Chapter 5: Where many paths and errands meet
Boromir's sword shrieked like it was going to break as a forceful attack ripped it from his hand the Orc axe hooking right behind the guard and flinging the blade across the field. He used his equally battered dagger, to cut deep into the Orc's exposed side, pushing him back for the moment. Hastily he retreated two steps, his eyes scanning the ground for a weapon. Any still serviceable Orc saber would do. But all blades he saw were either broken or out of reach, he ducked under the angry Orc's next attack, his pulse was racing when he felt the heavy blade miss him only by a hair's breath. He evaded the next attack by a hard roll over the ground that gained him a few paces of space from his opponent that was already storming in his direction again.
"Boromir – catch!" Kíli reached to his back and grabbed his axe.
He saw Kíli break free from his own fight against two Orcs and throw his axe towards him. It whirled through the air, turning several times before it cleanly cleaved the attacking Orc's skull, the huge Orc fell landing in the grass , not a hand span from Boromir's boots.
Boromir marveled how Kíli had been able to throw the weapon that precisely, this was a battle axe not a throwing axe. He had no time to think. Riders began to appear on the Southern ridge, galloping towards them. Deftly, Boromir picked up the weapon, it was slightly heavier than he had expected but it was perfectly balanced, as he found on when he brought it down on the next Orc. The silvery blade cut through the Orc's armor like it was made of leather, not steel. He did not waste time, beheading the next Orc, he cast a glance over his shoulder, seeing Kíli was already retreating towards him. The dwarf understood him without words – they needed to close ranks, in case the riders were the Orc's allies.
He turned around to kill one of the last warg riders in the vicinity, bringing down the animal last, another warg raced close, but Boromir was faster, the axe eating deep into the beast's skull.
Boromir yanked the axe free of the dead warg and turned towards the next Orc to fight on, but before he could hit him, the Orc was felled by a spear from behind
The Riders had reached the hill and fanned out, charging into battle. Taking a step back he closed ranks with Kíli best that he could, axe ready to cut at the first of them to come close. Exhaustion and anger warred inside him, as he saw the riders circle the hill. Hope is the dawn that drives away the Orcs but brings Haradrim reinforcements. The old barb proved true again it seemed. Raising his chin he forced down any fear that wanted to rise inside him, the riders would not find him an easy victim.
But the Riders charged past them, spears raining down on the remaining Orcs, and arrows got those who had the sense to try and run. The riders swooped around the hill, clearing the area thoroughly. Their formation was utterly foreign to Boromir, neither the Haradrim nor the Varigians utilized groups of twelve in that fashion.
Confused he exchanged a quick glance with his comrade. Who were those riders? And from where in this lone, forlorn land had they come? He met the dwarf's black eyes and found his gaze sparkling with relief, Kíli had lowered the sword and the tension had faded from his posture, but in this moment his eyes said more than anything else. They had lost their grim expression and almost laughed. . "Friendly?" Boromir asked softly, wanting to hope but hardly trusting himself to do so. The riders were foreign and moving too fast to examine either armor or any coat of arms they might show.
"Elves," Kíli replied, exhaustion and relief warring in his voice. "And yes – they are friendly."
"If you claimed otherwise, son of Dari, I would have to remind you that we are not our esteemed kin over in Mirkwood." One rider had broken ranks from the troop and approached them, his pale grey horse having no troubles climbing the slippery hillside, and navigated a path between the bodies without apparent guidance.
Boromir lowered the weapon, slightly leaning on the axe that now touched the ground as he studied the rider quietly. He was Elven, there could be no doubt of that – the lightweight stature alone was a clear indicator of his ancestry, not to mention the pointed ears visible amongst the mane of flowing black hair. Had an elf stepped out of one of Faramir's tales of the Elder Days, this was what Boromir would have expected him to look like.
Kíli bowed slightly, his movements stiff and slow. "I apologize, Elrohir son of Elrond. I would not imply that you were a Wood-elf."
Elrohir dismounted, humor sparkling in his grey eyes. "And they would take grave offense if you did, Kíli." His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the hill they were standing on, taking in the carnage, the number of corpses strewn all over the grounds, his eyes came back to them like he was wondering how they could still be standing with all the dead enemies piled up around them. "It seems we came just in time – had your raven friend not found me when he did, I fear we'd only have found your corpses on this hill."
"I hardly dared to hope there would be any help coming," Kíli said with a blunt honesty that made Boromir wince, Faramir had educated him on elves before he had left for Imladris and he had insisted that Elves valued politeness immeasurably more than many King of Men might. "Did the others make it across the river?"
"Glorfindel was the one who went for them; and I should not wish to be the Nazgul that comes between him and one he is protecting, they should all be safe in Imladris by now." Again his eyes strayed to the battle-marred hill. "You two made the Orcs pay a dear price for hunting four Hobbits in the wild. And… is this indeed Bolg and his foul mount?"
"Boromir slew him." Kíli pointed towards where Bolg's corpse lay. "he saved my life there." Before Boromir could speak up and correct the praise somewhat, Kíli had turned to him again, and there was a small shift in his stance, he stood straight, even as it must hurt with his injuries, a more formal air settling on him. . "Elrohir, may I introduce my companion – this is Boromir of Gondor. He was on his way to your father's court when all this began. Boromir, this is Elrohir, son of Elrond of Rivendell."
"It must be something desperate that brings the Captain of Gondor so far north in times like these," Elrohir said, tipping his head in acknowledgement, but did not make up more formalities. This was a battlefield, not his father's court. "Our healers will see to your injuries. Then we will ride back to Rivendell."
The Elves had chosen the next hilltop for their makeshift camp, some of their number taking care of their own wounded and checking on horses that had been injured while about half their riders remained mounted, circling the hill in watchful guard. Boromir was glad to sit down on a rock. Now that the heat of battle was fading from his blood, he became fully aware of his injuries and of the exhaustion settling in. "Raven?" he asked Kíli, who had dropped down right beside him. He recalled seeing a raven on Kíli's hand two days ago at the bridge, but he had paid it no heed.
"Kíli's family is one of the rare Houses among Dwarves that speak the language of the ravens," Elrohir, , replied instead of Kíli, as he joined them after speaking swiftly to one of his riders. Looking to the side Boromir saw that Kíli's eyes were searching the skies, like he was looking for the black winged messenger and truly a huge raven swooped down form the skies to land on Kíli's outstretched arm.
