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

by Valandhir

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

13. Chapter 13: We ride in the storm

Author's Note:

One of the chief troubles when writing about Gondor's troops was the confusion in ranks, because Tolkien left us with little more than a few captains. In my first version of this story, it was frustrating to say the least. Here, I chose to change some things, to make it a little easier for the readers, and worked with the following ranks:

Captain of Gondor (Boromir)

Captain of the Rangers (Faramir)

Alaris of the Tower Guard (Thoroniar) – formerly also "Captain", I chose to steal an ancient roman rank instead.

I hope it will make the ranks less confusing.

Valandhir

Chapter 12: We'll ride in the gathering storm

Boromir! Faramir had his hand pressed over his mouth like to strangle a shout or scream rising in his throat. His brother was alive – he had not lain dead in that drifting boat, and whoever his dark ferryman was, he looked much less frightening in the broad light of day. Letting his hand sink, he exhaled slowly, and gestured his men to move down, encircle the camp the way they would with strangers. It may not be quite the proper way to greet his brother but Faramir could not resist to pay Boromir back for the fright at least a little. They were halfway down the hillside when the short man jumped to his feet and grabbed his sword. "There's more crawling through these woods," he said, drawing the blade as he found cover for his back in a chunk of rubble. The long blade in his hands seemed too long for him to wield, but the way he stood betrayed long practice with the two handed weapon.

Faramir left the cover the heavy trunk of an old silver-lime tree had offered him, and pushed pack the hood of his cloak, realizing that they had been heard. It was rare that someone picked up on the soft steps of a Ranger approaching. "There is more in this land than Orcs, stranger," he said, striding into their small camp. His brother was standing too, wielding an axe of all things. He had remained on the other side of the fire, standing with his back to an ash tree, and Faramir realized that the two fighters would have had any attackers coming from the landside between them. His brother and his companion had either been communicating swifter than he had seen or the stranger did well to pick up on Boromir's battle tactics.

Faramir's eyes went to Boromir who stood feet planted firmly on the ground, a long axe in both hands, the blade of the weapon was curved, glittering coldly in the sun. Maybe it was the odd choice of a weapon that made Boromir appear wilder, more untamed than ever to Faramir's eyes. He noticed that his brother was leaner, muscles still strongly defined but the journey had caused hardships on him, reducing him to his very essence, there was a new scar parting his left eyebrow, and in the way he had chosen his balance Faramir recognized that Boromir must either be injured or too tired to focus on his center properly.

When he recognized his brother, Boromir lowered his weapon. "Faramir!" He put the axe down and strode towards Faramir to draw him into a fierce embrace. Faramir returned the hug, ignoring the nearly painful pressure Boromir's arms put on his back. He was too glad to see him alive to care. In the strong embrace he lost the last doubts that this was a dream or trick of his mind. Boromir was alive, he had come home and that was all that mattered. "I had not hoped to meet you so soon," his older brother eventually said, pulling back from their hug. "We had planned on reaching Osgiliath before next nightfall."

"We?" Faramir asked, gently reminding his brother that whatever else there may be, he had brought a stranger into Gondor's borders. The Captain of Gondor had the right to grant a stranger permission to remain inside their borders for a time, even a long time in some cases, if their skills were important to Gondor. A few of the finest bladesmiths and armorers had been such cases, staying for as long as a decade, along with healers or surgeons that were willing to lend their skill to the war effort. But only the Steward could confirm a permanent move. And their father had always been parsimonious with such things.

Turning to his companion, Boromir gestured him to join them. The short man approached and bowed deeply. "Kíli son of Dari, at your service."

It was not a Man at all, but a Dwarf. It had to be. Faramir had read about them and their customs. He looked different than the Dwarves drawn in the old books, with his beard being short and trimmed it stood out even more that his facial proportions were much more regular than those portrayed in the books, but still there was little doubt he had to be a dwarf. Hastily, he bowed in turn. "Faramir son of Denethor, at yours and your family's," he replied, as he'd read was proper. Seeing the glint in his brother's eye, the amused sparkle, he realized that his brother who had rarely bothered to learn such things must have been in for an interesting journey to say the least. Who knew what kind of troubles he had gotten into, the glint in his bespoke some amusing stories.

Riding with the expectation to find captives by the end of the day, Faramir's troop had brought some extra horses with them. On Faramir's gesture they brought two of these for Boromir and Kíli. "We were on our way back to Osgiliath as well," Faramir told his brother. "I had been inspecting Cair Andros. But now that you are here, that would be your duty." Boromir hated inspections with a passion, relegating them whenever he could get away with it to Targir or Veryan, and Faramir could not resist teasing his brother just a little. With the great joy of seeing him alive, alive and well, he could not help it.

"No time for such games, Brother. A storm is upon us and we need to be prepared. Have a rider dispatched to carry the message of my return to our father. He must know I have returned and will take command of Osgiliath immediately." Boromir mounted the horse and Faramir noticed that Boromir moved stiffly, not as smooth and swift as he knew of him. But the way the put the axe in the hold by the saddle bespoke familiarity with the weapon.

The Ranger's eyes went Kíli, the dwarf might have difficulties with the tall horse, but to his surprise he saw the dwarf mount with ease, his eyes on the column, searching for the spot to fall into formation. Before Faramir could point him somewhere, Boromir had seen the glance and waved him to join them. The dwarf guided the mare towards them, seeing that Faramir rode to Boromir's ride, he kept to the left.

"Our father will be overjoyed to hear of your return," Faramir replied honestly if belatedly to what Boromir had said, Denethor had been waiting long for his favorite son to return home, and eagerly awaited word. "but do you not wish to return to Minas Tirith? Osgiliath is—"

"Is the point where the Enemy will strike first, and we have little time to get ready. Which of the provinces have been mustered and are ready to march?"

Boromir had spurred the horse to a fast trot, and as he looked at Faramir there was a fierce light in his eyes, they shone brightly. Faramir knew his brother; he had seen this strength in the past, and he had also see it wane and nearly break under the brunt of the years of war, but it seemed whatever he had seen on his journey had renewed his strength and will to fight. "None," he admitted. "Our father does not permit it. I argued and…"

"And he said nay, like always." Boromir shook his head, unsurprised and frustrated. He knew he should not have expected his father to act, Denethor had failed to act decisively in too many years, but a small part of him still hoped the Steward would find out of the shadowed world in which is mind walked and would turn to the tasks at hand instead of leaving them entirely to him. "We have no time for this."

