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.

5. Chapter 5: To make a stand

Chapter 4: To make a stand

"That was the single most stupid and brave thing I ever have seen anyone do and survive." Boromir was torn between being awed by the sheer courage of what he had just witnessed and telling his companion off for being so superiorly stupid. Charging at a Nazgul like that, what had he been thinking?

He had assisted Kíli who now leaned his arm against the crumbling wall, supporting his shaky stand, in getting back to his feet, but it seemed that the stalwart dwarf might collapse again any moment. "You saved my life there, Boromir." Kíli's eyes went into the night where the Rider had vanished the gaze so focused that Boromir wondered if his friend might still be able to see the black horse galloping off into the dark. "That thing was too strong for me." The Dwarf's face was pale, beads of cold sweat glistening on his brow, and his hands were still shaking from the encounter. The fear had not gone past him, Boromir could see the expression in the dark eyes that echoed the fear, the dark echo of the Rider had done its work on Kíli, but he refused to let it bring him to his knees with a strength that Boromir could only wonder at.

"It was too strong for either of us." Now that it was over and the darkness had receded, Boromir felt he could breathe freely once more, though he still felt the traces of cold sweat on his back. "They are deadly. How could you even think of charging him like that?" In the eyes of his comrade, Boromir saw an incredibly stubborn expression, an iron will that was not easily broken or deterred. And yet... there was a flicker in those black eyes. For only one moment, Boromir got a glimpse of the feelings behind that will: fear and horrors shone in his gaze, kept tightly in control by a strength of will that he could hardly fathom.

"When things get darkest, do not let fear guide you – there is always hope, if we only are strong enough to see it." Kíli sounded like he was quoting someone, and although the first words were spoken in a shaky voice, the last were steady. Again, he pushed himself up, away from the wall. He straightened slowly, still not very firm on his feet, but he stood on his own.

In the light of the slowly fading torch, Boromir saw how pale Kíli was, like all colour had faded from his face, he was shivering slightly, hunching his shoulders like to shield himself against the night's cool wind. "Did he injure you? Any cut by his blade…" He knew that soldiers struck by such evil blades usually died within hours of the injury, and their death was a cruel one. Boromir had once seen a man hang on for one and half days, it was a sight he would never forget… nor want to see again. Whatever will to fight had kept Erandir fighting so long… in the end he had died screaming his soul out into an uncaring night, experiencing horrors none of his friends could see or protect him from.

"No, no cuts. Just bruises and that cold fire… each time our blades touched," Kíli growled. "It will not slow me down." He made a step forward and Boromir did not fail to see how much he put his weight on his right foot.

"The injury in your side will have reopened from that fall," Boromir said firmly, he understood not wanting to appear weak, to having to be strong in front of others, it was a demand on any leader but wisdom was to know when to give in and accept help. "let me take a look at it, before we move out."

Kíli shook his head, though his hand moved to his side, like probing the bandage through the chainmail. "I'll manage, Boromir. We can't afford to lose time."

"We can't afford to have you die either and you can hardly stand." Boromir said a little more firmly, guiding Kíli to sit down on the rocks by the ruined wall. He had already noticed how the dwarf seemed to gravitate towards solid stone whenever threatened or injured, maybe it was something like a natural reflex for his kind. Their eyes locked and Boromir wondered how much stubborn will – or how little care for his own well-being – drove Kíli to act like he did. "there is no one here you have to prove something to, no one who expects you to be indestructible."

With a sigh Kíli gave in and removed the chain mail armour and the tunic he wore beneath, allowing Boromir access to the blood-soaked bandage beneath. "You think that I do this because I want to make a point?" he scoffed, shaking his head. "My people know I am not that strong."

Squatting down beside the sitting dwarf, Boromir carefully removed the dirty bandage layers, he was surprised to see that the healing process of the cut had been progressing so far already. Either the dwarves healed much faster than menfolk did or Kíli was incredibly lucky. "I'd like to think that it is the only reason," he replied, in the light of the torch that he had stuck into the rubble, he could not see much better than the last time he had bandaged the injury, but it seemed free of infections. "because you have a tendency to throw yourself into the path of danger, not even thinking if it might be lethal for you."

Kíli shook his head, the long hair rasping on the leather reinforced shoulders of his armour. "They are lethal to others, I am quite good at surviving."

Stopping his ministrations Boromir looked up, expecting some kind of humour in Kíli's expression, the kind of smirk warriors had for dangers at times, but in the flickering light of the torch he saw the dwarf's face was serious, the expression devoid of even a hint of fun. "So you either overestimate your own resilience or underestimate the worth of your own life." Boromir reached up, placing a hand on the dwarf's arm, to draw his attention. "Kíli, I appreciate what you did, I doubt I'll ever forget that someone tried to protect me from…" his eyes went to the dark where the Rider had gone. "them, but – the way you risk yourself doing it… few people would do that for a stranger, and while I honour your courage, I'd rather not be rescued at such a price." He did not like the idea at all. Maybe because over the course of a few days they had become comrades, maybe even become friends. Many a friendship began on a battlefield. He had finished dressing the wound again, glad that the dwarf's strong healing had prevented it from getting worse.

"Live for your people, protect those weaker than yourself and fight the battles others can't," Kíli spoke the words softly, almost reverently. "that's how I was raised, Boromir, that's what I was trained to be. I failed once – failed beyond anything and others died because of that – it won't happen again." He had pushed his armour back into place, but had remained sitting for the moment, allowing himself the brief respite.

The death of others, the loss of those that had to be sacrificed to achieve victory, Boromir knew that very well. He lost men in battle, he had send then to their deaths, knowing they'd not return and he had made decisions on whom to save and whom to sacrifice, it was a burden a leader had to bear, only a soul strong enough to bear the weight of the fallen should become a leader, and he could see the marks clearly in Kíli. "I'll not take offence that you assumed I could not fight this battle… because he nearly got me," it was not an easy admission to make, and still, it felt good to make it, for once to allow himself to not maintain the façade of the Captain. Maybe it became so easy because Kíli was not one of his men. "but as I will accept you into my battles, you'll have to accept me into yours." He raised a hand. "Friends?"

