Chapter 10: … or die trying

Uruk-hai swarmed the woods of Amon Hen. They had split up into several companies, each of them going after one desired target. "Kill all save the Halflings" were their orders, and their overwhelming numbers would enable them to kill anything that had chosen the ill time to hide in these forests. The main bulk of their force was focused on the ruins uphill, where their scouts had seen the Halfling. But that report quickly proved faulty, for instead of a smallish creature they found two well armed fighters up there, who fought with a skill and determination that cost many of the Orcs their lives and tied up more of their troops than they might have liked.

At first, the Orcs attacked in small groups, trying to flank and separate the two defenders, but quickly learned that the two warriors fought too well together to be easily split up. In the next wave, their groups got larger, attempting force where tactics had failed. The third wave had archers to back them up; however, most of them were picked off their vantage points by the Dwarf, who handled his bow like he was one of the treacherous Elf-kind. The very few arrows that got through mostly dented the defender's armor but did not much more. By the time the seventh wave was storming the ruin, the piles of their own dead created obstacles for Orcs. But the Uruk-hai were cunning: they had the vile skills of their mountain-bred brethren and the greater strength. While some of them fought the two stubborn defenders, others crept under the ruin, into what was left of the cellars.

No tools or laborers could break these walls apart quickly – they had been built as the base of a fortress in the days when the Kingdom of Men had still been young and Middle-earth had been a dark and dangerous place to the arriving exiles. But the Orcs did not need tools, nor did they use common work to do their destruction. Long had they found other means to harm their enemies. Three of the Orcs dragged stone casks into the cellar, quickly smearing the sticky black mass inside into the cracks of the stone and on the floor. When they retreated, the last dropped a torch on the dark mass.

The ground shook and, with a horrible sound, the ruin broke apart. A searing flame shot from the ground, the walls were blown away, and parts of the cellars caved in as the other walls tumbled downhill in an avalanche of stone and earth. Trees creaked and cracked under the force of the explosion, branches were ripped loose and fell into the tumbling chaos rolling downhill. Kíli, reacting with the natural reflex of all Dwarves who lived with the dangers of cave-ins and mine collapses, jumped out of the first collapse zone—he rolled over the hard ground and landed in a mass of Orcs when more rubble came loose. Boromir reacted slower: the underground explosion threw him the other way, and an avalanche of mud and stone carried him down the hill and into the forest.

When Boromir got to his feet, he was bruised and battered but still alive. He had to push himself free of the heavy mud and stones that formed a doughy mass that still was slowly slithering further downhill. Using the hold of tree, he stood, his head still spinning from the rapid fall downhill and the impact. Unfortunately, he was not alone. The Uruk-hai were close by: they fought less than twenty paces way, their shouts and jeers ringing through the cold afternoon air. For now they focused on another target, sending their fighters against Strider, whom they had cornered on the slopes of the forest. The Ranger fought a valiant battle against overwhelming numbers, trying to protect Merry and Pippin. The two Halflings stood with their backs to him, trying their best to keep the Orcs off him. Seeing the little ones putting his lessons to such good use made Boromir smile. They did so well, using their smaller stature to great effect, going for the knees and legs of the Orcs first and then killing them when they came down. Thorongil had the harder fight to handle, as the mass of the Orcs were focused on him. So far he was holding out, but Boromir saw one tall Uruk-hai draw his bow with a wicked smile, intending to shoot the Man who dared to stand in the face of Isengard.

Like a brush of hot wind whispering from afar, Boromir again felt the whispering, twisting voice of the Ring in his mind. The wordless pictures that flooded with the promises of safety. He needed to let Aragorn fight his own battle, nothing more than that – it was no betrayal, as he easily had enough foes to fight still. He only would have to trust the Ranger to handle himself well, something very simple indeed. Give Aragorn the respect he had felt the Man silently demand and rely on him to know what he was doing. Such an insignificant thing now that he thought about it: just give him what he had wished and there would be no King of Gondor – no Man to claim the empty throne, and Gondor would be free of the shadow the empty throne had cast on the land. He would not have to do anything, no betrayal, no broken word… just treating Thorongil as the man had wanted, as the great captain and soldier he had once aspired to be.

A sick feeling spread in Boromir's stomach, and he felt bile rise in his throat, disgusted with himself that he would even consider leaving a comrade behind. "No," he spat. "I will not do the Enemy's work." He'd not deprive Gondor of hope, of a King who might save it, no matter how much the thought hurt Boromir's own pride. He dropped his shattered sword and took up Truefire as he charged at the Uruk that was only so few paces away, knocking the arrow out of its path; it missed Aragorn, hissing past him and by chance hitting one of the Uruk-hai instead.