He turned on his horse to conduct a short survey of the dozen riders with Faramir. "Send Damrod to Belfalas, Ergon to Lossarnarch, and Thardir to Morthrond. They are to muster immediately and commit their troops. Belfalas is to man the coast and reinforce Cair Erafel, Lebeninn and Morthrond march on Minas Tirith, and…" Boromir's eyes found the man he had been looking for in the column, he had known Veryan would be here of course, but seeing the familiar face, invoked the dreams again, leaving a cold inside him. Veryan would follow him wherever he led, he knew that, and remembering the warrior who had been in his dreams, following him under the wings of the shadow itself, was painful and pleasant all the same. For Boromir knew he did not need the Ring to know Veryan's loyalties, even as he knew Veryan would not question him, not even if he had fallen and failed.

Seeing the blood drain from his brother's face as he spotted Veryan, Faramir wondered what might make Boromir react so strongly to his presence. But he had no time to think about it further, because Boromir was already issuing orders to the Man.

"Veryan, I will need you to ride to Lebeninn. Track down Hirluin of Tol Falas and make him commit all his troops to Osgiliath. Be as arrogant as you need to but get me his best Men within a week. If he does not want to come, leave him and his war-master at home; we want the troops, not their Lord."

Veryan saluted, fist over his heart. "It shall be done, my Captain." He turned his horse at once to carry out the orders he had been given.

"The Lord of Tol Falas will not be happy," Faramir pointed out diplomatically. Boromir had never cared with politeness where a good barked order would suffice, but alienating the nobles was never a wise course of action. And using Veryan's status, as Son of the Prince of Dol Amroth and Swan Knight to do it would only anger Imrahil of Dol Amroth sooner or later. He disliked the tensions that rose from such moments, when Veryan had to pull rank on minor nobles to whip them in line.

"Hirluin is welcome to it; I will keep him a warm spot in the front ranks if he insists on coming," Boromir told him. "I don't assume we have called for Rohan already? No… how could we? We'd need Father's seal for that. So it will have to wait."

Faramir waited for the riders to speed off to carry out their orders before he spoke again. "What has you in such a hurry, Brother?" he asked. "We have been seeing more enemy movements of late, Haradrim marching towards the Black Gate, but… they may as well be meant to fight some unrest in the East. Rumors are spreading about some insurrection within the Easterling Empire."

"Nay, Faramir, not this time." Boromir replied. "Forces are moving, the Enemy is ready to act. The Nine rode from Minas Morgul to the North, on much the same reason that sent me on my journey." His eyes went past Faramir and for a moment the Ranger Captain could see pain in them, whatever Boromir had seen on his ride to the North, it had not been good. "The enemy is not yet beyond doubt, Fari, but he is hunting for his final weapons while he readies his armies to strike and his attack will come swift and hard before long."

"The East has been bleeding off the numbers of the Orcs under Mount Gundabad and other places for years," Kíli spoke up. "that Goblin Town was so empty when you found it, Boromir, was because many of their number were driven East."

Faramir had been surprised at the dwarf's additions to their discussion, it was rare even for a friend, to have the confidence to join one of their discussions like this, he also could not help but notice the deep voice with the musical, lilting accent that sounded so foreign to their ears. But Boromir's reaction surprised him the most, for his brother barked a laugh.

"If their numbers were reduced already, I do not want to imagine what life in Eriador was with them at their full strength, Kíli. Is there a difference between the denizens of Goblin Town and the Orcs from Mount Gundabad, you mentioned them separately."

"Most of the enemies we encountered were Goblins," Kíli explained, guiding his horse with one hand at the reins, the other raised to underline his words with a gesture. "Bolg… he was a Gundabad Orc."

An Orc with a name to him, that was not simply one of the many Morbeth words for 'slave' or 'thrall'? Faramir listened up curiously, especially as he saw the scowl on Boromir's face. "I take it you know this Orc?" he inquired, wondering how his brother would have come to know one particular Orc.

"I've met him, he was a tough beast." Boromir told him, his face still grim. "if the Enemy has been recruiting Warg riders from the North, we will have to teach the men quickly how to handle those."

"Wolf riding Orcs, the chronicles of Arnor speak of such," Faramir remembered reading about them once or twice, but even there it had been a mention in passing.

"They are huge, Fari, and strong, wild and more cunning than any warrior would like. Kíli is the one who has lots of experience with them."

TRB

Most of the ride to Osgiliath they used to plan further on bolstering the defenses along the border, : provisions had to be secured at Osgiliath and at Minas Tirith, the villages in Ithilien had to be mustered for anyone able to bear weapons, and all settlements beyond the river were to retreat across the Anduin. They arrived in Osgiliath as the afternoon Sun announced the fourth hour past midday. Most of the city had sunken into ruins during the long war, in the last decades alone the city had been overrun and retaken several times and the traces were visible in crushed buildings, crumbling streets and broken walls. But on the western shore of the Great River still stood Celanost the Guardian Citadel of the River, the one stronghold Gondor had been able to uphold in the embattled city. Originally Celanost had not been much more but a walled tower, but when the war had become fierce, the Gondorians had used the wall structures there and expanded them, filling holes with heavy stonework and closing walls with blocks until they had turned parts of the former city into a veritable fortress.

Faramir winced when he saw the way Boromir's eyes quickly scanned the fortifications. Repairs had been under way since the city had been re-taken, but he knew where there still were weak spots, and at what points he brother might find the troops guarding the citadel lacking. He knew Boromir's expressions well, and he could easily tell at what points he gaze stayed and a frown, or glance indicated he had seen something he disliked. To his surprise, his brother did not turn to him with another set of orders to address whatever issues he had spotted, but to the Dwarf." Kíli, are you as good finding tunnels and rat holes in foreign buildings as you are in mines?" he asked.

The Dwarf looked around, his eyes taking in the walls and the tower, and for a moment Faramir had the distinct impression that Kíli too was looking for specific things, only that his eyes stayed longer on the heavy East Wall and the place where a barricade of massive blocks walled up the connection between two former bastions in the North wall. "Not totally foreign, Boromir, but, yes, there is little Dwarves don't find in a stone building."

"Good; we need to find any hole and tunnel that leads inside our fortifications and block it," Boromir said. With a quick look along the walls, he scanned the Rangers supplementing the archers on the battlements, spotting the one he had been looking for at the far side of the main bastion. At a distance it was often hard to tell the cloaked figures of the Rangers apart, but this one stood out with his wild mane of caliginous locks that never staid inside the leather band holding them. "Anarion, gather your men and go with Kíli. See that any gap he finds is closed. Listen to him about that," The Ranger bowed and sprinted to the other end of the battlements to gather up his other archers, albeit he was only in his early twenties he was already responsible for several more Rangers.

"Brother…" Faramir gently led his Captain out of the yard and towards one of the ramparts where they may talk unobserved by the others. "What has happened to you? Your journey? The dream that sent you north? What did it mean?" He had wished to speak of the reason of Boromir's journey since they had met, but the matters of war had taken precedence. And the one time Boromir had mentioned the reason for his journey he had mentioned the Nine in the same sentence.