Kíli's eyes warmed a little, though his smile did not truly reach them it was a remarkable change in his whole expression. He grasped the proffered hand. "Friends it is, Boromir. And we better get moving. Wherever the Halflings fled, it seems these Riders are still searching for them."

These Riders… Boromir's eyes widened. "Do you not know what they are?" he asked, realizing only then that Kíli had not yet recognized what he had been up against. It did not diminish his bravery: few had the nerve or strength to stand under the Shadow's unfurling wings and fight. He saw the Dwarf simply shake his head, and went on: "They are the Nine, Kíli. His fell messengers."

"The Witch-king's fair brethren, they have not be seen in this land since Carn Dum fell." Kíli's words did not quite hide the shock in his eyes. "Bilbo… We need to reach him, Boromir; if they are after him…"

Boromir silently agreed. This was no longer a coincidence. The verse in the dream he and Faramir had shared had spoken of a Halfling, and now the Nazgul were hunting one. They would have to reach him quickly. Yet… he was not blind or easily deceived either. "You can hardly stand on your own." He did not know what Kíli meant with the cold fire, but Boromir had never been crazy or desperate enough to cross blades with a Nazgul.

"I'll manage. The warmth in my bones will return all the faster with running."

Warmth – that reminded Boromir of the sword he had picked up and was still carrying. The hilt radiated a strange warmth, tangible even through his gloves. It was an unusual weapon. The hilt was made from a white polished tooth, framed with silvery steel to support the guard. Runes had been carved into the hilt, shining a cool light in the darkness. The blade was two-edged and fairly long for someone of Kíli's stature. "Maybe this can help." He handed the blade back. "I picked it up when it fell."

Kíli took the blade with the ease of someone long familiar with the weight of their weapon. More runes shone aglow when he touched the hilt but they all faded following a whispered word Boromir did not catch.

"Are those… magic?" He had heard of enchanted blades, mostly in legends concerning the Elves, but some stories of Dwarves would also claim them able to create magical things.

"Those you see in the dark – yes. The ones you see by light are for memory," Kíli said, his hand still closed around the pale hilt. He straightened up, pulling back his shoulders. Had his standing been still somewhat unsure before, he was back on firm ground again and there was a fresh energy in his movements when he returned the blade into the scabbard on his back. "We need to retrieve our horses and find where Bilbo went before they can get him. I think…" Kíli's eyes widened. "Rivendell… Where else would he seek shelter if not with the Elves?"

TRB

By dawn, they found the first tracks: a fleeting trail leading away from Weathertop and down to the Great East Road, which they followed. Whatever else that night had wrought, it had given their horses a much needed rest: they were fresh and ran with new vigor. It was about noon that they reached the bridge. Boromir dismounted to check for tracks. There was not much to tell but he spotted the hoofprints of a pony, the same that the Halflings seemed to have with them.

When he looked up, he saw that a raven had landed on Kíli's hand. The Dwarf spoke to it in soft whispers. A moment later, the bird flew off and into the east. "Anything?" Kíli asked.

"Not much, they must be making horrible haste – they crossed the bridge hours ago and that without horses," Boromir told him. "If they fled all night, they will have to stop for tonight. If we press on hard, we may reach them then."

They did press on hard; the whole afternoon passed on the road. The land changed a little – it became rockier, with higher rocks and more woods. Boromir spotted less ruins here, too, so he was startled when he saw one around dawn – though it was not much. Probably the remains of a farmhouse abandoned decades ago.

The sigh of the ruined farmhouse brought a light to Kíli's eyes. "Of course… we camped there the night the trolls ambushed us. I think… I think I may know where they went." He dismounted and led his pony up the woody hill. They passed through a narrow passage of rocks and suddenly stood beside a broken barrier under which was indeed a small fire.

Three small figures scrambled to their feet, drawing daggers that they wielded much like swords, that probably were swords for their size, only that the short blades clearly had been daggers or hunting knives when they had been made., while a fourth rose more slowly, supporting himself heavily by leaning on a rock by his side, Boromir saw how he leaned on the stone to stand at all. "Stay where you are!" one of them bellowed, "or I'll gut you whole." He was a stout if very small person of a kind Boromir had never seen before, and the way he wielded the sword made him cringe, he held it like he was carrying some farmer's fork.

"We mean you no harm." Kíli had stopped where he stood, not so much due to the threat than to avoid startling the stout Halfling any further. "We are not the ones that hunt you."

The fourth Halfling stepped forward; he looked deadly pale and tired, nearly stumbling in his step. The other two Halflings grabbed his arms, not as much as to support him, then to hinder him in walking onwards. "Don't… they could be with the Riders," the smaller one hissed.

"Let me, I don't think they are servants of the Enemy," the pale Halfling said firmly, freeing his arms from their grasp.. His eyes went up to Kíli's face, as though searching for something. "You were one of Uncle Bilbo's companions, were you not? Kíli, right?"

"Kíli, son of Dari at your service." The dwarf bowed slightly and Boromir caught a moment's puzzled expression in his eyes.

"Frodo Baggins at yours." The Hobbit stumbled, near collapsing, quickly caught by the stout Hobbit.

Kíli moved past the other two to help. "Is he injured?" he asked, his voice tense, the dwarf reached out to catch Frodo, helping him to sit down.

"He was stabbed by the Black Riders." The older of the other two replied, his eyes darting around, like looking for danger from beyond the bushes.

"Strider went to find something for him," the youngest of the Hobbits replied, worry and fear was clearly written on all their faces.

Kíli looked up. "Boromir – you said something about these wounds this very morning?"

"Only that they are dangerous." Boromir did not find it in his heart to say outright that such wounds were lethal. There was nothing that could be done about them. Still he bridged the distance between them, careful to not step on the hairy toes of several Hobbits clustering close by and squatted down beside Frodo. While he had no wish to see another such wound, he probably had more experience with them than Kíli had. "How long ago where you stabbed?" he asked. "and where?"

"Three days ago, he… he hit me here…" Frodo raised his healthy hand to his right shoulder.

So close to the heart and three days ago! Boromir could hardly believe it. That the Halfling still lived was remarkable and bespoke a strength few Men had – a strength that would not save him, though. If it was a true Morgul Blade wound and not something else.