"Thank you, my friend, you saved the two of us," Boromir was not sure if Kíli had spoken to Elrohir or to the bird on his hand. But the raven cawed loudly, preening a little before taking back to the air.
Another elf joined them; to Boromir's eyes he looked strange, nothing like the stories claimed elves looked like: his hair was as pale as sea-foam and eyes like the wide seas on a stormy winter day. "My name is Ivordaer," he introduced himself, speaking the Western tongue in a pleasant, melodious way. "I will see to your injuries." Boromir gestured him off, while he was tired and felt like he could sleep for a week, he was not that badly wounded. "Kíli first; he took the worst -,
"'Tis nothing, Ivordaer," Kíli spoke up. "You know me, scratches, bruises and some bite marks, nothing a good night's sleep can't cure. Boromir had a direct confrontation with Bolg… and the son of Azog was his usual nasty self." There was an echo of worry in Kíli's voice that surprised Boromir, it was not just the usual evading the healer's fuss, he was sure of that. Like Kíli expected a brutal… lethal damage out of this one Orc. He recalled how the Orc had bragged having been there when Kíli's brother had died – who knew how many loss Kíli could attribute to this Orc's…bloodline? Boromir was not used to think of Orcs in terms of family, but it seemed appropriate in this case.
The Elf's eyes strayed between them for a moment, he did not seem to grasp what Kíli had indirectly spoken off, or so it appeared to Boromir, for he spoke on like nothing had happened. "You have heard your comrade, Boromir of Gondor, I will agree with him as far as the stony endurance of his kind goes. However, Kíli I know you are at least as badly injured and I will have no further debate out of either of you."
Boromir did not object again; no warrior in his right sense tried arguing with a healer. And while he hated being weak or being made fuss over, he knew that some of the injuries would heal faster if he let the Elf do his task. He had to bite down a wince when he removed his battered chain mail armor and tunic. The cold air of the day pebbled against his skin and seemed to almost burn in several gashes on his torso. He was much tempted to call an end to this, he disliked being exposed in an unsafe place and in front of strangers even more so. He was not weak, he could deal with whatever had happened to him. To distract himself hecontinued the conversation instead. "But how did you find us so swiftly?" he asked Elrohir. "Even with the raven being some kind of sign…"
Ivordaer began to clean the large gash in Boromir's side, while his touch was gentle, almost fleeting it was unnerving and the smell of the liquid he used for the cleaning stung in Boromir's nose, for some reason reminding him of Orc liquors. His stomach clenched he had smelled similar things in the dungeons… and his mind refused to note the difference. The elf worked swiftly, like he was sensing Boromir's discomfort.
"It was not a sign – Arioc told me of your situation, all that Kíli had told him to tell me and all he had observed on his own, which gave me a good idea where you should be. Once we closed in on you, it was a simple matter of following the Warg howls." Elrohir explained.
So the raven had spoken... Boromir recalled stories of his childhood that claimed birds had a language of their own, and that Elves could speak to all animals. Fairy tales to tell children and yet, here they were in the flesh, he allowed the idea to become stronger in his mind, picturing the raven on Kíli's hand again, it distracted him from the probing fingers cleaning another wound of splinters.
"What exactly happened?" Elrohir asked. "What set the Wargs on your trail?"
The way he asked was familiar to Boromir – this was a captain speaking, wanting a report of what had happened on his border. He would have asked the very same thing, because it was vital for planning the defense. The familiar way of thinking helped him to ignore the healer, who after having bandaged the gashes in his side nowwas taking stock of the neck bite Thorongil had treated the day prior. , he straightened. "We found the four Halflings and Thorongil…" He hesitated; no, that was not the name the man used here. "Strider... in a vale off the road, near some stone trolls." He quickly summed up the events from that moment to the hunt and the fight with the Warg troop. "The rest you saw," he finished.
"They were searching for Baggins," Kíli added to Boromir's report of events. The healer was finally done with Boromir. Swiftly he donned the tunic and armor again, it was good to feel the familiar weight settle on his shoulders.
"Baggins." Elrohir arched an eyebrow in a gesture of surprise. "It seems that much greater things than just a Dragon were set in motion all those years ago when your uncle led your people back to the Mountain home, Kíli. Do not fear, Bilbo is safe. He has been in Rivendell for quite some time."
"I am glad to hear that. I knew he had planned to leave the Shire as he grew older; he spoke of it the last time we met," Kíli said, he had stepped aside like to evade Ivordaer who now stood two steps opposite of him.
The dwarf heaves a sigh, giving in to the inevitable. Slowly he unbuckled the heavy leather band across his chest and slipped off the scabbard on his back, his arms moving slowly as he had to stretch them. The leather coat followed, before he began to remove the armor. Boromir could not help being fascinated, it seemed that there were a number of layers of leather and steel that made up Kíli armor, small wonder that he had been able to withstand so many attacks like he did. It certainly looked heavy and sturdy, heavier than Boromir would have felt comfortable to march with. When he reluctantly shed the leather tunic he wore beneath the chain mail armor, Boromir thought for a moment that Kíli had suffered a shoulder wound – for a long jagged mark of a sickly dark colour ran over his left shoulder. But then he realised that it was a scar – an ugly, dark scar surrounded by yellow to brownish speckles, giving the scar an even unhealthier look. Boromir knew such marks, the wound had been badly infected. He wondered how Kíli might have survived that one without losing his arm. "Had I know he was in such danger, I'd have offered to accompany him." Kíli said, like he too was trying to distract himself from the treatment.
Elrohir did not reply, maybe to not distract the healer from his task, but more likely because another elf had approached him to report.
Ivordaer had begun to treat Kíli's injuries and Boromir noticed that he was not as impatient as he had seemed to be with Boromir's fidgeting. "Kíli," The elf's voice still was on the edge of being stern, "some of these wounds are days old and only marginally treated. You may rely on your people's stony endurance to survive but this is the easiest way to get yourself killed."
"They'll have to work for sending me home to our maker," Kíli replied, sitting down to allow the elf access to the injuries, though he was tense, his shoulders rigid and his entire posture reminiscent of a caged animal trying to run.
Boromir only cast a fleeting glance at the Dwarf, he knew how much he too hated stares in such situations. But he could not help notice the numerous marks on his back: sword scars… lash marks… and a brand under the shoulder-blade. If scars told a history, these bespoke a wealth of horrors and having been hacked nearly to pieces at least once. It made the healer's patience all the more understandable.
