The Raven's Blade I: A distant Light (rewritten)

by Valandhir

Kili survived the battle of the five armies, thought he lost his home again. Decades later a grim dwarven warrior comes across a man searching for Imladris. Thus begins a journey across the lone lands that will lead into war. This version is a complete rewrite and expansion from the original. Mix of movie/book canon. Rated M for violence, just to be safe.

4. Chapter 4: Under night's wings

Chapter 3: Under night's wings

With two strokes of his mighty axe, Kíli cut through the beams still supporting the roof, collapsing the failing rooftop on the building. It was the only grave he could give Bran – the only grave pressing time would permit. Ashes flared up when the building collapsed, but Kíli paid them no heed. He picked up his pack and cast a glance towards Boromir before he set off west, where the path to Archet wound through the vales. He did not follow it, but chose the shorter if harder route uphill.

Boromir followed him swiftly. He did not know where Kíli was going but did not ask. He had no idea what a Baggins was – a thing, a creature, maybe a place, even. But he had recognized the fear in Kíli's eyes, when the word had been mentioned. It was a well familiar fear when someone suddenly realized someone or someplace close was in danger from the Enemy. Under almost any other circumstances, he would have asked his companion for directions to continue to Rivendell and given his own quest priority. But not now. For one, he owed Kíli his life for the rescue in the caves, not to mention the fight against the Wargs and also… the burned village still haunted his mind. This land was wild: there was no one, no king nor steward, to send troops to drive off the pillaging Orcs; there was no city to flee to or find aid at. These people were standing on their own, on what little strength they could muster, and Boromir felt compelled to, at least, not allow more harm to come of this.

Had Boromir believed that the Dwarf had been marching at quick speeds before, he now learned what it looked like when Kíli truly made haste, and seemed to know little exhaustion. Though he still was easing off his left side when he walked, he had no regards for his own injuries any more, and his stiff marching speed was swift even for Boromir. Only when night fell did Boromir began to guess why. They had reached another dale, like so many others they had crossed before. But this too held a settlement. Small though it was, it consisted of a number of low, sturdy stone buildings, and some other buildings that reminded him of a crushing mill. He spotted a dark hole in the hillside. A mine!

When they came down the hillside towards where a path led past the two outermost buildings into the settlement itself, they were suddenly cut off by two small armed figures, not quite five foot tall, axes in hand. One, with a long black, if wild, ponytail, advanced forward in the path, axe raised, the sharp edge shining in the light of setting sun, ready to cut them down on the spot. Boromir saw the threat from him and his companion who hung back and readied the crossbow, he stepped closer to Kíli the hand sinking to the hilt of his sword.

But bot dwarves they relaxed visibly when they saw Boromir's companion. "Kíli," the one with the ponytail said in a deep, gravelly voice, lowering his weapon. "It is good to see you." The Dwarf bowed swiftly and respectfully.

"Bladvila, well met indeed, it is good to see you again." Kíli greeted the other Dwarf; with a clasp around his forearm. "I wish I were bringing less grim tidings. Watchhill was burned by Orcs only last night. I need to speak to Bofur right away."

"So that's why you travel with a Ranger," Bladvila observed grimly. "Go down to his house; I'll send word for him. He may still be downhole."

"Thank you, Bladvila. And be on your guard – these Orcs were searching for someone." Kíli gave Bladvila a light clap on the arm before leaving.

They headed down into the settlement. Boromir paid close attention to what he saw as they passed through. Grey field stones had been used to pave the main ways of the village, and all buildings were built from the same grey material. The houses were not beautiful, not even nice, but they were sturdy, thick-walled, with stone roofs and small windows. They had been built with defense in mind. Other buildings belonged clearly to the settlement's operation. He saw a mine, crushing mill, a smeltery. The tip, where the dead rock was piled up, was on the other side of the dale. There was a channel of water canalized neatly alongside the valley. He should have known the crushing mill that was used to break the stones for processing needed water. "A copper mine?" he asked, seeing some of the material at the crushing mill.