He saw a movement in the shadows – not more than when Faramir used to stalk him in the woods – and stood up to draw his sword. Coming about, he found himself face to face with a man who stood with sword in hand, the blade raised, ready to strike. The new arrival was about as tall as Boromir, if not quite as broad-shouldered. His long frame was shrouded by a worn leather coat and cloak. His dark hair was long and unkempt, and gave him a ragged appearance.

"Strider!" one of the Hobbits announced.

The man – Strider – frowned at the Hobbits. "Sam – what has happened here?" His eyes went to Kíli and Boromir, swiftly assessing them. "Who are you?"

"It is all right, Mister Strider," the stout Hobbit said at once. "They are old friends of Master Bilbo. Kíli the Dwarf… now he was on that painting in Bag End. He was younger on it, of course, beggin' your pardon." The last statement was directed at Kíli.

The dwarf had moved between Frodo and the new arrival, ready to protect him. Now he relaxed his stance and gave the Halfling a curt nod, indicating he had not taken any offense. "We actually came to help you, Strider" he said to the new arrival. "My companion is Boromir, son of Denethor."

There was still distrust in Strider's eyes, yet he sheathed his sword and hurried to Frodo, who sat on one of the rocks, pale and curled up against himself. When the Ranger squatted down beside the Halfling and producing some fresh herbs he must have gathered, gesturing Sam to bring the hot water from the fire while Frodo bared his bandaged shoulder, so it could be treated.

Boromir had considered volunteering what he knew of those wounds, little as that was, he had seen them run their course on several of his men and he had stayed with Egandir to the last… but if this Strider had managed to keep Frodo alive for three days, he either was very lucky or knew more of the subject than Boromir did. So he resigned himself to watch and wait for the moment.

"How did you find us?" Strider asked moving his position ever so slightly, that he could keep an eye on Boromir, though that meant his back was to Kíli, a fact that was not lost on Boromir, it seemed his friend had enough of a good reputation to be awarded some trust.

"Orcs burned Watchhill a few nights ago, aiding someone searching for Baggins." Kíli recounted the events quickly. "We followed your trail to Weathertop, and then here. In these parts I'd not be surprised if things other than the Riders join the hunt all too soon."

Strider tossed something into the boiling water on the fire and a sweet smell rose from the liquid. "Of you I will believe that, son of Dari," he said, carefully washing the wound with the hot liquid, before drenching a fresh bandage in it. "Halbarad spoke highly of you, and so did Elrohir, little that I know how you met him. And I've hardly forgotten how we both first met. But your companion is…"

"Is here to help you get these four out of danger," Boromir snapped. "You have the Nine after you. The Enemy wants them. And what the Enemy wants, I'll deny him if I can – no matter who or what it might be." His words came out more impatiently than he intended, but he made no effort to correct his tone. This stranger, Strider – what Boromir saw in him did not add up. His clothes were those of a man well-used to the hardships of the wilderness, but his bearing was that of a nobleman: he held himself with a command that bespoke a high birth, and there could be no doubt that he was of Numenoran ancestry, the dark hair, the proud face, his entire being left no other conclusion..

"You came to find us, knowing who was hunting for us?" Frodo seemed somewhat better after the treatment he had received and had turned slightly to look at Boromir. "I mean… Kíli is an old friend of Uncle Bilbo and he always said that Kíli's family were the bravest people he knew but you… you had certainly no obligation to try and help us."

Knowing when the Hobbit had been injured, Boromir was surprised that he still lived and how much of a difference the Ranger's treatment made for his state. Frodo seemed more alive, colour had returned to his pale face and he sat with greater ease than before. He must be incredibly strong to hang on like this. Maybe his small appearance was deceiving and he was made of sterner stuff than he looked. "My homeland lies at the very borders of the black lands," Boromir replied. "the Nine reside in a city they conquered nine hundred years ago, I have fought them and their minions all my life. Eriador may be far from my homeland, far from the people I have sworn to protect, but that does not mean I will stop to fight the Shadow." Boromir replied, when he looked at Frodo he believed that he could see a halo, a darkening shadow drawing together over him and he felt a cold echo brush against him like the fell wind from Morgul Vale itself.

"Still, it was brave to come for us, so let me at least say thank you," Frodo said with a smile, before he settled down between the other Hobbits, walking the few steps to the fire without faltering again.

Seeing him walk like that, made Boromir nearly believe that the Elven healers might be able to help him. Nearly. A small, deep-rooted part of him doubted the darkness could be vanquished so easily, that there was hope to walk out of the Shadow once it had touched a soul. It was a sad thought; Frodo seemed like a good person, like someone who deserved better than to die a slow agonizing death. But then… who truly deserved to die at their hands?

When Frodo had lain down beside the fire, fussed over by the stout Hobbit Sam, the two other Hobbits were introduced as Merry and Pippin. They settled beside the fire, eyes following Boromir and Kíli with a mix of distrust and curiosity.

Strider turned to Boromir and Kíli. "You both are injured as well," he observed.

"Only scratches," Boromir replied, "nothing serious." He could at once tell that this was not the answer to give – the glare the Ranger cast him exceeded the worst exasperated stare he had earned from the Warden of the houses of healing. He disliked being exposed or being weak in front of others, when necessary he preferred to entrust himself to Faramir's care, but his brother was not here and Strider seemed to be cut from the same cloth as any healer in this world.

"You have several bruises and a cut to your forehead, you try to take strain off your left shoulder, and you have scratch marks on your neck." The Ranger said. "Half of them inflamed. Sit down and let me clean them, you will be no help to anyone with a wound fever. Kíli, you are next."

There was sense in his statement, so Boromir took off his armor to let him examine the bruises from his fall into the orc den, the injured shoulder and the other scratches. "You have not told us your name, Strider," he pointed out. It was his habit to initiate a conversation while the healers did their work, as Boromir disliked being exposed beneath their prodding fingers. Ever since the day his mother had died Boromir had consciously avoided appearing weak in front of others, and since his escape from the darkness beneath the dread city he found being exposed like this hard to bear. He disliked strangers prodding him, being vulnerable brought back memories he did not want to face. The tactic for escaping that discomfort originated with Thoroniár who had often made a report or discussed strategy with him, while Boromir was still in the healer's claws.

