Chapter 7: A hunt in the dark
When the gates of Moria opened, Boromir was not sure if he preferred the dark, dank pool outside or the equally black gate into the mountain. He hardly heard Gimli speaking of the great kingdom of the Dwarves, eyes fixed on the blackness, trying to see anything except shadows and specks of light dancing in his vision. He tried not to blink to make them go away faster, for it would obscure his already vague eyesight even more. His boot caught hold in something heavy and metallic almost making him stumble; a sharp scratch sounded on the stone when he removed his foot from what proved to be a gauntlet wrapped around the bones of an arm. He finally saw more than just dark shapes as his eyes became used enough to the darkness for him to see the ground before his very feet and what he saw made him freeze where he stood. Bodies. There were bodies everywhere: rotting corpses, bones, full skeletons in plated armor strewn across the steep stairwell, each and every one of them smaller than a man. They were Dwarves, dead Dwarves that had been massacred and left to rot in this accursed place. "This is no mine, it is a tomb. We should never have come here." His very voice sounded hoarse to his own ears, and it was echoing too loudly through the hall before them.
A scream behind them made them turn around, only to see Frodo dragged off by a many-armed creature rising from the lake. "Strider!" Sam shouted his voice cracking with panic. Merry and Pippin were close to the entrance, too, they drew their blades, though Boromir saw the short edges quiver in their hands and Pippin took a step back before stepping forth again.
"Stay away from the water!" Boromir shouted as he drew his sword. Neither he nor Aragorn wasted any time, racing after Frodo, Legolas following them, while Gimli pulled the other Hobbits away from the swirling, dark waters.
An arrow hissed by Boromir and hit the thrashing beast, which was shaking Frodo even harder. Boromir reached the water's edge and waded into the murky brew without hesitation to attack the creature's many arms. It roared hollowly, lashing out at them, the waters swirling as a dark mouth came up above the waterline, dirty teeth gnashing at the two warriors. Boromir swung his sword at another tentacle as it erupted from the water, the creature thrashing more wildly. He had never seen such a beast before and he had seen no small number of the beasts the Black Lands would employ for their armies. His vision filled with the flailing arms and the bulged mouth, he saw little that would indicate a vulnerable attack point.
Frodo screamed as the creature swing him close to the open maw. A thought colder than even the water Boromir stood in touched him. If that thing ate Frodo, it would also eat the Ring, the weapon of the Enemy lost in the intestines of a dark beast. He could not let this happen. Disregarding his own safety, he dashed forward, bringing his axe about in one forceful attack. Truefire's blade left a deep gash in the water-dweller's side. The creature roared again and swung Frodo through the air more wildly but luckily away from its jaws.
He saw that Thorongil had ducked under one of the tentacles and, with one swift stroke of his blade, severed the arm that held Frodo. Boromir just had enough time dash to the right and catch the falling Halfling. Holding Frodo against his chest, he suddenly felt the echo, the whispers of the Ring closing in on him. Gripping the Halfling harder, he forced them out of his mind, focusing on their escape, evading the tentacles as he got Frodo out of the spraying pond. Behind them, the creature became frenzied, rising fully from the water, long tentacles reaching past Boromir as the thing supported itself to get up.
An arrow of Legolas' only pushed it back for a moment but it was all they needed to escape. They had to retreat into the open gate of the Mine, for the creature blocked off every other route, forcing them into the dark tunnels. Its long arms pushed close the doors of Moria, rubble and stones crashing down almost upon them as they raced deeper into the black. A single rock glanced off Truefire's haft, but that was all. The thunder of the collapsing stones crashing down, cracking and breaking, was so painfully loud that the sudden silence that seemed to drown out all their own sounds after was deafening and nearly as hard to bear. Darkness fell around them, heavier than the tons of rock piled at their feet.
"We now have but once choice. We must face the long dark of Moria." Gandalf's voice cut through darkness as he lit the crystal on top of his staff to allow for some vague light. "Be on your guard – there are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world. It is a four day journey to the other side. Let us hope our presence may go unnoticed."
Four days. That was a new thought for Boromir. He had often heard of the huge mines of the Dwarves and of their underground kingdoms, and Faramir had certainly tried to instill some learned knowledge into his older brother, yet hearing that it would take them four days to cross these halls certainly drove the message home. Squinting a bit as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he looked around.
The traces of a dire fight were all over the stairwells. Neither side had claimed the remains of their dead; they lay where they had fallen, their bodies a silent recording of events. Boromir could read much of that skirmish in what he could see in passing. The Dwarves had extracted quite a price form the Orcs but eventually had been overwhelmed. The Orcs would have had the superior numbers and the Dwarves had been forced to defend against attacks from three sides. A brave, but hopeless battle had been fought in these halls, and he would dare to guess that the attack had come by surprise, and that the Dwarves had put on an all the more impressive fight. If the numbers of Orcs slain were of any real consequence, they would have made an impressive dent into the enemy ranks. Unfortunately, Boromir knew all too well that for every Orc a warrior might slay, three more would rise to take its place. If that had been the beginning of the battle, he was curious how the following war had gone; sad as the outcome must have been, a part of him wanted to know what had transpired, and be it only because those who fought the Shadow should not be forgotten, someone should remember them and be able to speak of them, even if all others chose to forget. Still, he was relieved when they were past the stairs and there were no new corpses in the halls they walked into.