Kíli's walk had slowed somewhat and there was a slight, if well covered, stiffness in his steps now. He was keeping all strain off his left side. "Iron, mostly," he said as they passed down a steep winding road paved with field stones.

It made sense: most iron mines had a fair chance to prosper, as iron was always in demand. While they walked, Boromir could not help notice the many different Dwarves he spotted at work all around. There must have been a good thirty or forty of them and very few resembled the drawings he recalled from Faramir's books. None looked quite like Kíli, either. They all seemed to have propensity for hair, though – thick, wild, sometimes braided, mingling with long beards, the way some of them had braided and shaped their hair seemed downright impossible. Not to mention that some had long manes like Kíli or Bladvila that would be the envy of every maiden South of Rohan. But very few had Kíli's very short beard, and their faces were of less regular features. But what stood out most of all was the stature. After meeting Kíli Boromir would have deemed him strong, of powerful built, but compared to these dwarves he was rather lean, almost slender. Many of the working dwarves they met here, had shoulders nearly as broad as they were tall and arms heavily packed with muscle beside them Kíli appeared to be of light built. Most of them conversed in a language Boromir did not understand – a rolling, rich tongue that sounded quite melodious all the same. It had to be the dwarven speech, he concluded, though he knew nothing about their language at all.

They were, of course, seen by the other Dwarves as well, a few bowing in their direction, others merely making room for them when they passed. There was a distinct respect in the way they greeted Kíli, a respect Boromir was too well acquainted with to miss. He had received similar greetings himself too often – people who would make room for him, simply because he headed down a road, or who would bow when he passed. Boromir remembered how Kíli had spoken of his Uncle and brother who had fallen to retake the Mountain Home, he was almost sure that Kíli too had seen the battle – the expression in his eyes had said as much. It seemed that he had earned some of a heroes reputation that way, and with fighting for his people, alone against the Orcs and Trolls, he most surely had become a kind of protector to them. Kíli was no stranger to their treatment – differential at most, courteous at best – but also did not quite like it, if his tensing shoulders were any indication. He stopped two or three times to greet Dwarves he knew by name. The first time he did that, speaking to a dwarf called Orin, they switched from dwarven to Westron – if for politeness' sake or for other reason Boromir did not know. But he heard Kíli ask about Orin's sons who had gone to a place called Cardemir a while ago. Boromir did not really follow the details of the conversation that was concerned with the details of armorer apprenticing but watched Kíli.

He knew that kind of situation, of men who had fought beside him, or people he had protected, remembering the names, details of their family. It was something that became second nature after a while, and what felt like a casual question about a child, or a family member could mean the world for them – being remembered by someone they perceived above themselves. Boromir could not quite discern the role Kíli played to these people, beyond a revered protector, but there was an edge of hero worship in the way some of them treated him.

Which made the second meeting on their way into the settlement such a contrast, they had just passed by several smelters and now approached a huge building that was echoing tremendous noise. When they came closer Boromir glimpsed into the building and understood – the overshot waterwheel outside the stone house drove three heavy hammers that were ringing out so loudly. He could not see what the hammers were used for – if they were a hammer smithy of a refining hammer, but the huge steel hammers in itself were impressive.

His distraction with the Hammermill was the reason why he had to catch up with Kíli who had stopped a bit off the building, where the road bend into the main settlement. He stood with another dwarf, nearly as tall as himself, with long hair, a dark mane richly streaked with iron grey. Contrary to other greetings here, they had clasped shoulders and their foreheads touched. "I am glad you got them back in time, Thirán."

"Both children are safely home with their family and they certainly won't sneak out after dark again. They were lucky that the troll was hoping for a more substantial dinner, before he started cooking." Thirán's voice was deep, with a dark steely quality to it. He stepped back, one hand still on Kíli's shoulder. "Seems you have your hands full, Storm-child, I'll make another patrol up north, to make sure we don't have any other nasty surprises from the Ettenmoors."

"Be careful, Thirán, something is out there, hunting." Kíli said, a slight edge in his voice.

The older dwarf shook his head. "All the more reason to go looking. Watch you back too, Kíli. Mahal with you." With that the old warrior mounted his pony and rode off, Kíli's eyes following him for a moment.