"I rarely use my true name when servants of the enemy are too close by," The Ranger replied, carefully cleaning the deep cut in Boromir's shoulder. "And this wound must have been sustained days ago."

Boromir shook his head. "Rangers, always playing games in the shadows…" Through Faramir, he understood their warfare, the secrecy, the things that would never come to light, even the need for a Ranger-name, because they fought a war in the shadows, countering the shadow's deceit and treachery on his own grounds, fighting fire with fire and walking a path so deep in the darkness that their names often were forgotten, their deeds unknown and the courage they had to venture into the deepest recesses of the Shadow never recognised. It was not a kind of battle he would have been able to wage, Boromir preferred a blade in the clear sunlight, and he had seen the toll, the price his brother had paid for fighting the Enemy like this, and he honoured Faramir's courage, even as he might be the only one outside Faramir's own comrades who knew what Iltareyn the Grey Hawk had accomplished in the long years of struggle. "so Strider is your Ranger-name, then?"

"How long have you had this gash? You are very lucky to not be down with a fever," Strider asked, his gaze locked with Boromir's for a moment, his keen eyes probing Boromir for something, before he returned to cleaning the cut. There was little doubt that Strider did not trust him and Boromir was not yet sure how mutual the feeling was – Rangers rarely trusted anyone, and Boromir only trusted Rangers he knew.

"A few days," Boromir answered. "An Orc jumped me in their den and his filthy nails made it under the chainmail." He slightly tilted his head to study the other man's face. "Did you earn your Ranger name by the Path of the Shadows or Walking the Ashes? You don't seem the type for trial by Blood, though I have been mistaken before." He initiated conversation again.

There was something akin to a smile on Strider's face. "Should I be surprised that the Captain of Gondor is familiar with the custom? No, Strider is not my Ranger name, which was earned in the Shadows, Strider is only a name I am called here and there. I doubt you would know my Ranger name any better than this one." He hesitated briefly while bandaging the cut. "But your people used to call me Thorongil, the last time I spent time in your city."

Thorongil! It was a named Boromir knew, having heard it for nearly all his life. The story of the attack on Umbar was one he had grown up with; the men who had fought beside Thorongil in that campaign had been the same who had taught Boromir the art of war. Through his father, he had also heard of the man, and his true name… and lineage. He would not have expected to ever truly meet the son of Arathorn, and certainly not in the middle of the lone lands guarding four Hobbits. "It is a name still well remembered," he said keeping his voice levelly. He had not lied, he had heard of Thorongil all his live, people like Erhawn and Ragnir, the men who had trained him to be a soldier, had spoken of him and the attack of Umbar and when Boromir had first heard the whisper that Thorongil was in truth the son of Arathorn of the Dunedain, heir to Isildur Boromir had been intrigued by the story.

Back then, when he had been young he had even dreamed of one day meeting the uncrowned King – until he had grown up and joined the war against the Shadow. Again he studied Aragorn's face, there was nothing obvious that would hint at such a revered ancestry and yet – there was something, an aura of nobility, of pride that could not be denied. Not that it mattered much – Boromir quickly pushed these thoughts aside. Gondor had survived without a King, they had stood against the Shadow without an Heir of Isildur to aid them, they did not need a King. And still… it was good to see that Aragorn was opposing the Shadow, even if it was in another place, in another errand.

The Ranger had not commented on what Boromir had said; most likely he did not want to discuss the events of the past, instead, he checked the scratches on Boromir's neck. "Is that an Orc bite?"

"A storm surprised me in the Mountains and I found shelter in a cave, which led me into an Orc fortress of sorts…" While Kíli ahd called that place Goblin town, Boromir was not sure if this was the dwarven nickname for the Orc den. ".. I do not really know what kind of den it was." He went on, wanting to shrug, but the Ranger's hand stilled the movement, as he was treating the neck bite..

"Goblin Town," Kíli supplied, his voice was soft and tired, barely a whisper above the crackling of the fire. He had sat down on the ground with his feet almost in the fire, knees drawn in, arms resting on them, curled up on himself like he was cold. "You must have entered through the south-eastern entrance, if I were to venture a guess." The way he had drawn in on himself reminded Boromir of the night in the ruin, only this time there was less sadness in Kíli's eyes and more exhaustion. How much had the last days taken out of the dwarf? He was good at maintaining a strong façade but ever since they had escaped Weathertop he had been pale and tired, though he pushed on like before.

Thorongil – the name came naturally to Boromir's mind; it was easier to think of him as the Man his father and the other soldiers had spoken of – looked to the dwarf. "You were down there again because of their raiders, I take it?" He asked with the voice of a man who knew what he was speaking of.

"They attacked two settlements of my people and a hill village; it was high time someone gave them the message the only way can understand – bashed into their skulls," Kíli replied, leaning further down on his knees, until his head nearly rested on them. His feet pushed forward, so the flames began to lick along the toes of his boots, without ever harming him. Boromir had seen Kíli play with the fire before – did he draw to the flame to seek shelter and comfort, or just warmth?

Boromir sat up straighter, glad that Thorongil was finishing up with the treatment so he could put his armor on again. "Why did you not take a few of your people with you?" He had never really asked why Kíli had been in that den in the first place or why he was so familiar with the rickety abyss the Goblins inhabited.

"Kíli has often aided villages against Orcs and trolls," Strider said, "be it those of his people or those of men." He gestured the dwarf to come over. "You are next."

"I am not injured, except for a few bruises, and they won't kill a dwarf," Kíli insisted, staying where he was.

"Remember, you told me the same after we got out of that ruin north of Cameth Brin – and you only had a poisoned bolt in your leg," Aragorn said, a friendly warmth echoing in his voice. His eyes went back to Boromir who could read the unspoken question in them. He titled his head slightly, just to confirm the healer's question. Kíli needed the attention probably more than he had.

"And I would have survived that," Kíli looked up, much like a cat annoyed to be disturbed in a nap. "what scratches I got Boromir already fussed over more than they were worth. Allow me to sleep a few hours and I shall be fine."

Aragorn took the bowl with the sweet smelling liquid and squatted down beside Kíli. "You are only cold and freezing, you draw to the fire seeking warmth and you are trembling all over," his voice was gentle, with the patience of a friend who knew that a comrade was disliking what was coming next. "and you are deathly pale… your kind may not have to fear infection but wounds still weaken you."