They walked for hours and hours. In the dim light of Gandalf's staff, they began to perceive the mines of Moria. And Mines they were in the beginning, dark shafts falling steep into bottomless chasms, cranes, wheels to pull mining trams up broken tunnels and the remaining mechanics of an ore wash were their way signs. Boromir could only compare this place with the mining settlement of Bofur in the north, and to the mines in the White Mountains, but that was a failing comparison. What skill and strength did it take to not only create such huge mines but to brave chasms like the one they walked past?
The march was not easy: several times they came upon places where the path was broken or destroyed. It took Aragorn and Boromir to help the little ones across such obstacles. Gimli, who should have been more at home in these surroundings, had fallen into a brooding silence ever since the events at the gate. Boromir understood that seeing the death, the long ago slaughter of his kinsmen, must come as a shock for him.
Something reflected the faint light of the staff, multiplying it many times over. Boromir saw Thorongil raise his hand to shield his eyes against the sudden light and Legolas actually turned his back to the chasm the sudden light too bright for him. Only Pippin peered beyond the jagged edge of the ledge to see more. Boromir grabbed the Halfling's pack to steady him before he could fall. "Pippin!" Merry whispered, dragging his young relative away from the deeps.
"Moria's wealth was not in gold, or jewels, but mithril." The aged wizard extended the staff beyond the ledge to allow them a glance at the mithril vein that had reflected the light in the first place. Boromir peered down but his eyes were not really on the silvery ore that the wizard's attention was focused on, but on the deeps. This was not a chasm – it was a huge mine extending many levels into the depths of earth. He could see ladders and bridges, doorways leading away, and even stairs of stone winding up the side of the walls. Beside him, Thorongil steadied himself against one of the ancient beams, like he was uneasy with the deeps suddenly revealed.
"Are you all right?" Boromir asked softly. "Were you injured in the water outside?" He could not fathom what would make a Ranger search for a hold like that while the ground was still steady under him. They usually were not afraid of heights, if Faramir and those he commanded were any indication.
"No," Aragorn replied, his eyes narrowing a little. "I… I have been here before, Boromir. And it was not my wish to ever see the long dark of Moria again."
Darkness fell again, the glimpse into the deeps gone, much to Boromir's regret. He would have liked a further glance at the Mines. "We will get through this, Thorongil," he said encouragingly. "Whatever haunted this place, you do not have to face it alone this time."
Their gazes met and Boromir perceived a strange expression in the Ranger's eyes. It made him feel like he had overstepped their comradeship and intruded on territory Thorongil did not wish to share. The other Man turned wordlessly and marched on, following the Hobbits along the ledge.
"Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings that Thorin gave him," Gandalf stated at the top of their column.
Gimli gasped, the throaty sound leaping into the dark and bouncing into the chasm. "That was a kingly gift!"
"Yes, I never told him that it was worth more than the entire Shire," Gandalf replied, amusement echoing in his voice.
Boromir shook his head at their words. He did not know the story, not beyond the parts he had heard from Kíli, but he thought that if Thorin had been a warrior like Kíli, he might have seen the chainmail shirt less in terms of its worth in gold, but its worth in keeping a comrade alive.
As they proceeded farther, the structure began to change around them, the stark mining areas falling behind with more and more processing places adding to the maze of tunnels and halls.
Gandalf spoke in whispers of the fall of the Mines, of the mithril found here, and of the inexhaustible wealth of Moria that had led to greed and digging deeper and deeper into the darkness below. Boromir hardly listened, his eyes taking in the huge halls and wide walkways they passed. What a huge city – what a realm, a kingdom hidden from the eyes of all Middle-earth. How many generations had labored, expanding these halls, creating marvels that were still visible after generations of abandonment that shone through even under the grime of ruin and defeat? It must have been so long since any living soul had walked these halls, and centuries since it had sunken into the shadow, and still… he could still see the echoes of this great realm shining under the rubble of ruination. How had a nation so strong and proud enough to create such a kingdom fallen so far? Had their numbers waned until their strength ran out and the Orcs numbered beyond counting? Had their fate been similar to Gondor's? To wane and dwindle, stemming the tide of darkness until the last strength broke? Had they too been forgotten and alone in their moments of despair?
"We should rest here." Gandalf had stopped walking at a doorway, pointing them to proceed inside. It led to one of the many dark chambers that could be found invariably along their path. There were neither remains of a workshop nor any other things that would give a hint at the room's former purpose. But there was a soft, wet smell hanging about this chamber. Boromir inhaled slowly, trying to place the smell beyond simply wetness. When Gandalf followed them inside, the light of his staff illuminated an empty guardroom with a well. Most of the ring of stones that once had framed the well was smashed, the rubble splayed across the empty room. All that remained of it was an empty hole in the ground. Boromir squatted down, checking that it was truly a well, not a shaft to climb up swiftly, as guards sometimes used.
"We have been walking for more than a day," Gandalf said. His eyes went towards the Hobbits, who had retreated from the hole as far as they could, crowding together in one corner of the room.