When they reached the quarter stone houses that seemed to be the miners' homes, another Dwarf came rushing at them. He was nearly five foot high and wore a remarkable grey moustache. His hair must have been dark once but now was all grey. His clothes were made of sturdy leather and speckled with rock dust, as was his skin, which also sported traces of sweat and smudges of earth and dust. The Dwarf's hands were large and powerful, marked with the dirt of a long shift in the mine. "Kíli!" he called out as he reached them.

Both Dwarves greeted with a hug, Kíli stiffening slightly at first, but disregarding the discomfort he hugged the other dwarf back firmly. "Kíli," the new arrival repeated, "I… You get more similar to your uncle with every passing year." He clasped Kíli's shoulder. "A bit of fur here and you'd look more than ever like him. When I saw you stride in here, I could have sworn it was him."

Compared to the way Bladvila and the other people of the settlement reacted to Kíli, there was a distinct difference in their greeting here. Contrary to the others in the settlement, this miner greeted Kíli much like an equal, and Kíli responded in kind, his greeting of the other Dwarf warm and honest.

His smile was a soft one, holding past fondness and sadness as well. "Dwalin said the same once, Bofur," he replied. "I wish I were only here to talk of old times."

"Aye, I can see that and Bladvila's message said there was trouble afoot," Bofur said. "I better send someone for Auda, the way you are standing I don't even want to know what chewed on you this time."

"No, Bofur, it is nothing, just a few scratches already treated." Kíli brushed off the concern quickly. "And there are much more pressing worries, then that."

Bofur raised his hands in a defeated gesture. "Not that talking ever helped much with you or…." He broke off and suddenly turned, changing topics. "But who's your companion – a Ranger?"

It was the third time Boromir heard that assumption, along with the mention that Kíli usually did not mix with the Rangers. He knew there were survivors of Arnor who called themselves that, and he wondered what tensions might stand between them and Dwarves.

"No, he is Boromir of Gondor, who is on his way to Imladris." Kíli's hand gesture was the clear underlining of the verbal introduction..

The Dwarf bowed deeply. "Bofur at your service."

Boromir recalled Kíli having done the same at their first meeting, so it had to be some kind of Dwarven politeness. "And yours," he replied with a light bow of his own.

It seemed to satisfy propriety because Bofur's attention shifted back to Kíli. "What happened? Bladvila said something about Watchhill."

"It was burned by Orcs last night, Bofur. They left no one alive. Their leader – a Rider upon a black horse – is searching for Baggins." Kíli quickly recounted all they had found in the burned village.

"Baggins… oh no." Bofur's eyes widened, for a moment he forgot to close his mouth. "That is not good," there was a clear tension in his voice that said he was familiar with the word 'Baggins' in some way, and it was not just a special term for knapsack. Could it be a Dwarven name? Or maybe some kind of Dwarven homestead? "Do you know why?"

"No. Bran told me what he could before he died. It was not more than what I just shared."

Bofur's face set in a determined expression. "You will need a fast horse and someone to bring your friend to Rivendell. I'll send my son with him; Beris knows the way," he announced.

Now Boromir understood why Kíli had headed here so fast. It was for help, and for keeping his word to Boromir, even with all that had happened he had not forgotten about his promise to bring Boromir to Rivendell. "There will be no need of that," he spoke up. "I will go with Kíli and help to thwart whatever these Orcs are planning."

Now both Dwarves looked at him surprise. "Kíli's kin always claimed the people of Gondor were a proud and noble kind," Bofur stated when Kíli did not react at once. "They were right. Do you dare to stay for the night or will you press on?"

"I'd be most grateful for a place to sleep for a few hours, Bofur, before we head on," Kíli told him. "We have had little rest these last days."

"My home is yours, Kíli. Come on in." Bofur gestured them to follow him towards one of the small, compact buildings that obviously was his home. It was no different from all the other buildings around, nothing indicating that the leader of this settlement lived there, Boromir noted.