The elf worked gently, obviously he was aware of Kìli's tension and tried to work around it. But the longer the treatment went the more tense Kíli became. "Can't you make this short, Ivordaer?" he asked after a while. "It won't kill me most likely."
"Some of them might, if you skip treatment," Ivordaer said calmly. "That gash on your back cuts across several scars. If that gets infected…"
"I only once had an infected wound, and the Goblins had to work for that even," Kíli snapped. Wincing, he took a deep breath, calming himself.
"And it came very close to see you buried, if that scar on your shoulder is any indication," Ivordaer's voice too was tense. "and the Light alone knows what the Orcs smeared on their blade this time – the wound needs cauterizing or it will kill you."
"No!" Kíli's voice had sunken to a growl and Boromir read all the alarm he needed in it. He had seen the brand on his back and who knew what story linked with it? Probably one that led straight into another Orc den and into another story of horror. He understood all too well – and the healer made the mistake to push where he better did not apply pressure. It was a dangerous thing to press on any warrior's nightmares.
Rising to his feet he went over to them, sitting down on a rock beside Kíli, he had talked some of his men, some friends, through such moments before. It took only one round of Orc hospitality to leave some marks that would never fade and Kíli's reactions spoke for more than just one round of that. "Kíli," the address was enough to gain him attention, the dark eyes shifted their gaze to him, though there was no verbal response. "part of surviving is knowing when to accept help."
The black eyes darkened a little more, like stones falling into shadow, but then there was a nod, a small nod, but acceptance. "Sometimes surviving is not all that great," Kíli said softly, he had fully turned to Boromir, but did not fidget any more.
Boromir gave the healer a glance, only a wink of the eyes not more, but enough to signal him to go on, to use the time he had. "Surviving is all we have," he replied, focusing entirely at Kíli, he had said before that he believed Kíli put little value in his own life, but now he began to wonder if there was a part of Kíli who would prefer to die. "to come back and annoy the enemy once more. Because if we don't, who will?" It was not his best motivational speech but it reached Kíli, who relaxed a tiny bit.
"You are right about that," the dwarf said, his voice still low. "and there's still enough left to fight for. Come to think of it – I never asked you what brought you so far North."
It was a distraction, if he had ever seen one, but Boromir was willing to not poke at Kíli's grim tendency to disregard his own survival. Few warriors would allow discussing such tendencies. "Seeking advice, seeking answers maybe." He replied, keeping things vague. He was surprised at himself that he would have liked to share his errand with Kíli, but he was barred from doing so by his father's orders. "There also were a few events surrounding Mithrandir's last visit to my city."
Ivordaer had heated a surgical blade and closed in, Kíli tensed like he could sense the heated blade long before it came close. Boromir lightly grasped his arm, it was an old trick, giving a man something to hold onto while a painful treatment was underway. At least it was no amputation. "Tharkûn… him…" Kíli growled, his hand closing around Boromir's forearm. "I'd surely wonder as well."
Ivordaer began the treatment and Kíli's torso jerked much as he tried to keep still, his grip around Boromir's arm becoming hard.
"Why?" Boromir asked more for the sake of distraction than anything. If he could make Kíli not focus on the pain of the treatment, it would make things easier.
"He has his own plans, his own agendas…" Kíli's voice strained to breaking. "he puts things in motions… provides the means to begin and cares little for the rest. I doubt he cared, or even asked, when my Uncle… when Fíli died…" his voice was shaky at the last bit, almost breaking.
Boromir wondered how strong Kíli was, the grip around his arm was like a steel clasp, stronger than any man's grasp would be. So Mithrandir had somehow been involved in the events that had led to the death of Kíli's family? He could not place the events or even begin to guess how and where, but the Grey Pilgrim often seemed embroiled in events that no one quite understood and Boromir recalled his own father's words about Mithrandir's schemes.
"It is done," Ivordaer said softly, bandaging the cleaned wound before he handed a stonework vial to Kíli. "Drink this, it will dull the pain and allow you to move about until we can reach Rivendell. But you need rest soon, you both were very lucky as it was. And I want the both of you at the healing springs of the valley when we get there."
TRB
The Elven horses were tall, nearly taller than the horses of Rohan. The troop had had no spare horses, so two of their warriors shared to free up two horses. Boromir cast a wondering glance at Kíli; he knew the Dwarf knew how to ride but these horses were too tall for him. Even if he could mount, and many children of the same height could already do that, would he be able to control the beast?
The Dwarf must have sensed his gaze. "You'd wonder what skills you learn living among Men," he said, before mounting the horse quickly and with a skill that betrayed some practice.
"You seem to have wandered among my people a lot," Boromir observed as they started their ride into the night.
"Aye," Kíli confirmed, "though I never saw the White City itself. The one time I came close, I was met by a message from a dear friend, asking me to return north."
"Do you have any idea what would bring that many Orcs, not speaking of the Nine, on one Halfling's trail?" Boromir asked. He had noticed Elrohir's inference that it was something connected with the Dwarves' quest decades ago during their talks earlier and it still made him wonder. It was a story he wanted to know in full – thirteen brave setting out to restore a kingdom and them succeeding made for a good tale. But with the fragments Kíli had mentioned so far, it seemed hard to guess what the Enemy might want. Boromir had been thinking on that ever since they had encountered the Nazgûl on Weathertop – and the only thing he could come up with was that the Enemy was recruiting troops, the Orcs of this land seemed to be a force to be reconed with. But how did a Halfling tie into the events. Except… except if the Enemy knew something Boromir did not, something that harkened back to the poem and whatever Isildur's Bane might prove to be.
Elrohir raised his hands in a gesture of not knowing. "I know not. It seems strange that the Enemy would hunt a Halfling. And yet, Mithrandir rarely pays attention to something or someone of no significance, whether others may see their value or not."
There was no doubt in Boromir's mind that the Elf was sincere. Maybe it was because Elrohir was another warrior that Boromir was able to trust him more easily, but he could not detect any hint of secrecy on the Elf. Even as his open trust in Mithrandir was maybe not a topic to bring up now. Despite this, he saw a very thoughtful expression on Kíli's face. "Kíli?"
"A thought only… and none that I would dare to speak out loud in any place such as this," the Dwarf replied, his eyes staring far off, his hand closed around the reins of the horse as his eyes sought the reaches of the falling night.
"So it is truly something from your quest!" Elrohir said, amazed. "Something that neither of you ever mentioned – or we all overlooked."