Boromir looked at him directly, holding his gaze firmly until all of Faramir's focus was on his response. "It meant that the Shadow is now rising, beyond doubt, beyond holding back. Brother, war – true war – is upon us. The Enemy is gathering his forces. It was Orcs of the Eye that nearly captured me at Amon Hen."

"Orcs capturing you at Amon Hen?" Faramir asked, in a low voice, curling his hands together, not allowing them to shake. "How…?" How was Boromir so sure? He had been sure on their ride here, but… there was something in his voice, in his whole demeanour that said he was sure, he knew that the storm was coming.

Leaning against the wall, Boromir told his brother of the last leg of their Quest. There was no time for a full tale, so he told him of the Orc attack that had shattered the group and how the Orcs of the Hand had nearly captured him. "Without Kíli's timely interference, I'd be in the hands of the Enemy by now," he finished. "And I know our time is running out. The world's time is running short. We must be ready to face the Shadow."

Amazed, Faramir looked at his brother. Boromir had always been a great leader, a true Captain, but the years of war had worn him down. Faramir had seen his brother's strength give out and the bitter desperation creep into his voice and eyes. But that was gone now, as if the shadow of doubt, the belief that they were abandoned by the rest of the world, had been burned away from. While their situation had not changed, and Boromir had not once spoken of hope, Faramir saw a new determination in his brother, a will to fight like never before, to fight and die without despair or fears. He had grown on this journey. Through danger and pain he had grown to new strength, to a will to stand in the face of the Shadow and not to give in to the very end. Something had happened to kindle the flames of war in him again to a burning blaze. "Then we will stand ready," he replied, he knew it would be a bitter battle to the end, if true war came to Gondor, but he knew they would make it a fight that would be remembered. The Captain of Gondor had returned to lead them into the storm, onto the very wheel of fire and they would follow him into the blaze.

TRB

Night spread its dark blanket on Osgiliath. A cold wind blew from the east, ruffling the waters of the river and howling in the empty windows and gateways of the city, as if to remind all those stationed inside Celanost that a storm was rising. Faramir walked through the ruined arches near the outer wall. Within half a day, the whole garrison had changed. The soldiers were… different – there was no denying it. They were more confident, hopeful and determined; their Captain had returned and with him they'd hold out against the end itself. Faramir knew he did not inspire the same kind of loyalty in the troops. They trusted him, fought well for him, but they'd never march to their certain doom for him, nor did he want them to.

He saw Anarion squatted on the rim of one of the ancient wells that had long sat unused in the ruined parts of the former city. "There, grab my hand," the young Ranger said, reaching down.

Faramir stopped. None of the soldiers would have been so clumsy as to fall into one of the wells. He walked over to see what was happening. He spotted a large, strong hand grab the rim of the well, and moments later Kíli climbed from the dark shaft. He had shed his armor, only wearing a tunic and breeches made from sturdy brown leather, well-worn and simple in make, and he was soaked. The way he crouched on the rim of the well, as he climbed made his strong hands stand out, both with a firm hold on the rough stones. The dwarf's frame was leaner than Faramir had expected, but there was an undeniable power in him. Sitting down on the rim of the well, Kíli pushed his wet locks out of his face. "It goes right down to the river, Anarion, much like the other one."

The young Ranger's face was grim. "Is it passable for Orcs?" he asked, peering down the shaft.

"I made it through to the river and back, so I'd say yes. And after a bath not even their stench will give them away." Kíli's joke elicited a few laugh from the other Rangers, who had been watching from the sidelines. The dwarf hopped off the well's rim. "We need to block this rat hole."

Kíli's eyes went to the rubble of a former building under the next arch. "That stone slab there will do nicely, at least for the night." He pointed three of the Rangers to use levers to raise the slab enough for Anarion and him to move ropes under it, while he send two others to climb up to the wall and guide the ropes over a broken beam. It allowed them to ease the huge slab off the rubble and move it towards the well.

The way they worked bespoke knowledge and experience with this kind of task, but what Faramir noticed more was the way they worked. Kíli moved among the Rangers with a casual ease, like he did not feel out of place among all the Men at all, his orders were given evenly, not once did he raise his voice, but they carried a quiet authority that was hard to miss.

As they swung the heavy slab towards the well, one of the Rangers lost his grip on the rope, the thick cordage slipping through his hands. Kíli, grabbed it before he could fall, pulling it towards the one he had secured. His shoulders spanning as he pulled both to bring the block into position and not long after the broken chunk of former ceiling rested firmly on the well hole.

Once Kíli could let go of the ropes he hurried to the man who had dropped the rope. "Are you alright?"

The young archer nodded dazedly. "I… I am sorry, it should not have happened."

Kíli clapped his shoulder. "Have someone look at your hands, rope burns are nasty." He said in friendly tones before turning to the others. "I think that's it for the night, Anarion, you look ready to drop where you stand. See your men get some rest; I shall report back to the Captain."

Faramir saw Anarions insecure gaze alternating between him and Kíli, and gave the other Ranger a quick nod to proceed. "You can give your first report to me," he said to Kíli.

The Dwarf inclined his head. "Lord Faramir," he acknowledged the younger of the Steward's sons. "We have found a number of passages through the walls, some simply hidden tunnels, some old wells or tunnels below the waterline. Most of the eastern side is searched and we blocked what we found. We'll proceed with southern part of the fortifications at dawn."

"You have my thanks for putting yourself to the task like this," Faramir replied, "and yet, you may wish to be careful, for my father is not a man to appreciate someone deeming a task finished without having orders to do so." Faramir added the last in lighter tones, as a friendly warning about a man luckily not here at the moment.

"I may be able to see in the dark nearly as well as in daylight," Kíli replied, "but your men don't, and they are tired. A few hours' worth of lifting rocks and rubble on top of a fully day's watch… They will be of more use after some rest and food. They are good men but they are not used to that kind of work."

"And you are?" Again Faramir studied the dwarf, standing before him. He had read books about Dwarves and their history, seeing drawings of them as well. He also had met a few Dwarven mercenaries, though he would not base his judgment of Dwarves on them. Kíli was taller than many of his kind but not quite as stocky, his lean frame seemed atypical, especially compared with some of his people whom Faramir had seen. He had the strong shoulders and hands that were so often described in his people, but he was not a small mountain, like especially one of the mercenaries who Faramir remembered. That dwarf had been all power, muscles, a mountain made flesh. There also was a difference in Kíli's speech that Faramir noticed the longer he heard him, his accent was not the same and… he spoke in more cultured tones, like someone who had seen more of an education. There was nothing rude or lower class about the way he talked and Faramir would have guessed him to be a warrior, maybe someone from a better family, instead of common laborer.