TRB

More than an hour later, they sat by the fire in Bofur's home. They had shared a warm stew made of potatoes and other 'roots', having some real food and the warmth of the fireplace felt good to Boromir. After the last days such things were pure luxury.

"Baggins…" Bofur said softly, shaking his head. "After all these years. I still don't understand it, Kíli. Halflings keep to themselves. Bilbo was the great exception to come with us and… why would the Orcs hunt him now? Of all who were there the day Azog fell – they certainly came for you, and I am sure they tried Dwalin a few times… but Bilbo?"

"So Baggins is a person?" Boromir asked, when Kíli did not respond directly to Bofur's words. He could see the way Kíli's hands closed around the mug he was holding, knuckles white with the tight grasp, his shoulders had tensed and his eyes had changed from an unreadable black to being stormy with a worry. So Baggins was a name, and he might know the person attached to it. Any person being hunted by Orcs was someone to be worried for, but a Rider able to command the Orcs behind said person was another batch of ill new entirely, Boromir agreed.

"Bilbo Baggins," Bofur confirmed. "He came with us to the Lonely Mountain when Thorin led us back there. Bilbo was a burglar – an expert treasure hunter, our Hobbit." The last words were spoken with a great deal of warmth and fondness.

"A Halfling," Kíli provided, seeing Boromir's confusion at the word "Hobbit."

All tiredness forgotten Boromir sat up straight, of all the things he had expected to hear, this was the very last. Halfling, the word that had puzzled him since he had ridden from Minas Tirith… he had heard that word before, in the dream Faramir had related to him, the very dream that had sent him on the search for Imladris.

.

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

He did not know what those words meant but suddenly he was sure that all of this was no coincidence. Somehow, a Halfling was tied into the prophetic dream he and his brother had shared, and now one of them was hunted by the servants of the Enemy. There could be no doubt, this was no happenstance. Still, he had no clue what a Hobbit actually was. "A Halfling?" Boromir asked. Not even Faramir had been able to make much sense of the word, except linking it to a fairy tale from Rohan. "Like Holbytla? The hill people from Rohan's fairy tales?"

"They are hill dwellers, true, but fairy tales they are not. They live to the west, south of the Ered Luin," Bofur provided. "They are farmers, gardeners, and as kind and as peaceful a people as you'll find left in this world. They also can be exceptionally brave. Bilbo saved our hides a few times, freed us from the dungeons in Mirkwood, scouted a Dragon's lair –"

"And he saved my life after the Battle of Five Armies. I was only found so quickly thanks to him," Kíli added, interrupting Bofur's flow of words.

It was easy to see that there was a whole tale about that. Boromir wished they had more time and less pressing needs at hand so he could hear it. "What made him come with you?" he asked. "If he was no Dwarf, he would not have held any loyalty to your kingdom, did he?"

"No." Bofur said, "but you see, Thorin had agreed to let Gandalf chose the fourteenth member of our company. And he chose Bilbo."

It was not the mention of the wizard that made Boromir frown. "Wait – you went with barely more than a dozen men to reclaim a kingdom and to face down a Dragon? That is brave beyond imagining. But… why then do you still live here in the west?"

Bofur put aside his mug, like he was attempting to put off answering. His eyes went to Kíli, who had been staring into the fire, where his mind might have been remained his secret. The old miner's face tensed, then he rose unannounced. "That is a long story, Boromir, and you will want to ride by first light," he said. "I can't offer you much more than a place before the fire to sleep, but you will want any rest you can get. Kíli…"

"I'll do just fine down here as well, Bofur," Kíli said, forestalling any offer of taking the only bedchamber available in the small house. "A place before the fire is more comfortable than many a camp in the wilds."

TRB

Boromir had slept fairly well as far as such things went in the small house, the noises from the outside were dimmed by the thick walls and the crackling of the low burning fire had made the place almost homely. Still his sleep was light and the first noise outside the pattern of those that were perpetual to the house startled him up, bringing him from slumber to full alert within moments. He knew he had heard a voice, not giving away that he was awake he listened into the darkness of the room.