There was little debating at what Gandalf had said, and the entire Company settled down best that they could. The Hobbits had already chosen the corner farthest into the room; Gimli too retreated deeper into the chamber, lying down on the rocks, and soon began to snore softly. He was the only one to find sleep at once. Now that they were resting, the perpetual darkness of Moria crept closer at them and every noise, every faint echo, even the sound of their own breathing, seemed to enhance in the great silence that lay like a heavy blanket on the Mines.
Boromir leaned against the broken wall near the door and closed his eyes. Pippin would wake him once it was time he relieved him of watch duty. Sleep came sooner than he'd hoped, its thick tendrils wrapping themselves around him and pulling him deep into its dark depths.
TRB
For long ago when lanterns burned
Until this day our hearts have yearned.
The final Orc tumbled down the chasm. Boromir did not waste a second glance at him, instead racing to catch up with the troops at the main hall. White lamps lit the huge dome of the ceiling. Kíli turned around to him, a wild fire shining in his dark eyes. "You were right: their leader had no plan," he said. "Take your troops and sweep the stairs of Anulbar; Dwalin has the other side. We've got them on the run."
"At once." Boromir turned to his men. "Nari, right flank; Calin, point with me!" They were winning this battle and they would win this war.
TRB
"Fool of a Took! Throw yourself down next time and spare us the trouble." Gandalf's harsh voice ripped Boromir from his dream just in time to hear something crash in the dark, and a resonating doom, doom, doom ring out from somewhere deep below them.
"What happened?" He sat up fully, his hands closed around Truefire's solid steel handle, the cold metal reassuring in his hands.
"You were the only one to sleep through that," Thorongil responded, somewhat amused, although his eyes were flinty in the way Boromir recognized as a warrior preparing himself for battle. "Pippin tossed a stone down the well and it has been heard."
"Do we keep moving or do we risk staying?" Boromir was already struggling back to his feet, and the Ranger reached for his shoulder.
"No, none of the others are up to another march. Let us share watch duty between us and give the others some hours of rest."
Looking around, Boromir could see the startled Hobbits in their corner; they had drawn Pippin close to them, like their sheer presence could protect him. Each time the drums picked up again in the deep, they drew closer to each other. Gimli stood, bleary eyed, and even Legolas looked disturbed by the events. When Boromir's gaze fell on Gandalf, he noticed that in spite of his anger, the wizard stood slumped, leaning heavily on his staff. He was exhausted. Thorongil was right: this was not the time to press on.
"All right, I'll take first watch," he volunteered at once. He knew Thorongil was just as tired as the Hobbits, and even the Dwarf's natural endurance was waning, as his tired eyes and silence at the events showed.
Both Men moved to the entrance of the hall and sat down, but kept their weapons close at hand, ready to fight should something come crawling out of the deeps. The Ranger procured a small, shining item from his pack: a stone radiating a soft light that would allow them to see at least their immediate surroundings, if not much more. Boromir relaxed against the stone, content to sit and watch, listening to the echoes in the silence. "You should sleep, Thorongil," he said softly, seeing the other Man was yet awake. "You will need your strength."
Their eyes met, and Boromir was surprised to find a haunted, almost terrified quality in Thorongil's gaze. Only now he also saw the tense posture, shoulders hunched and hands twisted into each other until the knuckles stood out white. "I can take watch," the Ranger said softly, avoiding a direct answer.
With a sigh, the Gondorian pushed away from the wall, leaning forward so his low speaking would not wake the others. "Something is haunting you, Thorongil," he said, and Aragorn was surprised to hear some genuine concern in Boromir's voice. "It has been haunting you since we passed through these gates."
How he could be so unconcerned by the darkness around them, by this huge silent tomb, was beyond Aragorn. Maybe the Captain of Gondor had learned to mask his fears better, or he was truly unafraid. Whatever fault he may find in him, Aragorn had no reason to doubt Boromir's courage. "I have been here before, many years ago," he replied, not sure if he should show such blatant weakness to a Man who already was inclined to doubt him. He had been much younger then, more easily lured into dangers, not as sure to evade them. "It was not a casual decision that made me come here… I had learned of the fate of one of my kin… my father… who might have still been kept captive in these deeps."
Green eyes assessed him, friendly, even with a spark of understanding. "And you went after him – that was brave," Boromir replied.
"It had been a ruse, a way to lure me here, and I was stupid enough to take the bait, in spite of Gandalf's warnings." Aragorn had not wanted to confess as much; he felt he had exposed too much of his own weaknesses to Boromir.
The Gondorian reached out, his strong hand lightly squeezing Aragorn's arm. "You believed he was still alive, and as long as you knew no different, you could not do anything but go and search for him." Boromir spoke with conviction now, his voice firm and assured. "It is never easy to climb from the darkness, Thorongil, but no night is unending."
"You sound like you know," Aragorn said, seeing a flicker of pain, of remembered suffering in the other Man's eyes. The longer they spoke, the more he saw how much of Boromir's stern façade, which was so reminiscent of Denethor, was only that, for the Man underneath was a far more complex individual.
