a maiden? Something about him seemed off to Boromir, it was something in the stature, like all the proportions were slightly off and the way he stood, like firmly grown into the rocky ground of the cave, he saw it all but it took him a moment to realize that this was most likely not a man at all but a Dwarf. He had never seen one before, except in pictures and drawings in Faramir's books. "You are a Dwarf." The words were out before he could stop them.
The stranger bowed slightly. "Kíli, at your service," he said. "I had certainly not expected anyone but Orcs in these deeps. Most Men are smarter than to stray into the deeps of Goblin Town."
Goblin Town? So there was a name to this den? The words were a warning to Boromir right away. This stranger… this dwarf was all too comfortable in this place. He might have helped Boromir, but his motivation remained unclear. Yet, without him Boromir's chances to escape this den was virtually nonexistent. "I did not plan on coming here," he said, not giving his name in turn. It might be rude, but who cared for manners amongst the Orcs?
"Whoever does?" The dwarf replied, turning towards a tunnel. "Are you coming? Or do you wish to stay and have an audience with his Malevolence?"
There was something in his grim humor in that voice that Boromir found not entirely disagreeable. Having no other choice he followed the dwarf as he began to stride up a tunnel that led away from the ledge. "I hardly had expected someone down amongst the Orcs either," he said, wondering what had brought the dwarf into these deeps. He was not sure what to think of the coincidence of his rescue, it was a little too lucky and that alone made it smell like an Easterling plot.
"Goblins, these are Goblins and they raided two settlements recently, I came to return the favor and to repeat a lesson, that they are always slow to learn:" Kíli ducked under a low ceiling arch, his bow came up and two arrows fired in rapid progression, killed two more Orcs… Goblins. "that hurting my people ends with even more pain for them and their ugly kind and each dead dwarf is paid for in ten dead Orcs."
"One man going after a raiding band?" Boromir had drawn his sword, ready to fight if necessary, but the dwarf had picked off the two guards of the next hallway.
"There is no strength in numbers," Kíli's comment sounded like a quote that he was just repeating, "and if they come after my people I will hunt them. Not that I expect them to ever learn."
There was something in the way he spoke about his people that struck a chord in Boromir, he might not be able to tell if someone spoke the truth outright, but these words had a confident echo, a tone of voice that convinced Boromir the dwarf meant them. And it reminded him of the conversation of the Orcs he had listened to. "They spoke of that, they were sure that they had not been followed by the Longbeards…" Of course – they must have meant dwarves, it could be an epithet for them. "but why the spoke common, I cannot fathom." The last part was a test, a shot into the dark to see how the dwarf reacted. If the whole situation had been set up, he might give himself.
Instead Kíli stopped. "They spoke Westron? Strange, they only do that if they have no other choice? What Orc tribes were present? Goblins? Mountain orcs? Northern Tribes?"
"Two were Goblins as you call them, small and pale, and the third was bigger, Shagrat was his name and he was from another places they named…" Boromir tried to recall their arguing. "Mt. Gundabad. I think he was here for a prisoner of sorts… he said his Master wanted Him."
There was a subtle change in Kíli's mien, the jaw setting in a grim line like he had a good guess what this meant. "So Bolg is up on hunting again, I should have guessed." He turned and took the lead as they headed into the dark again. His crystal gave minimal light, hardly allowing Boromir to see where they were going.
"So Bolg is he the Master he spoke of?" He tried to work out some sense in what he had heard. "His Malevolence as you called him before?"
Suddenly the dwarf barked a grim, had laugh devoid of any humor. "No. His Malevolence is the Great Goblin, King of Goblin Town – nasty piece of work and cruel if he can get his hands on you. Bolg is the King under Mt. Gundabad and the biggest problem North of Framsburg, except you count the Great Troll down in Ettenmoors into the list."
"Goblins have Kings?" Boromir had heard many things, of raiders and robbers but an Orc styling him as a King? That sounded like the Orcs had the run of the Mountains.