"Brekár… kaî dru…" the words were a short, hoarse bark and this time Boromir recognized Kíli's voice clearly in the darkness. He reached for the wood stacked by the fireplace and tossed a single log into the embers of the fire, it took to burn swiftly, shedding a soft light into the room. Kíli was still where he had camped down hours earlier – Boromir's own feeling said that it must be some three hours past midnight, dawn still safely away, sleeping behind the eastern hills. He had no way of telling when Kíli's sleep had turned from peaceful to restless, but the way he was tossing and whispering in his dreams betrayed a nightmare.

The door of the room opened and Boromir went for his weapon only to recognize Bofur, the miner looked drowsy in the light of the pale lamp her carried. "A dream?" he asked softly, underlined with a hand gesture Boromir could not decipher.

"Looks like," Boromir replied in the same hush. "you heard the shout? I did not catch what it was."

"Dru Bekar! Dru bekar kaî dru! - To Arms! To arms my brethren! Battle call, 'course I heard," Bofur smiled sheepishly. "I was up and had my hammer in my hand before I realized I was not back at Erebor." He squatted down beside Kíli, shaking his head. "Speaking of the Quest must have brought it all back… I sometimes forget how young he was back then."

"The battle his brother and Uncle fell in?" Boromir knew nightmares all too well, his own frequently send him back into the dungeons of the Enemy or to battles at the river… memories were a tricky thing to deal with. The price of surviving were the memories, or so his father had once put it.

"Aye," Bofur wanted to say more but the door of the house opened and Bladvila looked in, Boromir saw nothing more but a series of finger gestures that the warrior used to communicate with Bofur and the older dwarf sighed. "So much for a restful night. Kíli." Bofur slightly shook Kíli by the shoulder. "Kíli… wake up. Something is going on."

Kíli sat up, grabbing his sword, which was sitting beside him on the floor. "Attackers?" he asked softly, at once ready to fight.

"No, but Bladvila just alerted me that something strange is happening south. You should come and see." Bofur held a small, shielded lamp in one hand and his mining hammer in the other. He led them outside and up the stairs outside another home, which stood somewhat elevated and served as a lookout post.

Standing atop the sturdy stone platform, Bofur pointed south, where lightning was ripping apart the night sky. At first one might easily be fooled to think of it as a late autumn thunderstorm but Boromir quickly noticed that it was too localized. The lightning occurred only in one spot, as did other lights, faint lights like flames flickering up and dying again in the very same position. They were nearly too bright to be fire, but lightning would not strike like that. "That must be Weathertop," Kíli observed.

"Aye, I was thinking the same," Bofur agreed. "But what does it mean, Kíli? It's not a storm nor is it firelight."

"They searched for Baggins on the Archet road," Boromir said slowly, putting together the disjointed pieces of information, as he worked out what the reported Enemy movements meant. "You said Archet was to the southwest of us. What if Baggins – or whatever they believe for Baggins – gave them the slip and headed straight west instead of northwest? And now they are back on their trail?"

The two Dwarves exchanged a glance, both nodding. "You are right – it would make sense," Kíli said, accompanying the words with a short clap against Boromir's arms. "Where did you learn to think ahead of them so swiftly?"

Boromir did not answer that, it did not need an answer, though he was pleased that he was slowly getting his feet on the ground in this strange land. They hurried down the stairs again, where Bofur had already sent someone to wake his son to have the horses readied. Kíli went back to the house to quickly gather up their packs. Boromir saw Bofur still stare south, hand on his huge mining hammer. "'Tis like a storm is brewing," the Dwarf said in a low voice. "Like soon we'll have to put aside the tools and take up the axes again. I should have spoken to Dwalin." He suddenly woke from his reverie and looked at Boromir, realizing he had heard. "I'm sorry…" he began.

"No," Boromir said, "you are right. There is a darkness gathering even here, and seeing your people ready for it is more than prudent a thought." He did not know what else to say. These dwarves seemed to be a strange mix of workers and warriors, and he had no idea where the allegiance lay, beyond fighting off the raiders. At least the Orcs would not find easy pickings in this settlement.