"I had my own stints in enemy hands," Boromir replied, a pained edge in his voice. "Fighting the Shadow incurs its own punishment." Quickly, he recovered from the harsh tone that had crept into his voice and spoke in more even tones. "No creature, no shadow will come near you as long as I stand guard, Thorongil," he promised, and it was with the air of a Man who could make good on that promise.
It seemed like an irony that the Man who would despise Isildur's blood so much would go out of his way to reassure Aragorn like that. Nevertheless, Aragorn was grateful for it. "Thank you," he said, before leaning back, closing his eyes, taking some measure of comfort in the fact that he was not alone in Moria's endless night.
Alone, with the others having drifted back to sleep, Boromir settled to watch. The silence did not haunt him – he trusted his ears to warn him long before anything could come close. His thoughts were with what Thorongil had said of this place, and then strayed back to the dream he had. It was the strangest thing to ever invade his sleep. What could it mean? Why had he been fighting here, with Kíli and other Dwarves, to retake Moria? Or was it just that he imagined things, because of the sadness this place exuded? It was well possible – one of the warriors, Dwalin, had strongly resembled a mercenary that Boromir had met in prior campaigns of Gondor, and that man had certainly not been a Dwarf. Maybe his mind was playing strange tricks on him? He could not tell, though he pondered these questions long into his watch.
Their journey continued for another two days, spent with endless walks during the day and, for Boromir, restless nights plagued by strange dreams he could hardly remember by morning. During the third day, he thought he heard noises behind them: soft feet swishing on stone floors, arrows hissing in the dark, and a strange shadow moving in the darkness, unseen but with small almost inaudible noises. Something was following them. Boromir was even more watchful than before, but he still found himself distracted by the vast Dwarven city they travelled. While themines were sad and dark, he found them less depressing than he had expected. For the first time, he truly understood what fascinated his brother so much with the lore of the Elder races.
Gandalf had stopped at a crossroads where three ways met their path. The old wizard stood frowning, his staff held aloft so the light would illuminate the writings on the stone arches. "'I have no memory of this place." He spoke softly, his beard quivering when he shook his head.
Boromir looked around, trying to assess the place, to see if there was any hint that might serve them as aid, but there was nothing. Their path had climbed steadily, until it led into the crossroads. Broken rocks sat before a battered staircase connecting three doorways. To their right, the walls were broken, forming a jagged ledge above a chasm.
The Fellowship settled down for a welcome break after three days' worth of marches. Boromir chose to sit on the ledge, to keep an eye on the dark chasm beside them; Thorongil settled down not far and unpacked his pipe, like Merry and Pippin did. Boromir wrinkled his nose; he had gotten used to the Halflings and the wizard indulging in this strange habit, but seeing it in a fellow Man was still curious. But in this place the soft smell of the smoke was a welcome change from the stale air.
The Hobbits sat close to each other, smoking their pipes as they whispered softly amongst themselves, speculating on Gandalf being lost, and Merry chastising Pippin over something. Their hushed squabble, which inevitably involved food, or the lack thereof, made Boromir smile. These two all too easily made him feel like a much older brother watching his young siblings. He relaxed, keeping an eye on the dark below, content to wait until Gandalf had worked out how to go on, or maybe Gimli could…
"Gimli!" he called out in a hush, barely above a whisper. "Can you tell what direction these arches lie? We need to go east."
"Why do you think I know more of this place than you do?" the Dwarf grumbled. "And all three arches lead vaguely east. I have never set foot into these halls before. If you think that Dwarves can talk to rocks to find their way underground…"
"No one would imply such a ridiculous thing, Gimli," Thorongil spoke up, and Boromir could hear an echo of humor in his voice. Still, he took it as a warning to not induce Gimli to get any louder or talk more.
It was Frodo who spotted the soft swishing feet somewhere down below them this time before Boromir heard them. "It's Gollum; he has been following us for three days." Gandalf appeared unfazed by the stalker that had hounded their steps since they had entered these halls.
A squeal ripped through the silence of the darkness below them. "Nasty Dwarfses… nasty…"
Gandalf leaped to his feet, extending his staff across the ledge, the light falling down on the ledge below, illuminating two figures standing on the edge. Or rather, one Dwarf holding a thin, mangled creature, screeching and writhing in a chokehold above the chasm, ready to drop it down. Was he interrogating the creature? Boromir was not sure what that thing was – it might be a thin Orc scout. The white light touched both figures, and Boromir's eyes widened as he recognized the familiar figure of Kíli down there. The thin Orc in his hands was desperately scrabbling his feet to find firm ground on the ledge again, and it still was cursing in a strangled voice.
"Let him go!" Gandalf's voice was clear and commanding, echoing through the wide halls. "Let him go, Kíli son of Dari." Go… go… go… Dari…Dari… Dari, the echo returned, the cavern amplifying the wizard's voice, letting it fade away and come back like an unearthly whisper.
The Dwarf obeyed the order after a moment's hesitation, flinging the mangled creature as far from himself as he could so it landed on a ledge of rocks farther away, and, after picking itself up, it fled into the darkness, cursing him at least a dozen times.
"Kíli, will we always meet in the depths of the mountains?" Boromir could see the creature escape into the darkness and he did not even want to know why the wizard had ordered the creature to be spared. Right now he was gladder to meet a friend in these deeps. "Can you come up here?" The ledge was too steep to climb and they had no rope.