"We've been traveling fast and without much rest in that weather, you know how the lone lands get this time of the year." Kíli wrinkled his nose at the smell of the hot liquid; it seemed to draw him away from his wish to sleep.

"And I also know when you are evading treatment like it was Lord of the Deeps himself." Aragorn said, reaching for Kíli. When he touched Kíli's arm, the Ranger stilled. "Merciful Light, Kíli… the black breath? You are shadow-touched, much worse than even your companion is, you are steeped in it. What happened?"

Boromir frowned; he could not deny that Kíli was pale and seemed exhausted, prone to fall asleep right beside the fire- Should he have suffered more damage than he had let on? "We came upon one of the Nine near your old camp at Weathertop, Thorongil," he said. "Kíli fought him… I did not see any direct injury."

"Because there was none – the cold will go away once I move again," Kíli snapped sitting up fully, the fatigued pose fading a little.

"More than a day?" Thorongil asked. "And you rode with that touch still upon you?"

Kíli shrugged, his dislike for the attention palpable in the gesture and in the way he kept being curled up on himself. "What other choice do I have?"

"Your kind was truly carved from stone in a freezing winter night and given life by the storm," the Ranger murmured, quickly putting some other herbs in the still hot liquid. "You need to drink this; it will help you overcome the touch more swiftly."

Boromir watched as Thorongil took care of Kíli. He had skill as a healer, he had to admit, and he obviously had experience with the damage the Enemy could do. Kíli slowly relaxed after his treatment, the exhaustion waning from his posture a little.

"Exactly how many Orcs did you run into?" Aragorn had begun treating the wound in Kíli's side and shook his head at the state it was in. "That must have been quite the fight."

"Some of the raiders that burned Watchhill came after an escapee and ran into us," Kíli sat still, allowing the treatment, maybe he knew that there was no use to refuse. "You know how it gets, Strider, the lone lands never change." His eyes strayed to the four Hobbits huddled by the fire. "I guess we will be on our way to Rivendell come morning?"

Boromir held his breath, he was sure had the suggestion come from him there would have been a clear refusal, but from Kíli Thorongil accepted the offer of aid.

TRB

It was as tense an evening as Boromir had ever seen and he knew his own person was partially the reason for that. He and the Ranger had taken to sit on opposite sides on the outer edge of the camp, keeping a watchful eye on the darkness outside while the Hobbits huddled closer to the fire. They sat so close with each other that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began, like their closeness could provide shelter from the darkness outside the small camp.

And Boromir would admit that they had every right to be afraid with what was chasing after them. Someone chased by the Nine and not afraid was either extraordinarily careless with his own life or the greatest fool on Arda. It puzzled Boromir what the Enemy might want with them but he put that question aside firmly. There would be time for such puzzles when they all were safely in Rivendell.

Now and then, a watchful glance passed between him and Thorongil. They both knew who the other was, a knowledge that did nothing to ease tensions between them and while they both trusted each other to not side with the Enemy, there was little other reason for trust here. If he was honest with himself Boromir was not yet sure what to make of this heir of Isildur, what to think, or maybe that was what he kept telling himself.

Up till now, Boromir had taken his father's stories of Thorongil with some caution; he knew his father to be a judgmental man and not always to be fair – he had proved that often enough with the callous way he treated Faramir. He had hoped that there might be more to Isildur's heir because his strength one day might be the hope of Gondor. Boromir had never liked the idea that Gondor's survival might one day depend entirely on a stranger, but he could not outright deny it either. Yet, now that he had met Thorongil in person, the doubts came back all the more strongly, and his father's grim words on the Ranger of the North who would rather roam the wilds than aid Gondor came back to him. He left on a stranger's errand instead of aiding his people; he is serving different masters, his father had said. Isildur's blood is weakened and spent, their last descendant skulking in the wilds of the North, neither a leader nor a warrior. Whatever care he still may hold for his people takes second place behind the errands for Mithrandir.

Boromir had heard Thorongil mention that it was Kíli who aided the settlements of men against the Orcs, and while he respected the dwarf for aiding those who needed him, it was obvious Kíli was fighting alone. And it would be Thorongil's damned duty to protect the remaining settlements of men, to help them survive against the Orcs, and to be their Leader while he was at it, but he did not do it. Or was he truly so detached from the fate of his people? If he cared, he would have come back to them to fight the Shadow long ago.

And there was the thought that truly rankled – Gondor had been at constant war for most of Boromir's life and the place of Gondor's King would have been with them, fighting the war against the Shadow, not wandering the wilds of the lone lands. If Arnor was so much beyond rescue why had he not led his remaining people South and joined his homeland again?

"These must be the trolls old Bilbo encountered on his journey," Pippin piped up from where he hunched over the fire as close to the flickering flames as their heat would allow. "Are they, Frodo?"

"I think so." Frodo looked across the fire to Kíli. "Uncle Bilbo never quite told the entire tale, except that they argued on how to cook Dwarves."

Kíli smiled, he was a lot better after the treatment of his wounds and not in immediate danger of dropping from exhaustion any more. "They did… but there was more to it that…" And with that he launched into a tale of stolen ponies, scouting after trolls, and a fight around a campfire that led to their capture.

Boromir could not help but listen with some amusement and fascination to the story Kíli was relating. Some aspects of the tale touched Boromir – how Thorin, the Dwarf leader, was willing to die rather than sacrifice one of his men. It was something noble and foolish all at once, yet Boromir found it hard to fault the brave Dwarf for it. Kíli related the debate between Bilbo and trolls so lively, he made Frodo laugh and Thorongil chuckle. For a moment, the darkness pressing upon their camp retreated a little.

Night passed in blessed quiet. Thorongil and Boromir shifted watch, with Kíli taking the dog's watch in the early hours before dawn. They woke the Hobbits once the cold morning mists crept up and the first grey light graced the eastern horizon, and broke camp soon after. Boromir noticed that Frodo was paler than he had been in the evening, and very quiet as they began their march. Their path led through the last of the woods and towards far more open grounds. Boromir frowned when he saw the wide open land stretch before them. It would be a dangerous crossing; they'd be exposed and easily be spotted by a beast-rider or a Wraith on Wings. In the woods they at least had some cover.