"I've worked in quarries before." Kíli slipped two slim knives from the sleeves of his tunic, drying them off swiftly, before donning his armor again and slipping them under his bracers. There was an odd balance between the warrior and… what exactly? Faramir wondered, in Kíli. He could detect a note of pride in what he had said about the quarries, but the way he handled the armor bespoke the ease of an old warrior handling the chainmail. And taking two blades down the well, that was a hint of paranoia well suited for a Ranger that always expected trouble. "And working at the anvil all day will teach you endurance." Kíli went on, looking up to him.

Now there was something that seemed to go with any story of Dwarves: the forge. Faramir smiled. "Be this as it may, you too deserve your rest, Master Dwarf. I shall take your report to my brother. Anarion will show you to where you may rest."

TRB

There was no real garrison in Osgiliath; the quarters used by the troops were in buildings fixed up enough to serve such purpose. Anarion had shown Kíli where he could camp down among them and where the cistern was to wash up after a long day. Kíli had taken the chance of the latter gladly. Scrubbing the dirt off his skin was good. He also used the time to put a comb through his dark mane. Looking at his reflection in the clear water of the cistern pool, he saw for the first time the changes – how the using the spell had affected him.

He had sported some iron-grey streaks in his dark hair for years now, but overnight a number of silvery streaks had appeared falling from the top of his head, mingling with his dark locks, a few where truly white, standing out strongly amongst the darker hair. He was well aware that it was the price of the spell: what the enchantment in the Dragon's tooth had taken out of him to fan Boromir's fleeting lifespark into a burning a flame was more than strength of momentary energy – it had fed on his very essence and shaved off some of his own life. He did not regret it the least, he had been able to chase away the black veiled Lady this time, and see a friend survive. For once he had been able to step between a friend and certain death and succeed where he had failed in the past. It was worth the price twice over.

He had known that this would be the consequence; the one-handed one had warned him against it, the spell had not been made for mortals to use in the first place. Having cleaned up, the Dwarf quickly took some of the pale streaks near his temples, intertwining them with the darker ones in two braids, one braid remaining unchanged, five strands speaking of family lost, in honor of the memories of those Kíli had buried and was still mourning, the other one would have been in honor of Fíli, signifying the solitary wanderer, of the one who would go on, even as his soul and heart rested beside their brother. Kíli looked at himself in the waters, knowing he was not the lone wanderer anymore, he had accepted to fight for others, to care, to live for a cause… and somewhere in his heart there was a small spark that had been lit yearning to reach for that cause, for that life. He touched the other braid, it would always hold the memory of his brother, even if Kíli was the lone wanderer no longer, He took two pale strands and three dark ones, braiding them into the band of the fighter, of the warrior dedicated, attaching the steel clasps to them. Thorin had made for him when he had come of age; they were adorned with the raven in flight.

When Kíli returned to the makeshift barracks, one of the young Rangers, who's bronze skin made him look like a Southlander, handed him some bread and cheese. "You must be hungry, sir," he said. Kíli studied the face, needing only a moment to recall the name. "Thank you, Anarion."

He sat down with the troop, slowly eating some of the bread. He noticed the stares he got from the troop. Some of them were openly mustering him, seizing him up, while most of the troop tried to be less overt in their glances, but they too were look at him with curiosity. It was nothing new to him – Dwarves attracted a good amount of attention among humans, even those who, like himself, had learned to blend in and reduce the inevitable tell-tale signs. A dwarf who would cut his beard, wore his hair simply without braids or other funny attachments, and was careful to not draw attention to the size of his hands, could pass for a short Man with a little effort. Kíli had done that before, the accent always presented a problem, of course.

When he found Anarion stare at him again, he looked up and held his gaze. "Something has you restless," he observed, giving the younger warrior the chance to either ask or change his behavior.

Anarion was startled by the words. "I apologize, Kíli; it simply seems strange and wondrous that a stranger would return with Lord Boromir and… a Dwarf at that."

Kíli could hear the thinly veiled questions behind that comment. He was a stranger who had been assigned to the troop of Rangers and they were trying to assess him. It was a normal thing: Dwarf war-bands worked on the same principle. "You can blame the Orcs for that," he told them, deciding to regale them with a tale or two of Boromir's heroics on their journey.

TRB

Faramir had found Boromir stowing away the things from his travelling pack in the makeshift room atop one of the towers that served as their quarters. It was not much better than any other place in the ruined city; a barren room with blankets on the floor for sleep, a rickety crate to store weapons and other items and a solid stone floor that could serve as a map table as needed, the only luxury it afforded was a small amount of privacy, by being inside a broken tower, away from the main barracks. "Kíli stopped the search for more tunnels for the night," he said. "He felt they'd not be able to see well enough to continue and that Anarion's men were too exhausted. Although he does not give my men enough credit for their skills of sight, I would agree that they have been worked very hard today. The Rangers are not stonemasons; they are not used to heavy lifting."

"You disapprove?" Boromir set aside his vambraces, revealing a bandage on his left forearm. "And you may be underestimating Kíli's eyes; I have seen him navigate dark tunnels without any light like it was in bright daylight."

"Why would I? He is very skilled, finding more tunnels than we ever could have," Faramir said quietly, noting the interesting detail about the dwarf, Boromir must have seen some interesting places during the journey. "But I wonder how the Dwarf could still stand and work like that; he must have been more tired than our men."

"I'd not be sure about that," Boromir replied, inspecting the bandage on his arm and trying to loosen it unsuccessfully." His people lost their home a long time ago, and in exile they had to take whatever work they could find, no matter how high or low; they have worked in forges, roadworks, and—"

"Quarries? Yes... He mentioned having... worked in a quarry in the past. Still…"He saw how Boromir made a face as the tight wrapping on his arm would not move. . "Brother… what are you doing?"

"I need to change those dressings to see which are still necessary," Boromir replied, stopping for a moment to inspect the covering. "Faramir… Kíli has come through this land before, as a youth working with his uncle in the forge. I would not be surprised if knew this city from a time before our birth."

The Ranger ignored the attempt at distraction. "Let me take a look at those bandages, brother. You will only make it worse, and I would prefer to have you free of fevers." With a resigned glance, Boromir sat down and allowed his brother to inspect his various injuries.