The Dwarven warrior glanced up. "You are at Tharnul Crossing; I will be with you swiftly." He reached down to grab his pack and set off into the darkness.
True to his word, he appeared again from the same way they had come not long after. He moved in the darkness with the familiar ease of someone who lived underground by nature. Only Boromir seemed to see the glowing jewel that Kíli quickly slid into a pouch at his belt when he reached them, because none of the others reacted to it. "I should have reached you quicker, but that little maggot cost me time," Kíli said, exhaling sharply, the glance he shot Gandalf conveying more frustration than even his voice.
"Why are you following us at all?" Aragorn asked, having risen to his feet also, his hand having sunken on the hilt of his sword, his feet firmly planted on the ground, ready to fight. "And how would you even know that we are in these deeps?"
Kíli bowed lightly. "Guruth gothrim i Mithrim - Death to the foes of the Grey Company." He spoke the phrase carefully, his baritone voice lacking the same musical sound Elves naturally carried in their intonation, no matter what tongue they spoke. When pronouncing the words of their own melodious language, it was especially audible. With Kíli, the Elven words gained a sterner, grimmer expression that was foreign to them.
It did not need more than these words to ease the tensions – Aragorn recognized the phrase immediately. "You are the scout for the mountain passes?" he asked. "I should have guessed –you were the obvious choice." He let go of the sword hilt, relaxing visibly as he gave up the stance he had taken before. "You have proven before you can navigate these deeps… You found me when I was trapped here, and you later found the truth of Haravan's fate."
Kíli shrugged. "That was in the years before the Orcs regrew the numbers they lost in the Battle of Five Armies, Aragorn, when the deeps were empty," he replied. "I saw you approach the West Lake from higher above and realized then what you were planning.I spent some time catching up to you. Had I not met that slimy thing, I would have reached you yesterday when you came through the third hall of Darugnar. However did this little cretin get on your tracks? It followed you precisely." His eyes made contact with Gandalf. "And why would you not be rid of him? Lord Elrond was quite clear on dangers being kept away from you."
Gandalf's bushy eyebrows furrowed. "Gollum's fate is not in your hands," he reminded the Dwarf. "Not all dangers are banished by killing."
"Not that you have been avoiding danger," Kíli pointed, out looking at them one after the other. "It was a dangerous choice to come here – Moria is steeped in shadow."
"You know that no one was alive here?" Gimli asked, his hands shaking in anger, his face draining of all colour. With a loud growl, he smashed the handle of his axe on the rock strewn ground. "How… You knew?" he repeated, his voice growing louder.
"Aye." Kíli inclined his head. "I am sorry, Gimli. I know your uncle was amongst those who came here. Balin… He paid a terrible price for entering Moria."
Gimli pushed past Legolas, raising his axe with both hands, ready to fight. He stood before Kíli, rage clearly visible on his face, the axe in his hand poised to strike. "If you knew, if you were here, that begs the question how you survived! How would you have survived what killed all the others by the gates? What did you do to save your own skin?"
Boromir grabbed the angry Dwarf by the shoulder and pulled him back. "Stop it, Gimli. I won't have you always claim the worst where it comes to Kíli, nor threaten him. There are many ways to know of a doom without having been touched by it." He could feel the glances of all the others on him; he had just taken a side, but in what conflict was not yet clear to him.
"I think Kíli should answer the question," Gandalf said gravelly, "for no one knew of what had befallen Moria."
Aragorn shook his head. "Gandalf, I came across Dwalin son of Fundin no less than two years ago in Bree. There must have been others who returned from this place. Maybe they left before it was too late."
"You all saw the massacre at the gate – no one escaped," Gimli growled. "And he… he should explain well how he would know." He glared at the slightly older Dwarf, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he shook off Boromir's grip. ""What happened to you, Kíli? They said you were brave… they said you stood over Thorin's body and fought like a wild mountain lion… Did bitterness so twist you? How could you flee and leave the others to perish in this place?" His gravelly voice nearly broke. "I once thought I knew you."
Boromir exchanged a quick glance with Thorongil; he was that short of truly grabbing the dwarf and shaking him but that would help no one, there had to be another way to deal with this.
The Ranger approached Gimli, gripping his shoulder to make him turn around. "Gimli," he said, his voice calming, trying to reason with the angered Dwarf. "No one knows what happens here, and just because Kíli knew their doom does not mean he was here at the time they died. More than once brave warriors were too late too late to save their people…"
"If his consciousness was so white, why did he then not return to the families of those who were missing and let them know what happened to their kin?" the Dwarf bellowed. "No, Aragorn, he left them behind… he fled."
Struggling to not verbally flay the Dwarf, Boromir sought Thorongil's gaze again, who still stood in front of the raging son of Glóin, he hoped that their comrade might better understand what kind of conflict this truly was about. The Ranger shrugged, a gesture implying that he did not understand the Dwarven anger but also that answers may be better.
Boromir turned back to Kíli, who stood unmoving. When the Dwarf felt his gaze on him, he looked up, his black eyes meeting green, and Boromir was startled by that once glance. Kíli's eyes shone with horror – he'd dare say with unshed tears – and held such a pained, haunted expression that bespoke more than a nightmare he must have encountered in this place. This place held no good memories for him. "Kíli?" Boromir asked softly. "No one here believes these accusations, yet answers could shed the doubts from minds."