With an angry snarl, Lurtz whirled around and dropped the bow, his crude blade in his hand he attacked the Man who had dared to tackle him.

Boromir blocked the opening attacks, ducking under one to make the huge Orc overextend his reach. From the corner of his eye he could see Aragorn, who had killed the last of his attackers and turned to face the one Merry and Pippin were fighting. "Thorongil!" Boromir snapped, "Kâr dai nurdeé." His own Adunaic was rusty at best; Boromir had never bothered with dead languages and hated that his father insisted he learn. He actually remembered more from Faramir's patient explanations, and his grammar was probably off. But while he was sure that the Orcs would not understand a word of the ancient tongue of Numenór, he knew that the Elf-raised Ranger probably was fluent. "I sent Frodo back to the boats; find him quickly – I'll hold them off!" He did not get out much more, not with the huge Orc tackling him, but he saw Aragorn had understood, because the Ranger grabbed the two Halflings, pushing them further downhill towards the river. That accomplished, Boromir focused fully on his opponent.

It was the strongest Orc Boromir had ever faced; not even Mordor's Elite were this powerful. Boromir went at him aggressively, Truefire coming down in deadly crescents, each hit battering away the thick armor, cutting into the Uruk-hai's flesh. Black blood smeared the steel axe blade. When the Uruk stumbled, Boromir swung Truefire with both hands, beheading the terrible creature. He did not stop or pause, going for the next of them, cutting them down.

Howling in rage, more Orcs swarmed the Man who had slain their leader. Boromir stood his ground, back to a tree. He did not see their numbers, nor did he know how many he had killed. His heart was beyond feeling, beyond dread. He hardly felt the wounds he received. He had denied them another prey; they would not slay a king here, and that was a victory.

TRB

Aragorn pushed through the ranks of the Orcs, trying to clear a path for the two Hobbits with him. Without Boromir's brave interference, he'd not be standing anymore. He knew that and it felt like a strange irony. Only a few short hours ago, he had considered the Man a threat to their quest, and their time with the Fellowship had warred between cautious camaraderie and rivalry. He knew he bore the ire of the Gondorian warrior – that much had been revealed in some of their clashes – and it seemed all the more ironic that it had been Boromir of all people who had saved him. And at such a price no less, he could do nothing to help the brave Captain, who bore the brunt of the Orc's rage, for he too was barely was able to fend off the Uruk-hai. He could hear the screams and shouts of the Orcs back behind him – they were still rushing the place where Boromir stood. He could not see them but their voices bespoke numbers no fighter could hope to survive. No matter how brave, no matter how skilled.

There was a deep sadness in that thought, in the idea that a warrior such as Boromir should die a meaningless death in a fight far from his homeland. Maybe only now Aragorn realized how much he had tried to gain the other warrior's respect, had hoped to win his friendship. But even Boromir's final brave stand to save him was not an act of either friendship or respect, but of the simple stubborn loyalty he had granted all his comrades, no matter how deeply disliked.

Another group of Uruk-hai came at them, their war-shrieks piercing even the riots of clashing steel and the groans of the dying. Aragorn whirled into attack, his blade cutting through them, but he heard screams behind himself. Stabbing another Orc, he turned, seeing that the Uruk-hai had grabbed Merry and Pippin and were carrying them off. They left behind a dozen of their number, who moved between Aragorn and the retreating troop, making sure he would not be able to follow them.

It was thus that Gimli and Legolas found him: still fighting against the last of the retreating Uruk-hai. Both friends were marked by the fierce battle in the woods, the Dwarf much more so than the Elf. Gimli's armor was rent, his axe marred with scratches and blood, and even Legolas looked unusually disheveled and blood stained his clothes, though it was all black Orc blood.

"Aragorn, are you injured?" Legolas reached the Ranger's side first, almost casually shooting the two last Orcs still standing.

"Only lightly," Aragorn panted. "Merry and Pippin, they were captured." His eyes followed the trail of the Uruk's leading south.

"They were marked by the White Hand," Gimli pointed out. "Saruman. That Wizard is worse than a treacherous Dragon. Aragorn, we need to rescue the Halflings."