TRB

The third evening hence found Boromir and Kíli still riding south. They had passed through Rhudaur, passed by the Trollshaws, and now approached the Weather Hills from the east. Pressed for time, they had only allowed for breaks such as their horses required. Boromir was not quite sure what he should call his mount, as it was taller than a normal pony and most certainly closely related to a draft horse, but not quite as tall. Yet the mare had carried him speedily uphill and downhill across bad grounds and barely passable paths. What it lacked in looks, it made up with its sturdy qualities. Kíli's horse was in the same vein, only that it was nearly too tall for him.

The day had been a cold and windy one and now, as the Sun set, her fiery rays touched upon the largest hill ahead, crowned by some ruins of sorts. Boromir was not sure he liked it. His initial fascination with the ruins of Arnor had faded and made room for a healthy weariness. It seemed that such places either held bad memories, were haunted by things better unnamed, or had become dens for all kinds of horrors. He knew it would take him a while to see any ruin as something more than a place of dangers when he returned home. "That ruin – is that Weathertop?" he asked, the first time in the three days they spoke something beyond the barest necessity.

Kíli peered ahead. "Watchtower of Amon Sul, called Weathertop these days. Not a place I particularly like – the Orcs and Goblins have been using it as a lookout as much as any other might in this land. Bilbo would know better than to camp at a location that exposed." He dismounted his horse in the cover of a small set of rocks overgrown with dry summer grass and birchwood. Boromir agreed and dismounted as well, both horses were tired and could do with a short rest before they pressed on towards the watchtower's ruins.

He studied the grounds ahead of them. Some leagues were still left and the grounds between them and the ruin did not look easy, either. If they pressed on, they might reach the tower before midnight. He bit back a yawn that wanted to sneak up on him. They both had hardly more than five hours sleep since leaving Bofur's settlement. It was nothing to Boromir: he had gone without sleep or rest for longer times before.

Suddenly he felt Kíli's strong hand on his arm. "Don't move, don't break cover," the Dwarf whispered, his eyes peering past the rock and south.

Boromir was careful to not get out of the cover the rocks provided as he ducked slightly to have a look as well. Past the rock he could see the hills falling more and more towards a road running west. Far away, touched by the last rays of sunlight, he could see a Rider on the road. One Rider on a dark horse. He could not make out much more – it was too far away – but he felt a warning fear clasp his heart in an icy clutch. Danger was here… The hunt was on.

"They are still searching; that means they have not caught him yet," Kíli whispered, a clear edge in his voice. "I doubt it is the same rider that came to Watchhill, for he moved north with his Orcs, according to the tracks we saw…"

Boromir had to agree with the Dwarf's pragmatic view. He pushed aside the doubt gnawing at him. Since when did he listen to fears and superstitions? Boromir had never had the luxury to listen to his fears or speak of them. He had to be strong for those he led and while he somehow was tempted to speak of them to Kíli he pushed that impetus away, ignoring the feeling of fear entirely. "Let's wait until night falls," he said calmly. "We leave the horses here and move on foot. Less chance they will see us. If they want to go up there, we can flank them."

"Agreed." The Sun faded from the skies and dusk settled upon them. Boromir could never quite tell when the Rider had vanished from the road. Yet all of sudden he was gone.

TRB

It was a stormy autumn night that the two companions approached Weathertop. A pale moon shone down from torn clouds, bathing the land in an eerie light, casting long shadows across the rugged landscape. Each bush shaking in the gales, each tree bending to the wind caused wild movements in the dark until not even the sharpest eye could tell what was there. Sometimes Boromir had a hard time to still spot Kíli, who went ahead of him. Ducked, the Dwarf moved through what once might have been a trench of sorts. Even while they moved swiftly, it took them hours to cross the rough grounds. Sometime in the dead of night they had believed to see light on Weathertop again and heard fell voices over the wind but both had been short-lived.

Now that the silent hours before dawn were upon them, they finally reached the path that wound up Weathertop. Kíli ducked behind a rock, peering ahead. Boromir caught up with him, squatting down to take cover. "What is it?" he whispered.