"What's new in that? They did that ever since they took Mt. Gundabad." Kíli climbed over the rubble of a cave in with the deftness of a Mountain Lion, never slowing down.
Boromir fell silent as they went on. Kíli's pace was steady, never faltering, even when the gaping darkness to either side of them indicated the presence of other tunnels, and Boromir had the distinct impression that Kíli had traversed these passages many times before.
Dwarves were said to be at home under the great mountains of the west, after all. The notion was strongly reinforced when their path began to lead upwards and a fresh breeze of cold air touched this face. They passed through a narrow gap in which Boromir had to bend almost double to squeeze by, and suddenly they stood outside again. It was dark – night had fallen but the rain had passed.
Kíli did not give them any time to catch a breath or stop, the dwarf headed on, racing down a soggy, narrow path winding down the slopes towards the edge of a forest. Boromir followed him, tired though he was he was glad to be out of the caves and while he still was wary of his new companion, he had gotten him out of the Goblin's dens and that counted in his favor.
In the end, Boromir did not know how long they ran, the longer they hurried down the long hill slopes the more he felt the pain from his injuries, he had to shift more weight to the right leg because the other was paining him. When the sun rose behind the high Mountains, the first rays falling on the land around them, it finally ended. Boromir was tired, stumbling with exhaustion and glad that they finally came to a halt. They had reached a wide vale of woods and rocks; some grassy patches in between were yellow with the dying grass of summer.
Kíli exhaled sharply and turned back to him. It was the first time that Boromir got a look at him that was not obscured by the darkness in the caves. The dwarf's face was framed by a wild mane of hair, a few grey streaks mingled with the dark locks – strange, his face did not reflect the age of someone already greying, even though it was set with a few deeper, pleasant lines. The short-cropped beard was barely a shadow and not quite what Boromir would have associated with a dwarf. He wore chainmail and a leather coat, both well worn. "Let's find a place to hide and rest."
"Are you sure we got far enough away from them?" Boromir asked in spite of his exhaustion. "There may be more Orcs nearby."
"Show me one place in the lone lands where they aren't close…" Kíli growled. "I still know some hideouts that they haven't found yet… Daylight will be a much better protection against them."
The hideout proved to be a tall, pillar-like rock with a den deep enough to hide a small fire behind the top. How Kíli managed to light the still-dripping timbers to burn was another matter entirely. Boromir had the impression the dwarf had barely looked at the wet logs and the flames sprang to life. "Where did they capture you?" Kíli asked as he fed branches as thick as his palm into the flames, which snapped and hissed, almost white as they devoured the fresh wood.
"They didn't. I hid from the storm in a cave," Boromir explained, sitting down against the rock, the warmth of the fire a welcome change from the cold. "after I fell asleep the ground vanished and landed on a platform somewhere in the caves. I tried to find a way out until I met you."
There was something akin to grim amusement shining in Kíli's dark eyes. "The very same happened to some of my kin once and landed us right in Goblin Town as well, audience with his Malevolence included. Most caves in these parts are dangerous." Seated relaxed across the fire from Boromir the dwarf surveyed him, his face not unfriendly but hard to read all the same. "What brings a son of Gondor so deep into the lone lands?"
There was that word again – the lone lands: a term that made Boromir shiver. Was that all that was left of Arnor and her glory? Even of her memory? A land overrun by Orcs, given up upon by everyone? "I am on my way to Rivendell. Denethor, Steward of Gondor, has sent me there. I kept to the mountains, hoping to find it."
"Rivendell?" Kíli leaned forward, one arm resting lightly on his knee. "You are leagues and leagues off your trail, Son of Gondor."
"I realised that when I came across the Goblins," Boromir replied a bit more sharply. He hated it when Faramir pointed out his lack of proper orientation in the wilds, but hearing it from a stranger was even worse.
"If the Elves call a place the hidden valley, it is hard to find," Kíli observed dryly. "And the path leading from the mountains into Rivendell is even harder to find than the Bruinen ford."
"You know where it is?" Boromir asked, his hopes kindled once more. While he still was wary of this dwarf with the strange name, he was not in a position to disregard help of any kind.