"Overlooked." Kíli rose in the stirrups, throwing his head back. In spite that it must hurt him it seemed to Boromir like he wanted to embrace the nightly wind, the ride along the wild road. For a moment it allowed a glimpse at a wild, almost untamed side in his companion. "And I am not sure of it, either. Let us not speak of it here. Let us not speak of it at all – a spellsmith's guess might prove as wrong as any soothsayer's guess."
"Only that your craft has the keener eye for artifacts – and you saw Smaug's hoard with your own eyes." Elrohir let the topic go, seeing the Dwarf would not say more. But it made him ponder. Dwarven spellsmiths were nearly as good and as rare as were the great Elven smiths of old. And, like their Elven counterparts, they remembered the lore of all the great and terrible artifacts forged throughout the history of Middle-earth. What had that Dragon possessed?
Night was fully upon them when they reached the Bruinen Ford, where the waters were running high, a pale moon mirrored in the rushing flood. Elrohir gestured them to keep close behind him as they rode through the ford. The water seemed to part for them, allowing them passage. Behind the ford, they found a path that led down into the hidden valley. The silver light bathed the whole valley, making the Elven houses and towers shimmer coldly before the darkness. They crossed another bridge spanning a chasm and soon stood inside a wide courtyard between the graceful elven buildings. The riders began to dismount, and a few elves came hurrying to greet them.
Boromir and Kíli dismounted also. Both were tired from the long ride, but it was a relief to finally be safe.
"They valley of Imladris," Kíli said with a small smile, looking about. The horses were already being led away by some of the Elven warriors. "I hope you find what you sought here."
A light chill, like the night wind, touched Boromir, who realized this was goodbye. Kíli had done as promised and led him to the hidden kingdom of the Elves. Losing his company now brought back the loneliness of the long journey. During the last days, he had grown accustomed to the Dwarf's stalwart company. He had not felt that comfortable with a companion since his last foray into Ithilien with Faramir. "You have my thanks for your aid, Kíli son of Dari," he said, falling back upon a formal style of speaking that he hadn't used since before he left Gondor. "If your wanderings ever take you back to my people, you will be very welcome there."
Kíli bowed slightly, politely acknowledging the thanks. Then he took his axe from his back and handed it to Boromir. "A long time ago, my king gave me this to defend the Mountain home; it brought me through a terrible battle and saved my life more than once. They say that luck itself was forged into Truefire," he said. "I do not have a kingdom to fight for anymore – but you do. And with the Shadow rising, your land will soon be under the tides of war. May it keep your safe in a thousand battles."
Surprised and touched, Boromir took the axe. He knew it to be a formidable weapon. In turn, he drew the long dagger he wore alongside his sword. "Keep this, to remember a friend by." When Kíli had spoken of his king and defending the Mountain home, there had been a wealth of sadness in his eyes for a moment. Whatever had happened to him after his people reclaimed their homeland, it had to be a sad story. All the more Boromir would treasure this weapon and its proud history. Returning the gift in form of the dagger would seal a vow of friendship between them, and maybe their path together did not yet have to end. "And… you may no longer have a kingdom to fight for, but there are places that would welcome a warrior like you."
Kíli understood the invitation and what it meant. He accepted the dagger with a smile. "Until we meet again, Boromir of Gondor."
TRB
Most guests of Elrond's house only knew the very heart of the valley, the court and very core of the small Elven city. Yet, Rivendell was indeed a kingdom unto itself, and far bigger than was easily visible. On the side opposite of the mighty waterfalls, nestled in the shadow of the mountains, lay what was known as the Trader's Court. No kingdom, no matter how small or large, could thrive without trade. Rivendell in particular only permitted those proven trustworthy to come into the valley for trade, and as such most of them came from the other Elven kingdoms. Around the Trader's Court lay the artisan's halls, the workshops of Elven craftspeople, and the forges. Having been invited by Elrohir to stay for at least a while, Kíli had found his way there. His weapons and armor were in dire need of repairs, and Aelin, the Elven swordsmith, had known Kíli for years: they had worked together more than once and the Dwarf knew he would have a chance to make repairs at the forge. As such, Aelin proved not the least bit surprised by Kíli's appearance. "I heard your name earlier this very day and then the name of Bolg mentioned in the same sentence," he observed, inviting Kíli with a gesture to join him in the workshop.
Aelin was tall, even for an elf, and had the dark hair of his Noldor kin, he was one of those rare Elves who was completely at ease between the smelting pits and the anvil, though to Kíli it always seemed that his light built did not lend itself to smithing. He also knew he was wrong, however elves accomplished such heavy work while still being their willowy fragile selves. When Aelin worked, he tied his long mane back, exposing a dark scar at his throat that looked like a shaded lash mark. Kíli had never pressed for the story of the scar – he bore enough scars to know when not to talk about such things – but he wondered if it had been made by a burning whip of sorts.
"Bolg is dead – he had the undeserved honor to fall from the hand of Boromir of Gondor." Kíli began an examination of his gear. The chainmail shirt had lost many rings due to arrows and barely sustained hits; it would need hours of work to repair each of the rifts. Winterflame, the dragonsword, had escaped most of the damage – it needed naught but sharpening. "He died as dimwitted as ever, though, calling me Kíli unda Thorin."
The Elven smith laughed, his eyes dark as the sky on a cold winter evening, sparkling with mirth. "Tell me, Kíli – since when do you expect Orcs to have a proper understanding of ancestry? They are lucky when they know their own breeding pits." He cast a glance at the torn chainmail. "Throw that into the melting pit and start anew – it's already been repaired several times too many. I still have the one that trader wanted to order for Darlin, I can have it adjusted for you in less than a day."
"Aelin… I could not accept that." Kíli shook his head. "What Zirgan ordered originally for Darlin was your best work – you must have spent weeks on that one." He knew not why the deal had been called off but Zirgan was not welcome to trade here anymore: that much he had heard from Brea.
Aelin arched an eyebrow at the words. "I need your help with some weapons that Lord Elrond wishes done quickly and I do not have a skilled apprentice at hand." He tilted his head slightly. "Or someone who still knows the secret of steel and stone."
They had worked together before, as there were very few true spellsmiths left in the world. The skill to create magical things, to work spells and runes into one's forging, had never been one that many possessed. But with the waning years, it thinned out, and there were fewer and fewer of them among all the races. Both their families looked back on a long tradition in the craft and thus their friendship had sprung even over the shadows history cast on both of their races.