"I believed to see a glow in the den below the tower, where we saw the light earlier," Kíli responded. "It flickered up and out."

"In that moonlight it could be anything, look how the trees move in the wind and the moon creates shadows anywhere. Who knows what you saw.." He had not seen any light flash up and die down again but with the moon playing constant pranks on his eyes, he had stopped even trying to notice. Better to overlook something than to be driven mad by things that were not there. This night reminded him all too vividly of a stormy night in the Mountains of Shadow, between the thunder and rains he had hardly been able to see a thing, or to tell what was around him, and curse Shakurán for his lousy sense of eastern humor had made full use of that. If not for Faramir who had not fallen for the tricks the Easterling had played at them, Boromir was not sure if that night would not have ended in his capture and subsequent death.

"Aye, let us approach the den first and then go up the tower." Kíli rose and took the lead again. There was a very narrow path winding up the side of the rock. For Boromir, it was not hard to guess that this once had been the access to the tower's postern, long ago it had been a small but well defendable set of stairs but now it was a broken path hardly broad enough to allow them passage. Often enough they had to go with their backs to the rock and in the constant danger of falling. The stairs led to a dead end right under the den. Kíli simply reached up with one hand, grabbing the ledge above, and deftly climbed up. Being considerably taller than his companion Boromir did not need to climb to reach the top.. To his surprise, they emerged right in front of something that once might have been a cellar of the tower and now was an open den facing outward from the hill.

A gust of wind blowing into the hole revealed another flicker of light, and suddenly Boromir understood. "Someone made a fire in this cave and did not extinguish it fully. The fire is still glowing." He hurried over and found it as he had guessed. The fire was nearly dead but the remaining ashes were sill hot. Kíli had followed him, bringing a branch to light on the dying embers. The warm light of the torch filled the cave, the glow softly shining.

"Several people camped here." Beside the ashes of the fire that must have burned here not long ago, were several shapes pressed into the sand, people had sat around the fire but another detail quickly drew Boromir's attention. "They went barefoot."

"Hobbits do not wear shoes," Kíli replied, his eyes shining. "There were several of them. At least he's not alone. But they left… going up to the tower."

They followed a narrow stairwell that led to the broken tower's remains. The building in itself was nothing special: it was a round place with several stone arches. Whatever glory the tower of Amon Sûl once may have had, it was long gone, leaving only crumbling ruins behind. Kíli placed the torch on a broken pillar so it would lend them some light and not burn out. Not that there was much to see. There were no tracks to read on the stone ground of the tower nor any hints of what might have transpired here.

Following what made the most sense to him, Boromir approached the broad stone arch that once had held the main gate. If someone had left the tower towards the road, it would have been through this one. Maybe that was what the Halflings had done, moving on before dawn.

When he stepped out under the wide stone arch, he saw a movement in the darkness, like the darkness itself was rippling. Only moments late he saw the Rider. One Rider on a black horse, a black cloak enveloping the whole figure, stood on the pathway leading up to the tower. A cold wave washed over Boromir when a familiar fear shrouded him, he almost could feel the touch – the icy marring touch of the shadow again reach for his soul… his blood turned cold and his hands shook. . It could not be, not here… not in this place… not two thousand leagues west of Minas Morgul, not when he had made himself forget all that had nearly a lifetime ago in that accursed place. He could hear his own breath rattle in his throat and he wanted to run, to get away before they could capture him again, before they could drag him back into the darkness where they had almost broken him before. He wanted to escape but his feet would not move, his own body disobeying his fleeing will. The Rider raised one armored hand, pointing at him, but Boromir did not move – he did not see the road or the Rider anymore: he saw darkness – the darkness under Minas Morgul reaching for him, washing up memories and pain searing through his bones and into his very soul. He could not even scream, his throat was constricted, choking him as his heart pounded into his ribcage.