They just had left the forest fence behind them when a fierce howl rose into the cold light of the morning. More howls joined in from the south; it was hard to tell how many – dozens at the very least. The Hobbits retreated close to Frodo like they could shield him by their mere presence, while Thorongil's eyes darted in the directions from whence the Howls came. "Warg-packs." Kíli reached for his bow as the howls rang out behind them too.

Boromir stopped; there was little doubt what was happening here. The hunters, or rather their minions, had found them. The Enemy had numbers on his side, like always. Swiftly he assessed the grounds before them. The forest edge was as bad grounds as the wide land before them. Making a run for it would not work. His eyes fell on a hilltop strewn with grey boulders. It was not much, but all they had. Striding uphill he looked for his companion. "Kíli – is there a way to make them mad enough to attack?"

"Surely, but why?"

"Do it." Boromir handed the reins of his horse to Thorongil. "You and Kíli get the Halflings out of here – I'll buy you time."

Thorongil shook his head. "You won't survive such a battle; there are too many of them."

"There is no strength in numbers," Kíli said, taking his place beside Boromir. "we'll hold them off. Be swift – and don't look back."

Amazed Boromir looked at his companion – Kíli was wounded, had come through the Black Breath only recently and he'd commit himself to a battle to the death without a second thought. He did not protest the decision; they had promised each other to allow their friend into their battles. And if he was honest he was glad to not face their last fight alone – there was little doubt that they'd have to face the Orcs first and maybe a Nazgul behind. But what other choice did they have?

"Even with two you stand no chance," Thorongil was still looking for a way out, but the howls of the wargs came closer and closer.

Boromir fixed his best no-nonsense glare at him, looking at the Ranger as though he were a disobedient soldier under his command. "I said go. Don't waste time on debates," he snapped. "They need you. As a healer, you are the only one who can help Frodo."

Kíli put Merry and Sam on his pony, with Pippin on the other; Boromir's horse remained for Thorongil and Frodo. The three horses galloped off east, the only way still open to them. The howls rose again, louder this time, Wargs appearing on the tree-line and south of them: dozens, and all mounted with Orcs.

"Enough for both of us." Kíli drew his sword, ready to fight. Boromir shot him a grin, glad this was his companion. He knew full well that they were committed to a battle to the death, and he knew the Dwarf would walk that path with him without flinching. There was a comforting strength in that, in knowing the warrior at one's back would not shy away from death, could face the last fight with a smile, or maybe he just had to believe that. Back to back they stood at the hilltop, facing the enemy.

TRB

The Wargs came swooping down at Boromir and Kíli; the loud war cries of their riders ripped the silence of the autumn day apart. Before they came close, the Orcs showered a dozen arrows down on them. Boromir ducked, behind one of the boulders the black feathered arrows either hitting the hard rock or hissing by the boulder, missing him. Kíli's blade whirled in a shining circle, knocking several arrows out of their path, it was a trick Boromir had never seen before, no sane soldier would even try to do such a jester's trick. But it worked, not one of the arrows reached the dwarf.

When the full attack began, it was Orcs on foot that first stormed from the woods uphill at them. Three at once attacked Boromir. He moved aside, let one run into the wrong direction, and attacked the second swiftly, his blade sinking through the ramshackle armor with a loud crunch, while the third one landed a hit that was caught by Boromir's chain mail, sending only a numb pain through his muscles. The first Orc had no chance to return as he was stabbed by Kíli who was dealing with several opponents at the same time. With a deadly grace, Boromir evaded the next attack, turning fast towards one of them who was attacking Kíli from behind and slashing the Orc's head from the bone-deformed shoulders. The quick turn had given what strength was needed to cut clear through the heavy armor, though the momentum made him nearly stumble, a weakness another Orc tried to exploit only to meet his end on Kíli's blade. Hardly did Boromir have the time to bring up his blade when the two next came at him; he blocked the first one's attack with practiced ease, breaking the blade free with one fluid move. The other fell from a strike from the side – Kíli had gotten him. With a nod, Boromir acknowledged the help before returning his focus to the battle.

As the fight continued Boromir's world narrowed until there was nothing left but this hill, and the Orcs rushing at them, the rest of the world was faded away, and only this battle existed. He fought with all the strength he had, his blade dealing death and pain to those daring to come close, not even the sickening sounds when his blade ate through their bones reaching him anymore. Boromir's mind had gone cold, with no room for fear, hope or even survival, there were no feelings for the slaughter they stood in, no room for horror and no time for recognizing pain. His blade beheaded the next Orc, ducking to evade an Orc axe and coming up again to fight on. His attacks came down like a hailstorm on the Orcs; he did not count how many fell beneath his blade. He saw one Orc run off the hill and back to his people, but there was no chance to stop him with several fresh ones rushing in. Moving so fast the Goblins had a hard time keeping up with him, nearly every new strike of his sword found a target. He knew Kíli had his back and that there were as many Orcs falling from the Dwarf's ever-angry blade as his own. It was a miracle that they found the rhythm to fight together like this without having ever sparred, with being trained by weapon's masters who would not even know their names, but they fought together like they had been trained to do so.

Kíli was the one to kill the last Goblin who tried to run from the fighting field, the last who thought it wise to run back to the circle the Warg riders had former around the hill. Over his shoulder, the Dwarf checked on Boromir, before him lay at least a dozen dead Orcs strewn all over the ground that was now splattered with their vile black blood. Boromir met his gaze and it did not need any words between them.

It was the Warg riders that came next. Their huge beasts did not easily lend themselves to group attacks but they too came in groups of four or five at once. Boromir did not need prior experience fighting them to know he had to keep their fangs at a distance. The first that made the mistake to try and bite him found several of its ugly teeth shattered. The beast roared and broke off, ending with Boromir's blade buried in its thick neck. He did not stop but attacked the next one, not counting how many more there might be. Boromir fought on, one after the next, one beast and rider at a time. He hardly felt the cuts and bruises he sustained. He knew that every moment they tied these wolves down, each moment these monsters had to waste on killing them, Thorongil and the Halflings drew closer to Rivendell. It was all he needed to find his strength time and again, to hold out no matter what – others were relying on him to stand firm and hold the defences. And thus the Captain of Gondor stood and fought. He knew he had a friend at his back, one to hold off whatever tried to sneak up behind him, and they held out.