Mutely, Aragorn nodded. He leaned back against a tree, the pain of his tired body rising inside him, along with the heavy realization how much he had failed. Boromir had laid down his life to allow the little ones, as he had called them, to escape, and Aragorn had not managed to protect them. He closed his eyes, only for a moment, trying to find the strength to speak, to tell the others.

Legolas' hand touched his arm. "What happened?" the Elf asked, his keen senses picking up much more of Aragorn's inner turmoil than he may have wished to show.

Slowly Aragorn pushed away from the tree and sheathed his gory sword. "We need to find our friends first, Gimli," he said, reminding the Dwarf that there were more to their group than just the two they knew were captives. "Boromir saved me during the fight and he said he had sent Frodo back to the river. I have not seen Sam since the fighting began." It was a painful thought, but ascertaining the Ringbearer's fate had to take priority over searching for their wounded comrade or rescuing the Halflings. It was a thought Aragorn disliked, he hated thinking that if he headed back right here and now he might reach Boromir before it was too late, that he might be able to still heal him before he succumbed to wounds and exhaustion. But he could not – he had to delay, to consciously sacrifice one of their number, because the Ringbearer came first. And he knew that Boromir would not have it any other way, for the Gondorian had always put the mission ahead of himself, or anyone else for that matter.

They headed back to the landing, which was eerily quiet and frighteningly untouched by the presence of the Orcs. There were nearly no tracks of them there, and the few that Aragorn spotted in the sand had been running Orcs quickly heading back to the fighting; they had paid the camp no heed.

Two boats were still resting on the shore; the third was missing and as Aragorn looked around, he saw two packs were missing from their camp as well.

Thoughtfully, Aragorn viewed the traces on the ground. Hobbits had remarkably light feet but in the loose sands of the shore their steps were easily to find. Frodo in particular had a lighter and more slender foot, while Sam's tracks were the deepest of all four Haflings. "Frodo was running from something – from what I do not know," he said, his eyes following the tracks that went directly to where the third boat had been hidden under the branches of the willow.

Frodo and Boromir had both left the camp prior to the attack, and this was a thought that worried Aragorn. He had seen how Boromir had reacted to the Ring on the Pass; he had heard him toss in the sleep during the nights, whispering of the Ring, sometimes shouting battle commands. There had been a darkness settling on the Steward's son, who had more and more sought Frodo's company nevertheless.

These thoughts made Aragorn feel ashamed. He had heard what Boromir had shouted to him, and while the man's Adunaic had enough mistakes that Elladan would have ordered him to copy an entire tome of Adunaic phrases, the message had been clear. Vángril ar ti mari Frodo. The meaning was clear and unmistakable: Boromir had sent – ordered – Frodo to leave, and while Aragorn had deeply doubted the warrior, he knew the son of Gondor had not been a liar, though something had deeply troubled him. The short glance they had exchanged had revealed pain, disgust, and self-loathing in those green eyes, and Aragorn wondered about the source. Yet… no, he could not condemn the man for something that was only a guess – he would not listen to the shadows of his own doubts.

Rising, he followed the tracks to the shore. Frodo and Sam had stowed their packs into the boat and left, going on alone. Aragorn's eyes strayed out over the cold waters. The Sun was slowly sinking – the afternoon was coming to an end. If they left now they could reach Frodo probably, before he could head deeper into the Emyn Muil.

The Ranger bowed his head, while his mind wished to pursue this path, his heart knew different. He had obligations still on this side of the shore. He had to find Boromir and find out what had happened to him, and they had to rescue Merry and Pippin. From here on out Frodo was on his own.

TRB

Finding Boromir proved more difficult than reading Frodo's fleeing tracks. The Orcs had not yet fully left the woods and the friends had to confront several pockets of them while they searched the hillside where Aragorn had last seen Boromir. They found the hollow under the oak trees where the Gondorian Captain had slain the Orc leader. Many dead Orcs were piled around the tree; the ground was stomped and muddy from their black blood. But there was no sign of Boromir at the scene, only dead Orcs.

"A mighty battle he fought." Gimli surveyed the scene, taking in the numbers that lay dead on the dirty grounds. "Worthy of song."

"I'd rather find him." Aragorn bent down, trying to make any sense of the tracks, but in the mess of Orc corpses, fallen weapons, and the deep tracks their ironclad feet had made, it was all but impossible to read anything from the torn earth, soaked with blood and trampled by so many different feet.