"Steel and stone?" Kíli asked. It did not take more for him to get the reference to a blade that would cut through steel and stone – the origins of the secret how to make such a blade were legend. Some said it was a secret Durin himself learned from his mentor, Mahal; others said it took a journey to a lonely land to learn it. Kíli knew both were true. "Then Lord Elrond must need a very special blade indeed… not surprising with the Nine knocking on his doorstep."
"I have often wondered how the secret of steel and stone stayed with your family," Aelin observed as they prepared the work he had spoken off, having worked together often before, they were attuned to each other's way of setting things, falling into step with practiced ease.
"Most of it is passed on from father to son, or from uncle to nephew, as in my case," Kíli said, "but there are some things that can't be taught easily, and that might have been lost when King Thrór fell by the gates of Moria. To seek the missing you need to wander far into the ancient land of Hollin, crossing the Grey flood where it sings under the Rock-of-Swans and onward until you see the Lake of Whispering Dreams to your left and the Mountain of A Thousand Tears ahead of you, in a land so lost and lonely you will wish to never have set foot there."
Having set out the pieces they had lit the fire and begun the true work, the first steps of welding the steel for the blade together came easy to both of them, their hammers ringing out in a steady rhythm.
"When you dare to wander on, you have to cross a deep chasm inhabited by the most unfriendly spiders I have ever met, and beyond… beyond you will find a forest of dead trees." Kíli's eyes shone in the light of the fire as he spoke.. "There is no path through the forest, and sleeping under the trees will be your last night in this world. But if you find your way through the forest, it will lead you to the shores of a shadowed lake, on the other shore you will see the ruins of a beautiful city rise above the dark waters."
The flames of the fire turned silvery pale at Aelin's command, this spell-flame something only an Elf could call on, and one who had taught by a master from the Elder Days. "I can imagine the place you speak off, for I have seen this city in days long gone, and I am all the more amazed you dared to tread those grounds."
"The Wanderer does not fear the road," Kíli replied. "Inside the city you have to find the old caverns, where the ancient spell-forge lies, maybe the last of all the great spell-forges in this world. And there you will find him – an ancient arcane smith, chained to the anvil by a chain of Mithril – a chain that can only be cut by one blade alone. If you wish to learn his secrets you have to earn them and serve as his apprentice for a full seven years."
Aelin had heard parts of the story before, but without many of the smaller details. He could only guess that there had been pieces of the secrets that Kíli had not learned by the time his uncle had perished. How much destruction had befallen Durin's House in the last generations? More than they probably were willing to show. Neither of the younger line even showed the signs of being a spell-smith any more. In that way Kíli might be the last of his kind. Pushing aside the morbid thoughts, Aelin refocused on the work they were performing.
TRB
The morning sun was high up in the skies when they were finished, the two swords resting on the anvil. Kíli returned from the adjacent room where he had washed away the soot and grime of the work. Neither smith spoke of the straining events of the forging; it was something shared in silence between those who had participated in the work. Neither would discuss it nor mention it again.
Heavy footsteps outside on the white flagstones interrupted their cleaning up after the work. "Aye, this seems to be the forge," a voice grumbled. There was little doubt a Dwarf was speaking. In fact, three approached: Kíli could clearly distinguish between their sets of steps outside. "Master Smith, our axes have grown blunt and dented by fighting our way across these mountains, and we would see them repaired," one of them said. They were three of varying ages, one with white hair and beard, the second a redhead, and the third with a dark chestnut beard and hair.
Kíli tensed slightly, recognizing Glóin, Gimli and Ari, all three of them from the Kingdom of Erebor and loyal subjects to King Dáin. Gloin and Gimli he had known well in times past, Ari was only of fleeting acquaintance but still enough to seek a distance. He retreated a few steps backwards, towards the shadows of the forge.
"Bah – what does an Elf know of a Dwarf's axe?" Gimli snorted loudly. "We best do our own work."
"And maybe you'd do well with more politeness." Kíli tried to keep his voice steady; he had recognized them right away and knew enough of their temper to want to forestall a full clash between them and Aelin, well aware of the Noldor's prideful streak. A part of him also was angered that Gimli would easily dismiss another spell-smith's skill without knowing him further.
The Dwarves turned towards him, their eyes widening, Gloin even took a step back while Ari stood like frozen. "Kíli." The youngest pushed past the others. "Well met indeed."
Kíli's heart sank, as he felt a familiar tense pressure rise inside him. A long time ago Gimli had been a childhood friend, in a time before death, intrigue and politics had separated their paths forever. He inclined his head in greeting but did not bow. "Well met, Gimli son of Glóin. Glóin, it is good to see you too. I assume King Dáin sent you here?"
The older Dwarf looked a little flustered at Kíli. They had not met since the day Kíli had left Erebor, and while Kíli had been clear about each of their companions being free to choose and stay, Gloin had ultimately been the only one to choose to swear to Dáin. "He did indeed; he wants to hear what these Elves have to say. I doubt there's much importance in it. They tried to feed us greens already. What brings you here, if I may ask?"
"Helping a friend, mostly." Kíli could read Gloin's unease all over his demeanor, he was not happy about this meeting at all. Though why, Kíli was not certain about. He bore Gloin no ill will, he had not wished for any of his former companions to choose the hardship of the second exile, though most had anyway and had done his best to keep the scorn of the others, especially Dwalin's and Bofur's at bay. "Has your family been well?" he asked, trying to ease the situation. It must feel strange for Gloin to meet him again, and who knew what twists and tangles of the politics of Dáin's court made this harder on him?
"It would be of no concern to you." Gloin cast him a glare before he turned and marched out of the forge, followed by Ari. Gimli lingered still, his eyes on the ground before he looked up again. He had not seen Kíli since they both had been Dwarflings in the Ered Luin. Once Kíli and his brother had been taken by their uncle on his journeys, their visits had been sporadic, and Gimli had been deeply disappointed he was not permitted to join them on the quest for Erebor. "Please forgive him," he grumbled. "The rift you caused has hurt many."