In his life as a Ranger and a soldier of Gondor, Faramir had seen a great number of injuries – had received quite a few himself – but the more he saw of the traces on his brother's body, the more horrified he became. Angry red lines still marred the chest and sides, two of them alone close to the heart, another already healed scar ran down the shoulder, and was crossed at the neck by a fresh one Faramir had to steady his hands, Boromir must have been nearly hacked to pieces, so many traces of deep blade wounds, and not just a few that must be from arrows. The Ranger was no stranger to pain but what his brother must have been through was beyond that. Most of the wounds were closed already or even scarring over, but they must have been horrible when freshly received. "Boromir… how did you even survive this?" he asked, "How could you travel with such wounds? When did this happen?"

While Boromir had taken stock of his own shape back at their camp on the riverbank, they had been crusted over and well on the way to healing, but now the crusts were gone and the wounds fully closed. "Rauros," he said softly. "It happened there…" He touched a scar on his chest it tingled under his fingers, reminding him of the pain when the Orc axe had cut through his armor. Like the echo of the pain from the hammer that had all but smashed his wrist. . "I… I don't know Faramir. I remember lying on the ground, bleeding out. Kíli was there and… I knew I was dying. It was all cold and dark…" He frowned, remembering the darkness creeping in, the cold creeping with it, the chill settling in drowning out the pain. Kíli's strong hand clasping his…

"But when did it happen? How long ago?" Faramir asked, a little impatiently, seeing his brother was dodging the question. How often had his brother pretended to be fine, to not be injured, to not hurt? Boromir was good at hiding how bad things had been, even when he had returned from those horrible dungeons had he managed to smile at Faramir and joke about Orc hygiene. He would not let him bear this alone, no matter how much Boromir tried to shield him.

"Four… maybe five days ago." Boromir was not sure how long they had been at the river, or how long he had slept.

Faramir turned from his brother for a moment, his hand covering his mouth like to stifle a 'no!' or other shout. When the words finally came out, they were still chocked.. "But that's... that's not possible!"

Boromir looked down at the scars. He could see the many marks on his body and he knew his brother was right: he should not be so well healed – or healed at all.

"By rights you should have died," Faramir observed. "I doubt even our healers could have saved you in time. Not with so many deep wounds. 'Tis a miracle that you lived to recover at all." He saw how Boromir's gaze went past him, to the narrow crenel in the wall, but not really seeing it either. "You know what happened?" Boromir's shoulders slumped as he bowed his head, drawing closer in on himself. Faramir stepped closer, he had not seen such a physical retreat in his brother in many years. Gently he put a hand on his shoulder, to let him know he was not alone. .

Boromir looked up, his eyes holding a strange expression. "I was dying, Faramir, bleeding out, I do not know how I managed to stand during that last fight at all. My wrist was shattered, breathing was painful and all was dizzy. We had fought off the last Orcs that had captured me, and Kíli tried to stop the bleeding but… you are right: not even the healers could have done anything. I knew it was the end, Fari."

Breathlessly, Faramir listened; he could see that his brother's mind was far away, back in that riverbank. "I tried to tell Kíli to go but he… he put his sword right into my hands. It burned like fire in my grasp. I still can hear his voice: 'You will hold onto this sword, and you will not let go, Captain, until I tell you otherwise.' It was an order, Fari, taking hold so strongly, I could not let go." Boromir's hands curled into firsts, finding hold in the stone of the wall. "I'm not sure what happened next... It seemed like a blue flame chased the darkness away, burning it out… but there was a void, a wide emptiness that took the pain, my mind… I could finally sleep…When I woke, we were on the riverbank close to Cair Andos and I was healed."

Faramir could not speak his throat was constricted, nor would his lips utter any words. . Now that he realized how close he had come to losing his brother forever, he was all the more grateful he had been returned to them. "Although your wounds seem healed well, I shall send for your friend, he has used some salve I do not know on your bandages and I would not risk your recovery through my ignorance," he said firmly.

"Most if it seems healed well enough," Boromir said, "and you were right: he well deserves some rest. I doubt he got much while he took care of me."

"It would appear that this new friend of yours has more than a few secrets," Faramir observed, though he could see that Boromir was not at ease speaking about what had transpired. How did a man face such a miracle? How could anyone? "But he got you back to us, for which I am grateful. However did you meet him?"

Boromir pulled on his armor again and sat down on the blankets on the floor, leaning against the wall. He silently agreed with Faramir, he was glad and grateful that he was back… he was finally home, with his brother. They may not have much time to celebrate being reunited, but they'd have time to talk, free of darkness for a moment. "How we met? That's quite a tale, little brother," He smiled when he saw Faramir's mien, since becoming a Ranger Fari could be flustered when he called him that. He had missed him, only now he realized how much.

"I did not find Rivendell even with all the good research you did for me and that was probably wasted by me not caring for the details. I got stranded in the mountains and got landed in an Orc den, one like you never could imagine. A huge chasm full of wooden contraptions and breaking bridges…" Cheerfully Boromir recounted his misadventure among the Goblins and how they had met and journeyed together across the lone lands, of the hunt for Baggins with him having no idea who or what a Baggins even might be all the while Boromir did not mention the Ring, he could not bring himself to speak of the dreams, the lure and his own shame when it came to that thing. Instead he described the settlement of Bofur the Dwarf and how he had learned that Baggins was a Halfling, and how they had seen the lights on Amon Sul in the night. He could see that Faramir's head perked up whenever he described the remains of Arnor, so he described their ride towards the ancient watchtower and finally their run-in with the Nazgul on Weathertop.

Sitting opposite of his brother, Faramir listened intently, reading between the lines of his brother's fascinating tale, watching him. No matter how harrowing the journey through the north must have been, the way Boromir's eyes shone as he recounted the events, he knew his brother had thoroughly reveled in the adventure, in the deadly challenge. The events at Amon Sûl had him spellbound Faramir's spine. Charging at a Nazgul – that was either insane or brave, if not both. Small wonder his brother liked this dwarf, it was the kind of crazy courage he appreciated in his comrades. When Boromir came to their stand against the Warg riders, Faramir shuddered; it was so much like his brother to do such a thing and place himself between the enemy and whomever needed protection, never caring how many foes he want up against. Boromir could be more stubborn than a King with all his armies at his back. And Boromir went on with the story, telling him of the huge Orc leader. Bolg, whom he had mentioned during their ride.

"What a beast." Boromir looked at him. "Huge and ugly. His name was Bolg but he certainly wasn't the brightest. Kíli knew him – old enemies of sorts. 'I remember you… Kíli unda Thorin.'" Boromir did a fair imitation of the Orc's rumble, though there was a grim edge in his voice. "He got to Kíli, spoke of the battle where Fíli – his older brother – was killed."

"He called him Kíli unda Thorin?" Here Faramir interrupted his brother for the first time. "I thought it was Kíli unda Dari?" The Ranger was fairly fluent in the different Orc tongues, and he recognised the words indicating ancestry in the way the orcs would express it.