A great sadness flickered in those dark eyes before it vanished and was replaced by a calmer expression. "I understand, my friend. It is a long tale."
Boromir knew what just had happened: Kíli had pushed the pain away, not allowing himself to be ruled by it. He knew so well because it was a tactic he often used himself. Still… to push aside so much pain took tremendous strength of will. "If you are ready to tell it." He softened his demand for an answer. Had it only been himself, he'd have taken Kíli's word, but unfortunately there was doubt in the others.
"The hour will wait on no one." Kíli put down the skimpy pack he was carrying, only keeping the Dragonblade within easy reach of his hand.
Boromir led Kíli towards the broken stones in the middle of the crossing where he could sit. Boromir remained standing close behind.
The dark-haired Dwarf drew a leg up to his chest, leaning on it with his arms. For a moment, he closed his eyes, as though composing himself, but Boromir heard a soft, whispered word sounding like Mahal. He did not know what it meant, though the tone of voice implied Kíli was searching for the strength to begin his tale. "I was in the south when Balin's message found me, asking me to come to Moria. The journey took months, and when I arrived, I did not find my friend…"
TRB
The chisel nearly slipped from Kíli's fingers, cluttering on the smooth stone beneath his hands. Impatiently, he grasped it more firmly, continuing the band of runes on the stone tomb. Beside it he had already inlaid the Winterwolf – the symbol of Balin's family. The silence was pressing down on him and the empty chamber of Marazabul, only interrupted by the metallic song of the chisel as Kíli completed the tomb inscription. His thoughts wandered years back while he worked. When Balin had spoken of retaking Moria, Kíli had tried to talk him out of it. Balin of all people was content with life in the Ered Luin. He had never longed for riches or fame. But this time Kíli had not reached him. It was neither for greed nor gold that Balin would wage this venture. He only wished to see the line of Durin restored to Moria. Hoping to dissuade him, Kíli had gone as far as refusing to join him, praying Balin would abstain from the risky undertaking.
When the messenger had found him, the letter had been enthusiastic, speaking of great success. And Kíli had not found it in his heart to disappoint his old friend's wish, thus he had ridden to Moria, four hundred leagues across wilds and plains. But when he arrived at the Mines, the tides had turned. Khazad-dum was under attack from Orc hordes, and Balin… dear, brave Balin had been mortally wounded in the first battle. All Kíli could do was sit with him, saying his goodbye, thanking the old warrior for a life lived in loyalty to his family.
The last rune was finished: two clean lines between the ornaments. Kíli wished he had the time to make this stone coffin into a fitting monument for a Dwarf so brave and loyal as Balin had been – he deserved to rest in an elaborately adorned crypt, but it was doubtful there would be enough time to even finish this simple tomb. His fingers traced the lines, brushing away the shards remaining from the work.
Here lies Balin son of Fundin
Lord of Moria
Kíli had placed the title there, despite knowing Balin had never wanted that crown for himself. He had wanted to see rulership returned to Thorin's bloodline. Yet, Balin's very deeds had earned no other title.
"He'd chide you, if he saw this," the deep voice grumbled behind him. Kíli did not need to look to know it was Dwalin. The huge warrior had taken command of what Dwarves remained when Balin fell, and he was the only one who had come here since… since Balin had been laid to rest.
"He was the one who led our people here and held Moria, even if it was only for a time. Anything less would make little of his accomplishments." Kíli turned to face Dwalin. He could well imagine the pain the older Dwarf was going through. All too vividly he remembered the day Fíli had fallen… the pain still lived on inside him and he knew how turn Dwalin had to feel right now, like half of him was cut away forever. He was surprised to find Dwalin much more in control than he had any right to expect of a Dwarf who had just seen his own brother buried, and was embroiled in a fierce struggle with little hopes of aid. "How is the situation out there?" He was weary and heart-sore, but he asked anyway, knowing that Dwalin had come here for that very reason.
"Tense. We are holding ourselves for now, but the Orcs are getting reinforcements. I pulled the troops back from the upper reaches and the great hall to Halling's Crossing and Dwenderholm passage; we can hold those points more easily against great numbers," Dwalin reported, to Kíli those were not just words, they were places he could chart on a map inside his mind, comparing the positions to what were the major routes in and out of the territory they still controlled. . And he only could do so because long ago he had the chance to enter the lost hall of maps and memorize the secrets written into its walls – secrets only readable to one who knew how to decipher them. "What we will do now… depends on you." The older warrior gave Kíli a grave look.
Kíli put the chisel aside on one of the few remaining racks of the chamber of records; then, turning back to their conversation, he came to stand at the foot of the grave. He knew the time of decision had come: it was now up to him, if the others would accept him. They were well led by the mighty son of Fundin, and yet the grim warrior expected a decision from Kíli. "Will you be with me, Dwalin?" he asked softly.