"His sword." Legolas picked up the hilt of Boromir's sword. The blade had shattered, a shard of it still attached to the hilt. Where the other pieces may lie, no one could guess. "He'd never leave that behind," the Elf observed, his eyes studying the blood-encrusted hilt with a strange expression.

"There." Gimli pointed uphill; the observant eyes of the Dwarf had spotted the broken stones of the overlook. He scrambled uphill, finding the destroyed ruin and more corpses. "He fought like a hero, but where did he go? Or did they take him too?"

Aragorn's face turned ashen at the very thought, and he flinched, drawing his arms closer to his chest. It was a frightful thought indeed. No matter how things between him and Boromir stood, the Steward's son would be too great a price for Saruman to claim. The White Wizard already held power with Denethor of Gondor, and the old Steward would do anything to save his beloved son. If Saruman had Boromir, he might even force Gondor to switch sides in the war. "We need to free them," he said, his voice pitched. "The Ring… has passed beyond our reach. But we cannot give up our friends to torture and captivity."

Neither Dwarf nor Elf had any words against his decision. They raced down to the landing site and grabbed their packs, in a hurry to take up the chase. Leaving last, Legolas glanced back at the riverbank. His fine Elven senses told him that there was something he had overlooked, but at Aragon's call he headed on and joined his friends as they set out to rescue their Hobbits.

TRB

Kíli retreated from the hilltop to draw the Orcs he had collided with after the explosion after him. Their fight in the shadow of the broken ruin was a short but tough one, with the Dwarf throwing all his strength into overcoming them swiftly. There were no new Orcs to come after him; they did not care for his existence beyond the disruption he was for their plans. And these plans proceeded elsewhere, if their leaving him alone was any indicator.

Once he was clear of them, Kíli returned to the woods to search for Boromir. The sounds of fierce battle in the woods gave him directions where to go, but when he came to the den under the oaks, he could only see dead Orcs. The snarling call of a crow made him look up. A battered storm-crow was sitting on a branch above him, cawing at him. He understood only half its words but still enough.

"I thank thee," he said in the tongue of the Ravens, quickly racing down the hill towards the water. A quarter of a league downriver he saw them – five Orcs, one limping with an Elven arrow through his upper leg, two struggling to drag a semi-conscious but still struggling Man with them, while the other two covered them. They too showed injuries, blood smearing their armor, and one of them held his shoulder in a twisted way, like it was hurting. They were not of the White Hand – their helmets were marked with the Red Eye. Kíli scowled. Sauron and Saruman: a dragon and a serpent, both dangerous and both vile. The world was a sorry place for having to contend with both.

He moved to the side, using the high bushes near the shoreline to flank them. The best way to take them was from the angle they did not expect: the river. The one with the arrow in the leg was weakened already. If Kíli moved fast enough, the surprise should be enough to gain him (an/the) advantage.

The Orcs were clearly trying to get away unnoticed and meet with their troop, was most likely waiting for them on the other shore, and they were not prepared for another attack. And while they stood five to one, they had not counted on Boromir getting up again to fight. The Gondorian was wounded, bleeding and dazed from a hit to the head, but he was not out yet. But when the last of the five Orcs fell, the Captain all but collapsed against a tree.

"Boromir." Kíli knelt down behind his friend. It took no second glance to see that Boromir had been severely injured. He was bleeding badly: several Orc weapons had hacked through his chainmail. "We need to stop that bleeding or it will be your death." For a moment, another battlefield stood before Kíli's eyes: Balin… wounded beyond rescue, his armor torn, his body bleeding from wounds, so many wounds. He pushed the memories away, not allowing them to gain strength.

The wounded Man was hardly in any shape to argue, but he felt himself slipping away more and more as Kíli did what he could to at least stop the bleeding. "Kíli..." Boromir coughed. He felt so cold; even the pain seemed to dull. "You need to help the others. Thorongil… Gondor will need him. If I don't come back…"

He clasped Boromir's hand. "Listen, my friend, you will come home. You will fight for your beloved city again. By the blood of Durin, I swear I will bring you home." Or die trying. Kíli could see how he was getting weaker; Kíli could feel the cold creep too quickly into the hand he still held, and he heard the breath of the man becoming painful and irregular. The shadows were creeping from the darkness descending on the river and they were reaching for his friend.

Friend. Kíli may have known Boromir only for such a short time, but the warrior had truly become a friend to him, and the Dwarf's soul felt as sore and rent as his body at having to see yet another friend die. The hand closed stronger around his, the fingers cold as ice, drawing Kíli back to the bitter day when he had clasped his uncle's dying hand on the battlefield outside Erebor, knowing his brother was already dead at the foot of that terrible hill.