"I told you, Bolg wasn't exactly bright. Thorin was Kíli's late uncle, if I understood all he told me right. You know me, little brother – I hate genealogies, even of our own nobility. And Dwarven genealogy gets confusing, with all those names, Thorin, Thrain, Thrôr…"

Faramir had no problems at all to sort through the names and recognise them as the names of the Dwarven royal dynasty descended from Moria's throne and Durin himself. He had read about them, the last dignitary that had been at the court of King Thrór had left quite extensive letters and notes on his stay at the Lonely Mountain and on the state of the dwarven dynasty. While much of his longwinded wordings to Belecthor II Steward of Gondor, had been about the richest Kingdom of the North, he had included many many fascinating details on the Dwarves and their Kings, including a portrait of King Thrór and his family. Now that Faramir knew Kíli was related to Durin's line he noticed that some of the details in his looks that made him stand out from other dwarves, actually were prevalent in his family. "Thorin Oakenshield was Kíli's uncle?" he asked, trying to place Kíli correctly in the dynasty but not quite sure where to place him yet.

"That is the reason why I missed you most on my journey, Brother. You would have understood much so faster than I. But yes, Thorin Oakenshield was Kíli's uncle, he spoke of a great quest to retake the Mountain Home, he went on when Thorin led their people home. He fell in battle not long after and Thorongil spoke of a Battle near the gates of Moria, that he fought. I take it I should know that name?"

"Thorin Oakenshield is a Dwarven hero bordering on a legend!" Faramir said. "He fought their greatest battles of the last two centuries: Azanulbizar and Dale. With him, the line of the old Kings under the Mountain was ended."

"Dale that would be the Battle of the Five Armies…" Boromir had guessed it had simply been recorded under another name in the south. "But the line of the old Kings did not end that day, Fari, much as Dáin the second of his ugly name might want others to believe that."

Faramir arched an eyebrow; it seemed his brother had learned more about the dwarves on his journey. "But… as far as knowledge serves and trade relations go, Dáin is King under the Mountain, of the younger line of Durin. If anyone of the older line had survived, they would have been crowned."

"Thorin had two heirs – his sister-sons, Fíli and Kíli. I do not know how it happened exactly, but Dáin managed to put himself on the throne betraying Kíli of his birthright, causing a second exile among those dwarves who do not want to follow an usurper. The dwarves in Eriador are exiles, while Gimli, another dwarf I travelled with, was from Dáin's court."

It took Faramir a while to digest this, it was rare that he could bombard his brother with questions regarding a topic of lore and would get fascinating answers. Boromir launched happily into telling all he knew of the dwarves in Eriador, an ancient dwarf named Balin son of Fundin and his attempt to retake Moria and the fate of that expedition, along with the disputes that existed between the exiles and the Lonely Mountain. It was easy for Faramir to see that his brother was taking Kíli's side of the argument, and he had to smother a smile once or twice. Kíli was Boromir's friend, and thus in Boromir's eyes he was right, no matter what. What amazed Faramir most were the detailed descriptions of the deeps of Moria, and how much attention his brother had paid to the details of the legendary underground city. They said and talked long into the night, as Boromir shared much of his journey with his brother.

TRB

In the pale hours before dawn, when the Sun had yet to peek over the horizon, Faramir woke up, hearing his brother's voice. He pushed himself up, blinking into the darkness of their room. "Burn… burn them all…" Boromir growled in his sleep, his voice low and strained.

Faramir got up, lighting the candle on the stone holder. In the faint light it cast he saw Boromir writher and shake in his sleep, the warrior's powerful hands curled into the blanket, knuckles white. Kneeling down beside his brother, Faramir reached for his arm. "Boromir! Wake up!" Usually the touch would have been enough to startle Boromir into full waking, as Faramir well knew but Boromir did not react to his presence at all.

He grabbed both shoulders of the sleeping man, to shake him. Doing so was dangerous; startling Boromir like this had had Faramir with a knife at his throat before. But no shaking or calling could break Boromir out of his dreams, most of what he muttered was unintelligible to Faramir's ear but now and then a word slipped in between. But if the shakes and sweat were indication those were no good dreams.

Letting go Faramir considered using a kindling, a small burn might be enough pain to break the dreams… but if Boromir did not react to touch, it was unlikely he would even feel the pain. What could do? What could cause this? He frowned; maybe the rapid healing had a side effect? Boromir had said he had slept for days on the boat. If so, only one person could give the answer to that – Kíli.

The Ranger rose, striding out of the room and down the broken stairwell towards the walls. One of the rangers stood not far away on the eastern bastion. Nearly as tall as Faramir and just impatiently trying to tie back his wild hair – Anarion. Faramir was not surprised to see him, Anarion would often take the dog's watch, the hours before morning when mists obscured the sight and played tricks on the mind. He had keen eyes and was a good observer, rarely tricked by the light or the fogs. "Anarion, do you have seen Kíli?"

"Down with second watch, Captain," Anarion replied at once, he pointed down towards the guard post under the arches, where a fire was ablaze in a tripod and the men of second watch were sitting close by. The second watch consisted of troops that were to stand ready in case a nightly attack overwhelmed the guards on the wall too swiftly for the men from the main barracks to react. Second watch was meant to buy enough time for the main garrison to be roused. It was a boring task but one that was necessary. Faramir walked down the stairs into the courtyard. Among the tall soldiers, he perceived a shorter figure sitting on a broken pillar.

"… he ducked under the attack and before I could see it, he had rammed his sword right into Bolg's chest! The huge Gundabad Orc stumbled back and Boromir yanked his sword free, before beheading him in one swift stroke…"

Faramir was not surprised to find the Men sitting on the rubble around the tripod; hanging on Kíli's every word, listening to how Boromir had fought a huge Orc leader from the north. He shook his head; even worried though he was he had to admit that the Dwarf knew how to tell a good war-story, keeping the attention of his listeners. That it was a tale about the revered Captain of Gondor certainly did not harm the story. He strode into the circle, he had not time to waste, not with Boromir trapped in that unwaking sleep. "Kíli?" He wished he knew how to properly address the Dwarf; the short name felt insufficient sometimes. Or maybe it was because he did not know where to place him in the hierarchy of Osgiliath? With the soldiers and his Rangers Faramir was used to calling them just by their names, or sometimes nicknames, no ranks or familial titles attached, but with Kíli he could not quite assume that he was just another of their warriors, but he could not place him otherwise.

The Dwarven warrior looked up to him. "Lord Faramir?" he asked, hopping off the broken pillar, taking his sword that had been leaning against the stone beside him.

"Lord Boromir has need of you," Faramir said, not wanting to discuss this in front of the assembled troops.