"The rift I caused?" Kíli asked, trying very hard to keep his voice under control. What was Gimli thinking? All Kíli had wanted was to live in peace at Cardemir – it had been Dáin's pressure on trade and relations that had made it impossible for him to stay at any dwarven settlement for a longer time. Not if he did not want them to suffer from the problems that arose. "You would do well to remember it was not my choice, Gimli," he added, trying very hard to rein in his temper. He had not wanted any of this – neither Dáin's treachery nor the situation that had arisen with the second exile. Though he bore not anger towards those choosing Dáin for a King, he bore anger towards the pressure they had put on Kíli's people in Eriador. "and you would do well to remember that it was your King who began to hound me with his jealousies."
Gimli took a step back, his shoulders tensing. "So it is true – you still see yourself as your Uncle's heir," he grumbled, "though your father's blood certainly was not born for such heights."
The words cut right through Kíli's defenses and touched upon a tender point. His father – a dwarrow fallen in battle so long ago that he could barely remember anything about him, except a few precious details, was not something he bore scorn on. "You are forgetting your place, son of Gloin," he said coldly, subconsciously taking to a stance he had seen a thousand times in his Uncle. "I am Prince of Durin's House and while you may be distant kin to me, you are neither friend nor confidante."
Before Gimli could react, Aelin returned and gestured towards the wide open way out through which the light of the late autumn sun was clearly visible and wind whirling the dry leaves through the air. "You were not invited here," he said coolly, "and you best take your leave."
For a moment Gimli stood like struck by thunder, before he turned and stomped out of the forge, anger clearly written over his swift march from the forge.
"That was unnecessary," Kíli observed, towards Aelin as his eyes followed Gimli's receeding figure. "he would have left, anyway, to follow his father." His eyes still followed Gimli's receding figure. "And I had the situation still in hand."
"He does not know where his loyalties lie and there's no worse vice than that," Aelin said as they both set to continue their work. "Either they are with Dáin and would complain about your very presence here to Lord Elrond, or you are their Prince still, which means they live on the wrong side of the mountains."
TRB
Boromir still felt a little awkward when he entered the wide balcony where the council was to be held. Rivendell had proven to be a very strange place in which his injuries had recovered abnormally fast during the last two days, especially after the visit at the healing springs Ivordaer had insisted on. At first he had not felt so ill at ease, but this had been while Kíli had accompanied him. Somehow, the company of the Dwarven warrior had made things easier. But Kíli had departed the moment he knew Boromir safe among Elrond's guests and vanished to wherever the Trader's Court was on the outskirts of the valley. Indeed, Boromir had been very grateful for Elrohir's occasional company. The Elf was someone he found easy to talk to and had explained more than a bit of the comings and goings surrounding this council.
Now, as Boromir entered the high aisle that was reserved for the council, he spotted Elrohir standing in the back, a few steps left of his royal father. He looked around and studied the whole group of Elves, Men and Dwarves as they assembled up here. There were a number of Elves present, representing their different kingdoms: the Grey Havens, Mirkwood, and Rivendell. Boromir noticed the overt absence of any Lothlorien envoys, as no Elf was introduced as such, which was a distinct difference after the envoys of the other two kingdoms had been named, but he guessed that even Elves making haste might not have made that long journey in time. Or perhaps there was an envoy of them present, just not openly announced. The envoy of the Grey Havens seemed to be well known to the court, if the way he was greeted by Lord Elrond was any indication. The Mirkwood Elf appeared to be more of a stranger in Rivendell, though. Boromir knew very little of the woodland realm, except the grim and not exactly polite jokes Elrohir and Kíli had shared at their expense. He wished Faramir was with him – he could have told him something about any one of these Elves and their esteemed ancestors.
A Dwarven delegation was here too, recently arrived from Erebor, the Kingdom under the Lonely Mountain. After hearing Kíli speak of the Mountain home so often, Boromir had expected them to be much like his Dwarven companion had been, and was all the more surprised that they were much more of what any Man would expect a Dwarf to be: heavy armored, long bearded and bowing with their eternal 'at your service' before sitting down. They were introduced as Gloin son of Groin, Gimli son of Gloin, and Arí son of Cardin. The only name that sounded familiar was Gloin; Kíli had mentioned him in his story about the trolls. So he had been one of the thirteen brave.
Frodo looked ill at ease as he came in and sat down silently beside the Wizard. He had recovered from being stabbed by a Morgul blade, an impressive feat even with Elven healing involved. Boromir would have been inclined to see the young Halfling as weak and scarcely more than a child, but knowing what he had gone through and survived changed Boromir's perception quite a bit. And there had been the story about Frodo's uncle who had joined thirteen Dwarves on their great quest. There had to be more to these little people than appearances might show.
Boromir found his gaze drawn to the Man sitting on the other side of the balcony. Thorongil, or rather, Aragorn son of Arathron, leader of what remained of the Men of Arnor. After what he had seen of Arnor's remains, Boromir's opinion on them was undecided. He still despised that they had given up on their land so utterly, but after seeing what they had to contend with, he would admit that their fate was harder than most knew.
Hours passed listening to the story of the Ring and how it was found. Boromir wished the Elves would be a bit less verbose in their relating of events. What got his attention was Lord Elrond's description of the last battle against Sauron when the Ring was originally lost. But he frowned when Elrond suggested the outright destruction of this weapon. Why destroy something so useful and so powerful when it already was in their hands? It was the first time Boromir spoke up at the council; he could immediately tell that his words were not well received. They acted out of fear, and fearful people rarely had the will and courage to do what was necessary. Did they not see that this was the way, the very means to destroy Sauron once and for all? They may have fought the Enemy in the past but they had not lived under the Shadow for decades, they had no idea what battle Gondor had waged for two generations. His words were not heard – they fell on deaf ears. With great effort, Boromir reined in his temper and sat down to listen again. But when Elrond said that the Ring had to be brought to the Cracks of Doom at Orodruin he could no longer be silent.
"One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its Black Gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust; the very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly." He looked at them, hoping they would hear him. They had no clue what they were planning here. Had they ever dared to cross the borders of the Black Land? Had they ever been in the deeps of their strongholds? Had they ever seen the cruel shadow of Minas Morgul as it loomed above the pass roads? Boromir had, and while he had braved those forays into enemy territory for many years now, he knew the price Gondor paid each time they dared to cross into the Mountains of Shadow.
"Did you not hear what Lord Elrond said? The Ring must be destroyed!" one of the Elves exclaimed – Boromir failed to notice which of them.
"Boromir's words are not without wisdom," Thorongil said, gesturing the Mirkwood Elf to sit down again. "Mordor's borders were always dangerous, and we do not know what lurks there now that the Enemy is gathering his armies. And we will need the aid of those familiar with his defenses."