Dwalin's eyes widened, like he was horrified that Kíli should even ask. He drew his axe in one fluid move and went to one knee, presenting the blade to Kíli raised on open palms. "I, Dwalin son of Fundin, make this oath under the eye of Mahal: that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Kíli son of Dari of the House of Durin, that I shall be in the forefront of fierce battle, forging ahead with my lord and friend, coming to the war-call carrying my weapons; and when no battle causes the war-horn to blow, I shall not forget my duties, but will offer wise counsel as I may. And though I had rather lay down my life than see harm come to my lord, still should the poisoned point or aged edge strike him down, then I shall not flee a single foot-length from the field, but rather shall advance into the enemy army, slaying as I might, to avenge the protector of the people. And by Mahal, and by Eru's gift, may this axe smite me upon which my hand rests, may my own edge twist and turn against me should I fail to keep this oath."
Kíli's first reflex was to hinder Dwalin kneeling down but he couldn't, and knew he could never rebuke that oath, given in honest loyalty. It would deeply hurt his old friend if he so did. So he straightened up and placed his hand on Dwalin's bare head. "I have heard your oath, as have the forefathers. Hear you then my vow to you: no loyalty shall be forgotten, if to the law court you are called, in legal tangles twisted and tied, then I and all of my kin shall stand as oath-helpers if you should need this; and finally, my sword shall stand between you and your enemies, my strength beside you boldly, for bare is a brotherless back." It was a shortened version of the full oath, the only promise Kíli was able to give and uphold still. With his House in exile, any other promise would have been meaningless.
When the oath was spoken, he touched Dwalin's shoulders, pulling him up and into an embrace, deeply moved by the loyalty the mighty warrior had shown him. After a moment, Dwalin stepped back two paces, and, folding his hands behind his back, straightened up a bit. "What now, my Prince?"
"Gather all that are willing to follow me – we are leaving Moria," he said firmly.
"We lost the gates," Dwalin pointed out.
"There are ways, Dwalin: secret passages through Moria, hidden doors only known to the House of Durin himself," Kíli explained. His hands lightly touched the side of the stone tomb, like he wanted to reach for Balin, to let him know even in his sleep that he would find a way to save the others. "We will need to go deeper, as it is the only way to evade the Orcs crawling up from the deeps to fight us. But if we move swiftly and fearlessly, we shall pass through the shadow before they can reach us."
The broad-shouldered warrior's eyes went to his brother's tomb, and Kíli could well understand how the man felt. Kíli's own brother slept in a similar grave a thousand leagues from here. "Your brother's dream was noble and brave, Dwalin," he said softly, "and I wish with all my heart that he had succeeded. That he was with us still. But he fell, and we stand no chance to fight this out. He would never forgive me for seeing your lives sacrificed for nothing." Kíli's voice nearly broke at those words. He did not want to abandon Balin's dream – not because he cared about the crown of Moria but because Balin had hoped and fought so fiercely for this. But in his heart of hearts he knew Balin had valued life above hoarded gold and ancient fame. And while every word cut into Kíli like a knife etching this moment into his soul, he would do what was right, and what he knew Balin would agree with, could he be with them. Oh, if he just were… "Even if we conquer these Orcs, there still is Durin's Bane to contend with and he won't sleep for long when Durin's blood walks these halls," he added more softly, hardly daring to speak of the older and fouler dread haunting the deeps of Khazad-Dûm.
If no other argument reached Dwalin, the last did. "I will call for them," he said, turning to get down to business.
TRB
"You can't just do that – you have no right!" Ori shook his fist as he spoke, the scribe's voice rising above the background murmur of the others.
Óin stood beside him and most likely only heard Ori's words, his hearing having further declined with age. "You betray all Balin dreamed of," he grumbled at Kíli.
Kíli squared his shoulders. "Balin never advocated to waste lives on cold gold and jewels – he believed in life and in making good use of the time that we have," he said as he approached them, trying to somehow reach out to the people who had believed in Balin's vision. "And I feel in my heart that he would not wish us to waste even one man to defend a tomb. Not even one as beloved as his."
They moved, one by one and slowly – Bladvila and Bifur were first to walk over and stand with him and Dwalin, others followed, many hesitatingly, some glancing back to the others. Inwardly Kíli felt each of them like an invisible weight – each of them on both sides of the line. With each of them coming over to his side, he hoped… hoped that the others too would see reason and would abandon this quest and with each of them the weight rose – they trusted him to know the way out, to pull this off, their lives were on his shoulders now.
Yet, there was a large group of dwarves still undecided, standing grouped closely around Narvi and Fjalaris – the clan of Dwenderholm Passage had been part of this quest, of the dream to reclaim their ancient home. Their line linked with Moria as long as Kíli's own… all the way back to Durin the Deathless and his companions.
"I am staying," Óin announced suddenly. "I will not give up Moria easily, even if Durin's blood has lost the will to fight."
Kíli had to prevent Dwalin from striking down Óin for these words, but the ill was done: the split became a rift. Several dwarrow from Narvi's group joined with Óin and Ori, forming a group around them, some casting harsh glances towards Kíli.
"Narvi?" Kíli turned to the old crafter who stood with one hand on his granddaughter's shoulder. "I know you were one of Balin's first supporters in this – but all our hopes have turned against us now and the Orcs number beyond counting. You once said to me that you did not need to see the dragon to know he could not be fought at the time... it is the same now and the survival of our people weights more than a dream."