He ducked his head, tears stinging his eyes, some of them touching Boromir's coldening fingers; they twitched slightly as the hot tears touched them. "No tears, friend." Boromir's voice was strained. "Do not mourn… we all fall into the night in the end."

Kíli looked up. How Boromir was aware in spite of his wounds was beyond him – he could only admire the stubborn will to fight: he certainly could rival a Dwarf's tenaciousness. In the failing light of dusk their eyes met and Kíli had never seen someone calmer, meeting the end. "I will not give up on you, Boromir, not yet.What we need is time," the Dwarf whispered.

Carefully, he drew his sword, the hilt shimmering white in the darkness that was quickly sinking on the river. When Kíli had received the Dragon's tooth from Bard, he had not known what to do with it, but, remembering the Elven sword his uncle had wielded, he decided to make it into a sword hilt, only to discover that no small amount of Smaug's magic remained in the material. It took nearly twenty years, and journeying to some lonely, far off places to meet those who could teach him, until Kíli had acquired the skills and knowledge to shape the powers of the material according to his will. And some of the runes and spells crafted into the weapon were untried or dangerous. One he had learned from a one-handed arcane smith he had met high up north, beyond the reaches of Carn Dum. One day, the red-haired smith had said, you will stand on a field of blood and wish for one who is dying to live. And then you will recall what I showed you to carve into that Dragon's tooth. It will take a price from you, make no mistake. No Man, or Elf, I knew has dared to make use of it twice. But knowing you like I do now, I think you have the heart for it, Dwarf. And now that time had come. Balin had been too far gone by the time Kíli had reached him, and his mother had died alone in a dark winter night, with her son a thousand miles away.

Carefully, Kíli put the white hilt into Boromir's hands. "You will hold onto this sword, and you will not let go, Captain, until I tell you otherwise." It was an order, one that bore no discussions.

Boromir understood the words, even if their sense was lost on him, and he obeyed the order. "Aye," he said softly, his voice weak but he was not yet gone. His hands closed around the warm hilt, and he felt a bit of warmth seeping back into him.

Kíli put his strong, calloused hands above Boromir's and he began to whisper the words the one-handed one had taught him. Runes shone in the hilt, waking from the depth of the Dragon's fang, their light cold and terrible but beautiful to behold. A surge of pain rose from where his hands touched Boromir's, racing through him, bleeding into his entire being, his whole body wracked not only with the same pain Boromir bore, but with something deeper, like life itself was being ripped from him and into the blade. And then the dark came: a cool, soothing emptiness that stretched under the earth and beyond the stars. Kíli gasped, trying to hold on. A spark rose in the darkness: a fire, a forge… a huge forge, like none he had ever seen, the stars moving outside the forge in the darkness and the fire glowing out into the night like the forge itself was the place where all that was was wrought. The powerful figure at the anvil put down the hammer and turned around, looking at him. Fear and awe warred in Kíli's chest, even as the single glance of the great smith might smite him to pieces and leave nothing but dust. And yet, he could not look away; he was unable to hide nor would he want to. The great smith, the father of his people, looked down on him and shook his head, much like a master would about the antics of an unruly apprentice. There was no anger in his eyes, nor wrath, but an infinite warmth. Kíli's heart leapt with awe and joy as he realized that as much as they might be stepchildren of the world, they had a home… They had one to whom they all belonged.

He awoke in the dark by the riverbank. Darkness had fallen completely and the stars were out. He must have been passed out for more than an hour. Boromir was deeply asleep, and while his wounds were not fully healed, he was much better, not bleeding any more, most of the wounds closed or scrapped over. He was healing.

Barely able to move his weary bones, Kíli got up and checked their surroundings. Silence had fallen on the woods. The Orcs had moved off in the hour that had passed and night had fallen. He used Boromir's Elven cloak to hide the sleeping warrior, and then went to search what had happened to the others. But he found no traces of them; they had left, either not finding or not searching for the Gondorian warrior.