The shadows were growing longer as the sun wandered more and more west. The hill had long become a bloody morass of dark corpses, mud and blood, the yellow autumn grass tainted red and black. The attack ceased for the moment, but still the Warg riders held the ring around the two comrades.

Boromir leaned back and tried to catch his breath. Judging by the leaden feeling in his arms and his muscles, the skirmish must have lasted for hours. His arms were numb, and a blade had hit through the chainmail to cut into his side, while his left leg was bleeding from a surface wound, and he did not even notice the bruises any more. He felt warm by now, but he knew that this was the heat of fighting and would be gone soon to be replaced by bone-numbing cold. His eyes surveyed the enemy ranks. The wolf circles had grown thin, but not yet thin enough for them to attempt to break it. He glanced over his shoulder. "Kíli?"

"Still standing." The Dwarf's face was marred with a bloody smear where he had made hard contact with a Warg snout. His sword was dark with blood, the blade gory, but the hilt seemed eerily clean still. Kíli, too, had turned his head, the same checking glance that Boromir had employed. "You all right?" he asked.

"Never better," Boromir joked grimly. "Your injury?" he added in a softer voice, Kíli had come through a brutal fight again and the wound in his side must be strained by it.

"Don't worry, it won't kill me too soon." Kíli leaned slightly against one of the rocks, allowing himself all the rest he could get. Boromir did not detect any fear in his eyes, nor horror, and it made him warm to the dwarf even more. Kíli too had learned to not be ruled by fear, to not allow the fact that he was standing in the blood of his enemies affect him, he'd not allow the horror of blood to drive him mad.

Boromir's eyes went back the ring of Orcs surrounding them. "What are they waiting for?" Orcs only stopped like this when waiting for their Harad or Easterling captains to issue new orders. And that only worked if their commander was well feared and cruel enough to make them obey him. But these pale Goblins would have neither the discipline nor an Easterling commander or at least he hoped that. For a moment Boromir wondered how Shakurán, the Legion commander from Minas Morgul, would fare commanding these Mountain bred monsters, he'd probably be disgusted and feel them beneath the dignity of a civilized Easterling. Trading some barbs about them with him while fighting would be the least Boromir would hear of it. The thought was amusing, though he was glad that the Nine did not have the highly capable Easterling here to aid their hunt.

"Their leader, most likely," Kíli pointed out, surveying their ranks for the appearance of a commander. "He'll want a go at us for himself."

Boromir heard an echo of tension creep in Kíli's voice. The Dwarf hid it well, but it was there. He knew something of what was coming; maybe knew something of this Orc leader. Having long lived in his land, he was probably as familiar with their kind, as Boromir was with the different garrison commanders along Gondor's eastern borders. "Then we'll kill him too."

"Will you?" a deep, hard voice answered his statement from the top of the opposite hill. There was unrest rising in the Orc ranks as they moved aside, their ranks opening for one huge figure.

Boromir looked to the southern ridge whence the voice had come. A huge Warg with thick grey fur had appeared there, mounted by a tall, heavily armoured Orc. He seemed bigger than most of his kind, who made room for him.

"Bolg." Kíli's voice had fallen to only a whisper. His shoulders tensed and he grabbed his sword with both hands, his whole stance telling Boromir the dwarf was getting ready for a dire fight.

Boromir's eyes surveyed the figure astride the huge grey wolf, the mount itself was impressive enough, larger than most of the wargs he had seen so far, with a powerful build that hinted at a merciless strength hidden in its monstrous paws and jaws. The Orc riding the grey wolf was paler than those Boromir knew from Mordor, but he was nearly as big as the black Orcs from the Ephel Duath. Broad shoulders, very muscular and clad in a steel armor, this Orc held himself with a confidence unusual for his race.

Bolg growled with something like a cruel grin on his face. "Dwarf-scum. I have long waited for this, little coward. I remember you… Kíli unda Thorin." He pointed his huge curved blade down at them in challenge, marking his prey.

Boromir could not even begin to guess what kind of history lay between his Dwarven companion and the huge Orc. There was something in the way Kíli spoke the name of the Orc that told Boromir more than any explanation. Even while he tried to hide it, there was a wealth of hate and pain in that one word. Stranger still, the Orc also had used Kíli's name incorrectly, Kíli unda Thorin instead of Kíli unda Dari, but who knew what that stupid beast was thinking?

There was an enmity in the air that could not be denied. Kíli's face tensed, his jaw set in a grim determination. "I survived you twice, Bolg – this won't be any different."

The Orc laughed, a deep, guttural sound, while he raised his arms wide in a gesture that invited attack and mocked his opponent. "Remember your brother? How you screamed when he died? How you ran to save him… but he died, smashed to pieces, dying on the cold grounds with you wailing like a whelp…"

"Your father lay dead on the same field," Kíli spat, even as the colour drained from his face and his eyes darkened.

This beast had been there when Kíli's brother died? Now Boromir began to understand Kíli's reaction to this foe. But whatever memories the Orc invoked, Kíli's stance did not falter nor did he give ground, only his eyes betrayed the pain he might feel.

"As did yours… " Bolg continued his taunts, "they all died, hacked to pieces, begging for their death… like you down in the deeps..." The Orc drawled the words with obvious relish. "No one will save your from the chains this time."

The Warg jumped forward, and Kíli leaped to the side, making the beast land in the mud. Boromir had held back, this had turned from a battle to a duel of sorts, and while Orcs rarely fought single combat, there was an unspoken rule to not interfere into such fights.

The next bout brought the warg past Kíli with Bolg's sabre striking down at him, the dwarf swiftly parried the attack, pushing Bolg nearly from his saddle. With a fierce snarl, the wolf came around. The huge paw swiped the sword from Kíli's hand, Boromir was surprised to see the Warg's strength, for the beast was quick to disarm Kíli, the jaws snapping and snarling. His hands closed more firmly around the hilt of his sword, honor demanded that he leave this duel run it's course, friendship demanded he end this here and now.