Without wasting time, Kíli followed him across the yard. "His injuries?" he asked once they were out of earshot. "He is still recovering from Amon Hen."

"I am not sure," Faramir replied as they mounted the stairs that led up to their place. He could hear a groan even through the heavy wooden door. "Something is haunting Boromir's sleep. I tried to wake him, but could not."

"His nightmares; he had them during most of our journey." Kíli replied softly as they went inside he at once hurried to Boromir's side, and knelt down on the floor beaide the oblivious warrior. Boromir's face shone tinged with glistening sweat; he spoke unintelligible words in his dreams.,

Surprised Faramir saw Kíli settling in his position, gently clasping Boromir's hand in his, as he began to softly hum a strange tune, slowly the hum became stronger, more pronounced until Kíli began to sing, his dark voice softly carrying the words in a language that was foreign to Faramir. But even as he could not understand the words, carried by the deep voice they invoked pictures of wild lone lands and mountains under strange moons, and of heart wrenching sadness.

Boromir stilled, his powerful frame calmed as he slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep. Faramir sat down; his back to the wall, relieved to see the dream that had held his brother spellbound had broken. He let the tunes wash over him, maybe it was the strange harmony of the words in a tongue so utterly foreign that made the songs so calming, maybe it was the way they could carry the soul away. Even if his waking mind found himself wandering to cold, forgotten places in the wild lands.

The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

The last song made Faramir look up, it was the first that had words in Westron. Kíli still sat where he had settled down, his pose relaxed. Boromir's sleep was unstirring, he was snoring softly.

"Will he be alright?" Faramir asked softly, he doubted that anything could startle Boromir at the moment.

"I hope so," Kíli replied, in the same low voice. "I had hoped that the dreams would fade when the exhaustion left him, but… who knows what he went through before he reached Amon Hen?"

"At least your presence helps to chase them away. I did not think of trying to talk to him… or sing." It was something unusual; Faramir would guess most warrior would childish trying something like singing to feverish man.

"My Uncle used to do that, when my brother and me were but dwarflings and were frightened," A small smile curled Kíli's lips and his dark eyes softened. "His voice was all we needed to know we were safe, even when we were old enough to defend ourselves."

And he had come here, like it was a brother injured and needing help, no grumbles nor questions asked. Faramir wondered, most books claimed that dwarves were greedy by nature and not a very friendly kind all around, often only caring for treasures and their craft, though brave and fiercely loyal too. No book had ever mentioned that they were kind and caring, protective of their friends, but these were the traits Faramir perceived in Kíli, more than anything else. "I never got the chance to thank you for saving my brother, for bringing him home."

The Dwarf raised his hand, clearly forestalling more words, the gesture had a calm and commanding air, that did not quite fit with the lone warrior that Kíli was, like there was a stronger persona hidden beneath the shadow of the wanderer "There is no need for thanks, Lord Faramir," he said firmly. "I would not leave a friend to die like this, not when there still was a chance.

TRB

An avalanche of small rubble slipped down the planks that had once been floorboards in a richer man's house, filling the entrance of the old cellar up nicely. "That should take any fun out of climbing through here." Kíli grinned, satisfied. While most of the day had gone into fortifying more holes and tunnels, he felt that they were getting somewhere. The ruined city was not exactly a fortress – the former capital had never been a full-fledged fortress – but it still could serve as one if necessary. Celanost certainly was more of a fortress than any other part of the city had ever been. And with all the rat-holes that could be used to get past the walls and stone blockades, clogged up the enemy would be forced to have his troops truly storm the wall. Sometimes, Kíli found it sad to see the city so utterly ruined; this had once been a gorgeous city, the art and beauty still echoing in the remnant buildings that had not been defiled by the Orcs. He had never seen the city when it had been capital, but when he had first come here, nearly a century ago the destruction had not been so utter and total.

"Kíli?" Anarion's clear voice interrupted his musings. "You seem pensive; you sometimes look at this city… like you are searching for something."

"Just memories, Anarion," Kíli rose from where he had been squatting beside the cellar entrance.

"You have been here before, have you?" Anarion asked, he had noticed during the last days that Kíli often referred to parts of the city by name very precisely, and was navigating the ruins with an unerring sense of direction.

"Aye, it's more than a century now, that we came upriver with the other boatpeople," Kíli's eyes strayed to the river that reflected the light of the sinking sun like liquid fire. "hauling the quarry ships upriver. When we brought the first boat here, I thought your people must be repairing this splendid city…" He could still remember his amazement at seeing a city with so much beautiful stone work. It had washed away his exhausting, the burn of the ropes in his hands, the aching body from the brutal haul upstream.

"You used to haul stone shipments for the construction of Celanost?" Anarion knew he should not be surprised, the dwarf had to be older than all of them, but still… a century ago, that was old history.

"At first, when the overseers found we were good blacksmiths, we were sent from the hauling ships to making and repairing tools." Kíli smiled up at him. "Maybe one day we will see the day to open that quarry again and rebuilt this city."

Anarion laughed. "It is true what they say of your people, Kíli, you are builders, always thinking of works to be done." It was a beautiful dream to rebuild the ancient citadel of the stars, the former Capital of Gondor, unlikely though it was.

"And this builder better gives his evening report to Lord Faramir," Kíli replied. "Have the others get some rest, the day was hard on them."

When Kíli came to the broken tower where the brothers had their quarters, he found Boromir there was well, they had been going over a map and some missives, Kíli could only guess that this was about the reinforcements that should arrive any day now. The Captain gestured him to sit down with them. "How did the works progress?" He asked, rolling out a plan of the city on the flat stone between them.

"Reasonably well," Kíli said, "the riverside still has most problems, there were too many tunnels reaching under the river to the other side, along with sewers, far reaching cellars and so forth." He began to mark all the blocked passages on the map, along with other problems he had spotted.

When he was finished, Boromir packed the map away and Kíli was ready to rise and leave the brothers to their discussion, but Boromir reached for his arm, holding him back. "Stay," he said in an unusually tense voice that left little doubt that there was something else on the Captain's mind that he wanted to speak off. But he seemed hesitant to begin.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Kíli asked, when the silence grew uncomfortable. He noticed the way Boromir's shoulders were tense and his hands were firmly clenched around the dagger he had used to point out positions on the map. The way he grabbed the weapon was so hard, like he wanted to break it. "Something is troubling you."