"Aye, I came through there years ago with my kind." Kíli deftly placed an old iron pot in the fire and for a moment Boromir believed to see flames dancing on the Dwarf's arm. It had to be a trick of the light. "You are far off your road, Boromir of Gondor, for you have strayed far to the north, but I will help you to get to Imladris, if you'll have me."
Boromir looked up and across the flames met the Dwarf's eyes. "I never told you my name," he said, suddenly tense again. His hand fell to his sword, fingers curling around the hilt. No one could have known he was here, and a stranger met in an Orc den might as easily be a servant of the Enemy.
If Kíli had seen him go for the weapon the dwarf had not reacted at all. "No – but that sword you wear was commissioned by Turgon, Steward of Gondor for his eldest son. It has been wielded by the Steward's eldest son ever since. I know, for Ecthelion had one of my kin make it."
Boromir covered his going for the sword by drawing the blade and placing it across his knees to clean it of the Goblin filth. He was still surprised the dwarf had entirely ignored the sudden threat, either he had been sure of his answer or he did not fear Boromir in the least. Which was an unusual situation, Boromir was used to making even hardened Easterling leaders or Haradrim nobles nervous. Here he was a stranger with neither reputation nor legend attached to his name.
Something landed on the stones beside him, a rag and a small bottle of weapon's oil. "Better use that, or the stench never gets off. Goblins are not creatures who wash."
Boromir took it with a nod and turned to cleaning his blade. The sword had been passed onto him by his father, who had received it from Ecthelion, who's father Turgon had it made long ago. The two-edged blade hardly ever went blunt and had never failed him in many a battle.
What Kíli had said was true, though – Turgon had a blacksmith from foreign lands make the sword because the man's work had been unsurpassed. Man, and here was the strange term in this, if Kíli's words were true the maker of the blade had not been a Man at all but a dwarf. Studying Kíli who sat on the other side of the fire and was busy cleaning a white-hilted sword of similar dirt, Boromir noticed again that Kíli was not looking what any Man would expect a dwarf to look like. Maybe the bladesmith of old had simply not been recognized for a dwarf and never said he was one? "I'll be grateful for what help you will give," Boromir eventually replied to the offer to guide him to Imladris.
"Very well," Kíli thrust his blade back into the sheath and placed it beside him on the ground. "we will camp here for the day. Goblins do not like sunlight, so these hours will be safest for resting. How bad are you injuries?"
"Mostly scratches and bruises, one surprised me by trying to use a strangling chord," Boromir could feel the cut at his neck but it was nothing too serious. He did not like the idea of having to sleep in the vicinity of a near-stranger. "What about you?"
"The same," Kíli replied, adding some fresh wood to the fire, before he deftly fished the pot from the fire. It was an old, banged up iron thing but when Boromir smelled the contents, he realized how hungry he was.
His glance must have given him away, because there was some amusement in the way the dwarf's lips curled. "You must be hungry after that adventure."
Boromir was hungry, he had not eaten in two days and felt like he had lived through longer without food. But… he had hardly paid attention to what the dwarf tossed into the pot. Like sleeping in the presence of a stranger, accepting food meant trust… a trust into not just some stranger, but also in a creature of a kind that he had encountered for the first time.
Kíli sighed, he must have interpreted his silence right. "Listen," he said, his voice unmoved. "I cannot make you trust me, nor will you believe my word, I know your Numenóran kind, to know what you think of my people or our word. But if I wanted you dead, I could have left you where I found you, or simply kill you now and be done with it." He poured the stew into two bowls from his pack, handing one Boromir and settled to eat.
For a moment Boromir fell silent, the words had been direct and to the point, and they were humbling. Whoever the dwarf might be, he had saved Boromir's life and done nothing to warrant his distrust. Had he lived so long with the twisting plans of the Enemy that he could not stop expecting them in every corner? Wordlessly Boromir grabbed the bowl and began to eat as well. Until Kíli did not prove to be an enemy, he would try and trust him.