Carefully, Kíli approached the landing site. He found two boats and a few discarded things: a bedroll had been left behind, some rations and a kettle, but nothing else. The camp had been packed up in a hurry and Boromir's comrades had truly left. The boats gave him an idea. He inspected them and chose the larger one, packing the remaining oars inside before bringing it down to the place near the water where he had hidden Boromir. The warrior was still asleep and Kíli somehow knew that he would not wake this night. Making use of the blankets and the Elven cloak, the Dwarf moved the wounded Captain into the boat, carefully securing their packs in the boat so they would not come loose. He even discarded his own armor and boots, securing them at the bottom of the boat as well. He had to trust the Elven craftsmanship to do what he was trying now. But it was the best, if not only, way to get out of here before the Orcs could return.

Clad in only his tunic and breeches, Kíli knelt down in the stern of the boat, taking one oar and steering it out on the river… and towards the waterfalls. He could hear the hollow roar of the waters in the darkness, and the moon cast white light on the foaming rim. The abyss beyond that rim was a black shadow. Quickly, they gained speed; the Dwarf was careful to angle the boat towards the middle rush, where the water would be deepest above the rocks. The rushing waters grabbed the boat and tossed them down into the deeps. The first step they made with minimal damage but at the second step, the falling waters doused Kíli in an icy flood, their impact clenching his muscles and pushing him from the boat as they hit the waterline again. He tried to grab the boat's side but his hand only grasped empty air, moments before a whirl pulled him under.

Icy water embraced Kíli's body, sinking its teeth into his skin like a winter morning in the north. The chill so quickly ate into his cramping muscles that he shuddered as his body fought against the muscles locking up. It was very dark down here; his eyes could not pierce the water entirely but beyond a blurred veil, he perceived the boat, sailing rapidly but upright on the surface. Exerting all his strength into swimming, Kíli fought his way through the whirling nightmare that tried to drown him. He reached the surface for a scarce moment, gasping for air, filling his lungs before the merciless whirl of the waters drew him under again and he was tossed deep into the dark waters, an endless blackness swallowing him up. He could not see anything but the black flood around him, except colored specks dancing in his vision and a blur of movement that was the water itself. Like a piece of obsidian before the sun. He had to marshal all his willpower to conquer the panic blossoming in his soul when the water pressed down on him. Nevertheless, he swam even faster, forcing his tired muscles to move. He had to escape this damned, dark pool.

A painful burning erupted from his chest and slowly extended towards his head. Kíli swam as fast as he could, his strong arms stemming against the icy flood, each move towards the surface painful, each a battle to not give in to the cold and the burning in his lungs, the icy water chilling his whole body to the point that made moving a supreme effort of will.

Like a shadow out of dark water, he followed the boat as they were tossed over the last ledge and into more deeps below. The water was whirling here like a gullet and pulled him down between narrow rocks, nearly trapping him under the stones. The rocks were very narrow, pressing so close they often hindered his fast movements. Trapped between the narrow rocks and dark waters, Kíli struggled, his chest aching, a dull throbbing spreading through his head. If he only could breathe. He barely managed to slip through the sharp edged rocks: they grazed his legs as he pushed away to swim upward. The burning in his lungs turned into a painful, hammering staccato. Somewhere between the shadows of the black waters, a light glittered beyond the dark pit. The wish to breathe became almost unbearable as he approached the faint light of the surface with what was left of his strength. The light was greying out, and pulling his arms beside his body to force himself up became an impossibly slow and painful effort. A long knife seemed to slice through his lungs as he slipped beneath the last rock barrier and saw the light above drawing close. Barely suppressing a pained scream, Kíli broke through the surface of the water. His breath was rattling in his chest and he had to force himself to breathe slowly.

As the boat drifted gently along the water's surface, Kíli slowly swam over and grabbed the stern of the boat, gaining a measure of control over the craft. The Elven miracle had made it across the waterfalls, not only without capsizing, but also without taking water or losing any of its precious load. Leaning his head against the rough wood, Kíli felt exhaustion wash over him. His body was chilled and aching, he felt every cut and bruise from the battle, and the terrible exhaustion from the spell like a leaden weight in his bones. From somewhere – he did not know where – he heard an amused yet ancient voice whisper: I am he that buries his friends alive and drowns them and draws them alive again from the water. It reminded him of another half-drowned journey, of arriving in Lake-town after the long and cold ride in the apple barrel, and suddenly Kíli laughed, his exhausted body shaking with mirth when he remembered being pulled from the barrel in Lake-town. He had not felt so alive in a long, long time, not since before the Battle of Five Armies. As swiftly as his waning strength would permit, he swam towards the shore, guiding the boat towards a riverbank. They both needed to rest to recover from what had transpired. The waterfalls lay behind them and the river could carry them back to Gondor after some well-deserved sleep.