It seemed an irony that it was Thorongil who spoke sense here. Their eyes met and Boromir could see the Man understood – he knew what Mordor meant. His respect for the Ranger grew. If only they would see how desperate their plan was!
TRB
It was hours later before a decision was reached. Boromir had to admire the small Halfling who stood up to take the burden most Men, Elves and Dwarves would not dare to touch. Frodo seemed so small and fragile to Boromir; it was cruel to burden him with the fate of the world – no matter how resilient and strong his kind had proven in the past. No one should have to carry a burden like this, least of all someone so small. How was he to survive such a journey alone? He would need some good fighters to carve a path for him, someone to protect him from the foul creatures lurking in the wilderness. "I will go with you." Seeing all eyes moving towards him, Boromir realized that he volunteered the same moment as Thorongil had.
Again their eyes met, and Thorongil nodded curtly. "It would be good to have you with us."
Boromir could not bring himself to like Thorongil, but the fact that the Ranger had volunteered for the task at once spoke of courage, and Boromir like it or not he'd admit that whatever else Isildur's heir may be, he was brave.
He was not much astounded that Gimli the Dwarf offered to accompany them. From the impression Boromir had when he had met the Dwarf the day prior to this council and from what he had seen of his reactions here, he was a strong fighter and, pigheaded as he might be, would make a loyal companion. If Kíli was an example to judge Dwarves by, Gimli would prove an excellent addition to the Company. When the Wood-elf volunteered, Boromir wondered how to judge that. There were other Elven warriors present, but as none of them felt they had to correct this decision, he decided to trust that the Elf would prove a good addition as well.
The whirlwind of three more Hobbits – one Sam, and the other two the younger ones – interrupted the discussion, and Elrond announced them the Nine Walkers. Boromir's glance wandered to the three Hobbits beside Frodo. They seemed so young, so eager and so completely innocent. "That makes four to protect," he said, mostly to himself. From the corner of his eye he caught Thorongil's glance and for the first time they knew themselves to be in complete agreement.
TRB
The fire at the forge was slowly burning down, but the stones still radiated heat into the cool autumn night. When Kíli heard soft steps approach, he thought for a moment that Aelin was returning early from court, but then a different voice, reedier than last he heard it, spoke up.
"That reminds me of the fire Bifur made from a chair and a harp – I did never dare to ask what else he used." A small, greying figure stood in the entrance of the forge.
"Bilbo!" Kíli put aside the fine tongs he had been using to do repairs on a pair of chain gauntlets and rushed over, greeting the Hobbit with a hug.
"Some friend you are," Bilbo chastised him. "Helps to save my nephew but never manages to visit once!" He sniffed indignantly and very ostensibly shook his head at such a display of bad manners.
"I thought you'd have your hands full with your nephew and three more Hobbits in tow," Kíli replied, making room so Bilbo could sit down on the three legged stool by the workbench. His friend had changed a lot since they last saw, Bilbo had aged, the old but still spry Hobbit was now bowed with the years he had lived. His hair had become white as the snows and was thin, he too was thin, the well-fed carefree Hobbit of times past was gone forever. "I had certainly not expected you to come here."
Bilbo watched Kíli sit down on the ground, back to the wall. In the familiar surroundings of the old forge, the Dwarven warrior was more relaxed than usual. He felt at home here, letting his guard down. "I needed some fresh air," Bilbo said, "and I wanted to see an old friend. Tell me of your travels."
Thus every conversation between them had begun, whenever Kíli's journeys had brought him to the Shire. It harkened back to the many times Kíli had come through Bag-End, to nights they had talked and stories of the world Kíli had told a still curious Hobbit. It called up a warm spot inside him, a feeling of welcome and almost-something-like-home, he had always associated with his friend's home in the Shire. Smiling, Kíli began to tell of his journeys, of all that had happened prior to his arrival in Rivendell. He knew Bilbo loved a good story. But this time Bilbo seemed distracted, his eyes going past Kíli towards the door, his hands kneading into each other most of the time, and his head bowed deeper and deeper the more Kíli mentioned of the hunt. Eventually, Kíli broke off telling the story, rose, and walked over to him. "Bilbo… what is it? Something is haunting you this night."
The old Hobbit reached up to clasp Kíli's shoulder with one hand. "I left Frodo a terrible burden… a terrible legacy, Kíli," he said softly. "And now… he will have travel far, into the Dark Land itself, to set it right. I… I should have seen, should have trusted my friends…"
Gently, Kíli hugged his old friend, pained to see him so distraught. "Bilbo, you did what you believed right. Sometimes… even the best intentions lead to dark results." He pulled back, looking at him. "Is there anything I can do to help? Aid Frodo?"
Bilbo shook his head, not as an answer to the question but at Kíli's very reaction to it. "You are so much like your family, Kíli – always rushing into danger to protect your friends, never asking how dangerous it is. You don't even ask what the task is…"
"There is something the Dark Lord would want from you," Kíli said, "and as you never undertook big travels after meeting us, it must have happened during our journey. It certainly wasn't something from Erebor's treasures and I doubt the troll hoard held anything of such significance. That leaves only the one occasion you were separated from us for a longer time: your adventure under the Misty Mountains." Kíli discounted the time in Thranduil's palace. If Thranduil had anything that dangerous, some Elves with more sense would hopefully have confiscated it long ago. Bilbo had told them of his encounter with Gollum and later during the spider fight in Mirkwood had revealed his means of becoming invisible. "If one takes into account the great lore of the artifacts… that leaves one frightening possibility."
Bilbo tensed, his shoulders stiffening, then suddenly he relaxed, bending forward and chuckled in wry amusement. "Why am I trying to slip something like that past a spell-smith – one of your line especially? Your House held the first of the Seven, after all. I… I am just glad it was lost before you were old enough to feel its taint."
Kíli ducked his head; he had not wanted to make Bilbo uncomfortable. "Is there anything I can do to help Frodo?" he asked again. "Whatever is needed… just tell me."
"No, Kíli. I could not ask something like that of you," the old Hobbit said warmly.
"Of course you could. We are friends," Kíli said meeting his friends eyes, daring him to contradict him again, "and friends help each other. Besides, I owe you my life. Twice. Once in the dungeons of Mirkwood and once at the Battle of Five Armies. Had you not found me there, I would be dead." He had been close to bleeding out. Without Bilbo, he'd have died. "And… I never really thanked you for that, did I?"