"What would you know of it?" Ori snapped. "You gave up on Thorin's dream as well."
Kíli whirled around, trying somehow to control the pain erupting inside him, the decision he had made that day by Thorin's grave, by Fíli's grave… it had been to protect those he cared for. "Like Balin Thorin respected his comrades enough to not sacrifice their lives needlessly," he said, unable to prevent his voice from becoming hard. "and that was my reason for yielding to Dáin's demands that day."
"And it is your honest decision, as the last of Durin's Blood that Moria cannot be held at this time?" Narvi asked, his empty eyes eerily finding Kíli. "That the dwarrow need to find home elsewhere?"
Kíli straightened up, it was the legacy Thorin had passed onto him and would expect him to uphold, exile or no. "It is, Narvi. We have no hopes here but we can save our people to survive elsewhere." The next words were hard – harder than almost anything before. "as the last of Line of Durin I declare this mission lost – Moria is to be abandoned again."
"And we will go with you, my Prince." Narvi said, joining him along with Fjalaris and many of the others, only few remained to join with Óin. Kíli looked at them and felt his heart sink, for he knew with sudden clarity that he would not be able to convince them as well.
Three nights and the darkest journey of his life later, Kíli was the last of two hundred Dwarves to climb out of one of the old watchtowers in the flank of Zirakzigil. After pulling himself out of the narrow gap in the wall, he looked back, his eyes tracing the path they had come. From the deepest darkest pits of Khazâd-Dûm they had climbed to the heights, risking places ancient and full of danger, and daring even the deeps fallen under the shadow of dread. He knew he should be relieved, glad to have made it out of the night, but his heart clenched in pain as he thought of those still down in the night of Moria, unable to escape, having neither the knowledge nor the bloodline to find their path out of the Mines.
A strong hand gently clasped his shoulder, leading him away from the gap. Like so often, Dwalin was there: strong, reliable, with a loyalty and willpower unequaled. He led Kíli away from the tower and towards the camp the others were making. Behind them, night fell upon Moria.
TRB
"We left Moria for the Ered Luin the morning after," Kíli finished. Boromir saw how he wrapped his arms around his drawn up knee, like he was trying to shield himself – whether from the pain or from the stares of the group, it was hard to tell. His voice had become shaky and soft over the last part of the story, the memory of those who had insisted on staying behind a haunting echo in his eyes. Boromir could not imagine what it felt like, seeing so many of one's own people choose death, the hunt for useless glory and getting massacred, having to leave to rescue those sensible enough to see reason, and having the outcome for good or ill on one's own shoulders. It was a weight to easily crush anyone, and it had etched its markings into Kíli.
"I do not know what happened after we left. But it is not hard to guess. Dwalin and I agreed on fortifying Cardemir and making it our true city… where I could not stay, for reasons most of you will know," the Dwarf went on, and for the first time Boromir interrupted him.
"I know little of your people, Kíli – much less than I would like. Why could you not stay with those who had clearly chosen to follow you?" He could see that it was another aspect of something paining Kíli. To be forcibly separated from one's own people, forced to leave them to fate… he could not imagine bearing that.
"Dáin… King Dáin Ironfoot of Erebor, I should say," Kíli replied, the glance he gave Boromir nearly grateful for the distraction, "had enough of uncrowned Kings, or that's at least how he put it. He put pressure on every Dwarven place I stayed too long in – pressure of trade most of the time. He declared a ban on trading any goods, deliver any wares or conduct business with any clan or settlement that openly recognized me, or where I stayed for any prolonged time. Two of the other seven kingdoms… two other Dwarf lords are with him on that, and are enforcing the ban as necessary. I cannot bring even more strife and hardship to my people, Boromir, trade is our main way of survival in Eriador. They chose exile because of me – if I have to stay away so at least trade will be undisturbed, it is the least I can do."
Silence fell upon the group assembled in the silent crossing. Gimli had bowed his head, saddened by what he had heard and maybe shaken by it too, as he refused to react to what Kíli had said about the trade disputes. He knew the other side – the position of King Dáin through his long friendship with Dáin's only son, Prince Thorin, but with what he had heard here he did not have the heart to argue their position right now.
Gandalf shook his head but offered neither comfort nor council. Boromir had not moved from his spot but still observed Kíli with surprise. He knew little of Dwarves, had learned most about them during the last weeks, but to find his friend, his comrade, was an exiled Prince of their kind was something he had not expected.
The roll of a drum ringing out from the deeps startled them out of their silence, doom they rang, doom doom, the echo carried their sound back, until it was impossible to say where they came from. Boromir's hand fell to the axe, maybe it was through the tale he had heard, but he expected Orcs to break through one of the gateways any moment.
Gandalf's gaze went to the three arches, still undecided, and for the first time Boromir thought he saw a true sign of desperation in the old wizard. He truly had lost his way in these halls.
Kíli grabbed his pack slinging it over his shoulder, before he drew his blade. "I have heard these drums before." His voice had taken a grim edge.
Looking at him Boromir wondered why the obvious answer had not occurred to him before. "Kíli," he spoke up, "if your House knows Moria so well, can you guide us out of here?"