Kíli had back away from the warg to gain a breather but before the Dwarf could retreat, a second swipe of the powerful paws tossed him to the ground. Bolg raised his sword. "You will bleed…"

"Let's see who will be bleeding, Mountain-Maggot!" Boromir shouted the challenge to the enemy as he sprinted to where Kíli had fallen, standing between the Orc and his prey. He did not speak much Orcish, but recognized enough words to understand their orders when happening to overhear them – excepting a few choice expletives and insults he had learned in dark places, and he was liberal to add them here. Sword in hands he stood facing the Grey Warg and its rider. This might not be the honourable course of action, but if he had learned something from fighting Shakurán and his ilk in twenty long years, then it was that it took the breaking of the rules to win. Bolg angrily growled and raised his sabre. "I'll gut you, scum. Your Dwarfling has not seen a friend die in too long." He spurned his Warg. It raced down the hill and at them, large paws clawing the slippery ground.

Boromir saw the huge Warg rush at him and he advanced only by half a step to have the ideal battle stance, facing the beast without fear – without any anger or eagerness either. All those emotions had burned to ash inside him; he faced this new adversary with an icy, unflinching cold. A few paces away from him, the Warg jumped at him. Boromir saw that coming: few Warg riders had dared to do it on these uneven grounds, but it came as no surprise that the largest of them would try. Boromir waited him out until the huge wolf was up in the air, then he deftly dropped to his knee and brought up his sword, the blade fully hitting the Warg's belly.

The wolf howled in pain as its jump broke, and the beast crashed to the ground. The sword was nearly ripped from Boromir's hand by the powerful body's momentum. He only managed to keep hold of it and swiftly was back on his feet. Not one moment too soon – Bolg had abandoned his mount and raced at him with a howl as the angry screams of his dying Warg were taken up by every Warg still alive. The bloodcurdling howls sent a cold shiver down Boromir's spine. On most days, the haunting sound might have even caused him to feel fear, but on this day all it did was fuel his anger.

One glance to the side told Boromir that Kíli had been surrounded by several Orcs, and was in the process of fighting them off. They must have rushed him the moment Bolg had turned against Boromir. The Dwarf was surrounded: having no one to cover his back, he was at a disadvantage but at least he had been able to pick his sword up again, and he fought with fierce determination.

Bolg's parry of the next attacks were strong, their blades clashing loudly, the Orc used Boromir's attack to land a hit, smashing through the chainmail. Hot blood seeped down his chest. Catching the blade when it came down again, Boromir let it slide down his sword until it hit the guard, and their encounter turned to a different test of strength for a few moments before Boromir forced his sword free, making Bolg stumble under the weight of the push. The Orc recovered very quickly, though, and Boromir knew that he would not be able to keep this up for very long. The huge Orc was stronger than nearly any of their ugly kind he had ever encountered, and his weapon was heavy. So Boromir went for the one thing the beast lacked – speed. He began to make the Orc run, evading attacks and never standing in one place. It was a dangerous tactic because, either way, this fight was draining his strength more than he could afford. He missed the next block, simply because he could not bring up his sword quickly enough.

Another pass, longsword and Orcblade colliding, steel shrieking under the heavy impact. Boromir pushed off the bladelock and advanced again at his foe. Valar, this creature was powerful. A graze hit his leg but what armor he had still left held off the worst.

Kíli had broken to one knee under an attack, two more Orcs grabbing him by the shoulders, forcing him down with their weight. He was not captured yet, but only moments away from it. Boromir saw the clawmarks at throat and arms, Kíli's struggle against them had been brutal, if short-lived, like his own duel with Bolg had not lasted all that long.

Boromir brought down two heavy attacks on Bolg but found both easily parried. The forceful attacks made him stumble backwards and barely parried a fierce hit. He saw Bolg lick his lips. "Don't you want to give up, dwarf-scum? I might spare your friend here."

The words send a cold shiver down Boromir's spine, the sick game that creature was playing all too clear for him. Kíli had seen his family die in battle, cruelly so, if Bolg's words were any indication, how many more friends he had buried was left for Boromir to guess. But the way Kíli disregarded his own life now began to make sense to Boromir, as did the feeling that something essential was lacking in Kíli. He had lost something, part of his soul buried on some long forgotten battlefield. And without even needing to ask Boromir knew that Kíli would give himself up, if it was to safe him. And he knew he'd fight and die to spare Kíli the very same fate. He had to come up with something… with something this Mountain beast had not seen before.

"Don't listen to him, Kíli!" Boromir snapped, hoping Kíli would trust him, trust him to still see a way out of this dire situation. They were not at an end yet, he had seen worse – much worse, the tricks only an Easterling mind could cook up and succeed at. And Boromir knew he'd never win this fight conventionally.

Kìli's gaze met his and there was strength, pain and a grim determination in his gaze. He grabbed the hand of one of the Orcs holding him down and tossed the beast off.

A grim grin twisted Boromir's features into something he hardly recognized. Kíli's actions had just given him the tactic he had not seen before. Charging at Bolg, he pretended to stumble, letting the next attack purposefully hit him. A searing pain rose from his shoulder, but for a moment Bolg's blade was at an odd angle. Boromir brought up his sword and in one thrust made use of the Orc's overextension. His blade hit home, straight into the exposed throat, black blood spluttered from the deep wound. The huge Orc fell to the ground, and Boromir ripped his sword from its throat, making the few steps uphill to reach Kíli again. The Dwarf had managed to break free of the Orcs again, and gather up his blade anew, he fought them best that he could but his steps were faltering. Boromir caught the Orcs in their backs, disposing of the last of them swiftly.

Exhausted Kíli found support in one of the boulders. "You did it – you killed him." The words came out shorter than their usual rich, extended syllables, huffed out between sharp breaths, but there was a fierce grin on his face. "You destroyed Bolg."

"Aye." They turned again, standing back to back. Both were tired, injury and exhaustion draining what was left of their strength. A shocked silence fell – the Orcs seemed stunned by the fall of their leader, and only for this one moment Boromir hoped they might retreat. But then a shrill shrieked ripped through the silence and one of the Warg riders raised his spear. Bolg's whole force began to move. Driven by sheer anger, all that remained of the Orc troop attacked at once.

From afar, a horn sounded.