It was the grim battle-cry that woke Boromir from his daze. "Drakhûn caî Nargûn! Azór Nargûn!" He did not understand the words but they rang like a clarion in his mind, driving away the darkness, piercing the invisible chains that held him. Still shocked, he saw Kíli charge past him, the dwarf's face was pale, the black eyes smoldering in anger. He too must feel the fear wash over him like a branding wave, yet it was met with all the fierce stubbornness the Dwarf could muster. He reached to his back to draw his sword; the white, polished hilt of the blade shone as a white light in his hand as he attacked the Black Rider, heedless of the danger, heedless of his own safety. Boromir saw all this as though through a veil, his sight getting clearer and clearer with each passing moment. What he saw horrified him, the first hit of the dwarf was a cross-cut against the horse, Boromir could not believe that anyone would deprive the rider of his Mount to force him to battle it out. It was a deadly mistake.

The Rider was startled by the sudden, wild charge . He turned his horse and drew his dark sword. His first attack tossed the Dwarf across the field like he was nothing more than an annoying cat to be tossed out of the window. Landing hard on the ground, Kíli was up the same moment, attacking again. This time he did not charge in a straight line but flanked the enemy, their blades clashed directly, black steel meeting the dwarven sword, both blades shrieked, sparks shone where the steel made hard contact, but Boromir saw Kíli stumble backwards and his arms came up slower than before. Time and again Kíli was tossed back by the Rider's attacks, only to come back for another round, his face had turned ashen, but he refused to give ground. He stood no chance, and Boromir knew it. No one stood a chance against Mordor's fell messengers he would die… another to fall to the Nazgûl.

It was that thought that broke the last of the spell holding Boromir, he would not let a friend die, he would not allow another comrade to fall to the shadow. Not while he still could fight. Boromir rushed back inside the tower for the only thing to save them: the torch. It was still burning on the pillar where Kíli had left it. When he came outside again, he saw Kíli duck under the Rider's raised sword, the dwarf's blade striking home, ripping through the cloak and into the nothingness of the Rider's upper body. Kíli then staggered slightly – Boromir recognized the way he had overcompensated his stroke, as there was nothing physical for his blade to hit, but still the Rider's shriek ripped through the night like a fiery whip. The Rider's counterattack was fearsome, Boromir saw his friend's body whirled through the air like a ragdoll and crashed against the wall of the tower several paces away. And this time Kíli's body sagged down on the foot of the wall. Boromir did not want to think what it meant.. The hard impact must have stunned the dwarf – or worse – for he did not get up again.

Boromir had waited – now that his mind was free, he acted with icy cool. He knew he had only one chance to do this: one single opportunity was all he and Kíli had left. When the Rider tossed Kíli, fully focused on his erstwhile adversary, Boromir saw his chance: he too charged at the Rider, only instead of using a sword, he used the torch. The first strikes of the torch touched the Rider's cloak, setting it aflame; the second and third hit glancing blows off the horse, which was all equal to Boromir, as the beast feared fire as much as its cruel master. If the Rider lost control of the horse as it fled, it would be as good a result as burning the black appearance. And truly the horse neighed in pain with the burning and shrieking creature on his back.

Boromir picked up the sword Kíli had dropped with his left hand, using both the torch and the blade against the Rider. The heavy blade cut right into the Wraith, and he felt a cold fire running through him, like a flame of ice licking at his skin… and deep inside him something broke. Again he felt the shadow's touch, the touch of the icy hand in Minas Morgul… the darkness. He gritted his teeth, he would not fall to his own panic, to his fears. Pushing himself forward he raised the torch again… but the horse's panic was enough – trapped between a torch and a burning Rider, it bolted, carrying its burning master off into the night.

Turning back to the tower, Boromir hurried towards where Kíli had fallen after the last attack. For a moment, he feared that his friend had paid with death for his bravery, but when he came close, Kíli was already struggling back to his feet. Boromir reached for his arm, helping him up.

"That was the single most stupid and brave thing I ever saw anyone do and survive." Boromir said as the dwarf grasped his arm and pulled himself up, using his other hand to steady himself against the wall.

Author's Notes

"Drakhûn caî Nargûn! Azór Nargûn!" = Victory and Death!

As the few existing Dwarf tongue dictionaries do not provide every bit of material necessary, I often make up the words and phrases I need.