"You all but wished you had died with them, Kíli." Bilbo's eyes went past him, staring into the dark, into the past, to the shadows. A deep sadness crept into his voice when he spoke of the events of long ago, of the day of dying. "You had been wounded more than in body. Your very soul had been scarred." He looked up at Kíli, his memories of the silent, broken dwarf that had left Erebor with them still vivid. "And I was glad when I saw that spark of life come back to your eyes on that day in Beorn's house. Whatever I did on the field that day, it was too little and too late."
Kíli did not reply at once. He well remembered the winter day at Beorn's home, the day that had broken him out of the dark, cold place his heart had become after Fili died. Up to that day, Kíli would have not cared whether or not he woke up from going to sleep, for his heart had been dead and he simply wished he had been buried alongside his brother and uncle. But that day… he so well recalled it, maybe because it had taught him how selfish his grief had been. He had come upon Dwalin down by the creek sleeping under the ice, the mighty warrior broken down in his own grief for his friend and king, for Fili, his former student… telling the frozen waves of his fear that Kíli soon might follow… Kíli had felt hurt, touched, and deeply ashamed that he had left a friend alone in pain and grief. He had gone to Dwalin and embraced him, silently vowing he'd live, if not for himself, for others who still cared whether or not he survived.
Jerking back from the memory, Kíli gently nudged Bilbo to look at him. "You still saved my life, even if it took me a long time to appreciate my survival," he said warmly, "and I have been glad that you were there, when I needed you most."
TRB
The morning was cold: the leaves were already drifting off the trees and the chill of the coming winter clung to the morning mists. Elrohir knew the snows would be upon them all too soon. He had sent one of his men to find Kíli but the messenger had returned without an answer and thus Elrohir made his way down to the forges himself. Although Aelin would never admit being friends with a Dwarf, both were arcane smiths like there were few left in the world, and when they worked, they together often forgot the world outside their forge. He counted himself lucky to not disturb them in the middle of some heavy work, but with repairs that looked mostly like work Elrohir's own men would have dropped off there.
Kíli excused himself from the sharpening wheel and came outside. "I apologize for not following your messenger, but he said it could wait."
"Did he?" Elrohir could sense some light Elven disapproval in the words the messenger had chosen. The messenger would have assumed that anything Elrohir might want to tell the Dwarf was unimportant. He shrugged, it could not be helped. Like others the messenger had made the mistake of assuming Kíli to be an unimportant wanderer, a homeless dwarf, a mask easily fooling many who did not know Kíli well. "We may as well talk now."
Following Elrohir away from the forge and on one of the lonelier paths of Rivendell, Kíli could tell the Elven Prince was not in the mood for idle chatter, which meant some trouble or mischief was afoot. Most likely it had to do with Orc caves or former Dwarven mines. Elves were great warriors but they were lousy at finding their way below ground. "Someone was captured, I take it? How many and where? With Bolg dead, Gundabad will be up in arms."
"I wish this was just me wanting your help poking around in some Orc den," Elrohir replied, vividly recalling how he had first met Kíli and his brother many decades ago in the depths of Mount Gundabad how often Kíli had aided them in chasing the Orcs out of their dens all around the pass road, "but what I need to ask of you – what my father wishes to ask of you – is more dangerous than that."
They walked up the slopes slowly, stopping at a bend where the view over the valley was magnificent. "Danger is everywhere these days, whether we seek it or not." Kíli wondered what may have happened. Elves hated asking help from strangers, and he usually tried to not make them ask by simply offering his services. "I'll do what I can."
"The Halflings you helped save will soon leave Rivendell," Elrohir said. "Theirs is a difficult journey, of a nature that I may not share with you. My father has sent scouts ahead of them to aid and find safe paths for them. But… one part of their journey remains largely uncovered." His eyes went beyond the tree line to the white-capped chain of mountains they could see.
"The Mountain passage." Kíli gazed at the white peaks. "The paths will not be safe, the small paths will be worse, the gap of Rohan is a forty days' march away, and Moria… is under shadow." He shivered; merely speaking Moria called up dreadful memories in him, of a friend and a painful goodbye, but also of the darkest journey of his life. "There are no safe passages left, Elrohir. All are dangerous, and with winter setting in, most of them will be closed soon enough."
"Yes, but Dwarves cross the mountains even in the worst weather – you know ways through these mountains no one else does. And… if needed, it would be good to have someone scout ahead or lend aid when needed." They continued on the path that led further up, under the whispering asp trees the Elves loved so well. Now the slender trees stood barren and bare before the cold autumn winds.
"You have a number of Rangers who do, too, and some Elves that can't keep their noses out of the deepest Orc dens," Kíli pointed out. He had often wandered during the cold times and did not fear to travel in winter, but he still had to ask. "Why me?"
Now the Elven Prince smiled an eerily knowing expression in his eyes. "Because you are already gone, Kíli son of Dari. Your feet may trudge this path but your heart is by now a thousand leagues south." Grey eyes surveyed the Dwarf closely. "Your friend Boromir is going with Frodo."
Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Kíli studied the Elf quizzically. "And you disapprove of that friendship?"
"Nay. He is a friend your House would choose – loyal, dedicated, prideful and stubborn. I am not surprised you find him worthy of friendship. But I know you, Kíli – like I knew some of your line. You do not just live – you cannot sit in a forge and go on with your life." He pointed at the road yonder whence the Dwarven Company had left Rivendell nearly eighty years ago. "You need a cause, something to fight for. Your uncle could not have sat idly; he fought for his people until the day he died."
Elrohir held the Dwarf's gaze evenly; unfazed by the stare he received. "You are the same, only that this course is barred for you. You cannot fight for your people any more; there is no place for you left. Even a prolonged stay of yours in Cardemir, in the Ered Luin, would cause strife among your kind." He could see he had touched a very sensitive point: even as Kíli's expression hardly changed, it closed, becoming a façade. "But you fight well for your friends… and one of them fights for a great cause, the greatest that may be left in Middle-earth. I know you, Kíli. In your heart you are already on that journey south to assist him, be it on the field of battle or with your skills in crafting weapons. Deny it!"
Kíli exhaled slowly. The Elf had laid bare his entire situation in his short speech. All of what he said was true. "And as I am planning to go South anyway, I may as well be of use and scout ahead for your chosen ones?" He gave a curt nod. "You are right: it makes sense. And if I can help Frodo in any way, I will."