Boromir exhaled sharply, putting the dagger aside with an impatient motion. "How did you save my life?" he asked with his typical directness. "I have seen the scars – I should not be alive, let alone as well-healed as I am. That sword of yours… it is some kind of powerful artifact…"

"And you have learned to be wary of those." After Boromir's experience with the Ring there it was small wonder that he was careful when it came to any kind of artifact, Kíli understood where he was coming beside him, where he had placed his weapons, he lifted his sword and pulled it from the leather sheath. placing it on the ground between them. The white polished hilt shone eerily in the torchlight. "Many years ago, after the Battle of Five Armies…" He saw Faramir's frown and added, "You call it the Battle of Dale, I believe. After that battle, Bard the Bowman, the man who shot Smaug when he attacked Lake Town, gave me one of the Dragon's fangs. He said that my family had such a long and bitter feud with the beast, he wished me to have it. This"—he traced his fingers along the white dragon's tooth—"is the fang of an ancient and powerful fire drake: one of the most magical materials there is. When I received the tooth, I had no idea how much of Smaug's powerful magic was trapped inside."

"But to do such a thing… such a miracle, it would take skill and…" Faramir was not quite sure how to say it, but the raw power of the tooth could not explain what happened. He had been permitted the read the tomes of power and magic of ancient Numenór, the forbidden writings of long forgotten, powerful kings, in their study he and his father, Denethor, had even found some kind of understanding. Amongst these books there had been a tome, written in ancient elvish that held several treatises on magical materials and their use and power. No amount of raw power could create any miracle, power needed shape and form, control to be used in any meaningful way.

"No, it can't," Kíli agreed. "My uncle had wielded an Elvish blade, Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver, which had a Dragon's tooth for a hilt – a powerful magical weapon. It gave me the idea to do something similar. But shaping this material into a productive result… I was too young an arcane smith to even try. It took me twenty years: twenty years of wandering, of learning from those still skilled in the art of creating magical things. But slowly I learned how to shape the hilt, how to carve the runes into it, how to bind the runes to the tooth's power, so I could call upon them." His dark eyes met Boromir's gaze. "The night you first held this, after fighting the Rider, you saw some of them."

When Kíli's fingers touched the hilt, he felt the familiar warm spark rise from the polished material, the presence the weapon had in his mind, it was a part of him. Winterflame sang to him, whispering the echoes of the many runes it held. Focusing on the soft echoes Kíli touched one of the runes with his mind and a band of icy blue runes shone on the white hilt, seemingly called by his touch alone.

"Flame and Ice and… something about a light in darkness." Faramir leaned forward as he tried a rough translation of the rune band. "So the runes gain power from the material of the tooth?"

"Basically, yes. The blade is the other part of the artifact – the more complex the hilt became, the more spells or magic were woven into it, the more it would reject any simple blade. Eventually I journeyed north, beyond the reaches of Carn Dum, where an ancient one-handed smith was rumored to live near one of the silent fire mountains. He had little liking for Dwarves, and I had to work hard to earn his acceptance of me. He showed me how to forge a blade that would be the counter to the hilt and add to the power, not detract from it. If the hilt is the fire, the blade is the storm that fans the flames to it. Binding power into a sword while it is made is like speaking runes into a blade, like carving them into molten lava… It will burn you utterly, crush you, and when you come out, you will have passed the crucible…" Kíli saw the empty expressions in the faces of both brothers and very nearly laughed. Among dwarves smiths might talk of such things, of the experience, even those who had very little of the gift would be eager to share the moments when they had managed to gain hold of the flame. But to the two Gondorians it made no sense at all. "When I finally finished this blade and was ready to put both pieces together, the one-handed one showed me one last thing, one secret set of runes that would only work with a material as dark as the Dragon's tooth and a blade so light like this one. He called it 'The Gift we Dread,' and he told me that few had ever dared to use it."

"The spell that saved my brother," Faramir whispered. "Would you… would you show us?"

Kíli closed his eyes, gently tapping into the hilt, allowing the runes to appear without being truly called upon. Faramir's eyes scanned the intricate band of Tengwar writings and he paled. "This… this is a sacrificial spell, is it not?"

"Not quite." Kíli could see the alarm in Faramir's eyes and Boromir tensing anew, he had not wish to worry them with the true nature of the powerful and dangerous spell. Nor did he wish distrust between them, not with their friendship having become something he truly cared about. "There are no strings attached, no price asked from you…" He understood that they worried about a price that might haunt them, too many stories warned against the gifts of magic because the price they incurred was terrible. It was true for this spell too in a way, if spoken by the wrong person; it had not been for him and wanted to put them at ease without going into details. He hoped they would accept it had worked, and that things were alright again, no price asked nor any strings attached.

"Because it already took from you what was given to my brother." Faramir was not sure if he should be horrified or awed – awed that this Dwarf was able to create things of such horrible power, things that should belong to legends or bygone ages, or horrified at the price it must have extracted. He looked up, meeting the Dwarf's eyes. "I don't know how I could ever thank you for such a sacrifice…" he trailed off. This went beyond a simple life-debt owed to someone, and he hardly knew how to express it.

"Please," Kíli interrupted him, gently but firmly, "I already told you that no thanks were necessary. Boromir is alive and that is all the thanks I'll ever need."

Boromir had been silent, taking in what had been said. He had of course seen the pale streaks in Kíli's dark mane but had not been sure if he simply had never noticed before. Now he knew why they were there and the very idea frightened him. He did not fear death, had risked his life in battle often, stood between others and certain death, but… he did not know what kind of courage it took to willingly sacrifice some of the time one was given to safe another. How much had Kíli cared for their friendship to go as far? He vividly recalled that dark moment in Amon Hen, Kíli's tears on his cold hand, his own words, a goodbye for a friend… "Why?" he asked in a hush. While they were friends and all, Kíli had chosen him over others who might one day be in the same situation and closer to him.

Kíli rose slowly, walking over to the arched window of the room. "When we journeyed, you often spoke of your little brother, Boromir. You never said it but it was evident how much you missed him. I too was a little brother once…" His voice became husky; he had to push the words out. He never could speak of Fíli easily. "My brother… Fíli… He fell in battle, defending the Mountain home, defending his King." He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "No one should have to bury their brother," he finally said.

TRB

Five days had passed since Boromir's return to Osgiliath, days that had been busy with preparations for the enemy's attack that could not be far away any more and with long worrisome nightly vigils for Faramir. Two days after Boromir had taken command of Osgiliath, there had been a short message from their father, which was always enough to dampen any good mood. Fortunately, the Steward was overjoyed to have his beloved son back and what orders had been given with the letter had seen a liberal interpretation by Boromir. Faramir agreed with his brother's decision to do what was necessary and later discuss this with Denethor and he knew that contrary were he to attempt such things, Boromir would get away with doing so, because their father rarely found fault in his doings.

It was not the war which Boromir was pursuing so aggressively that bothered Faramir. He understood Boromir's reasons for doing so. It was other things that worried him. Ever since his return, Boromir had been plagued with nightmares.. The first night Faramir had woken to Boromir screaming in his sleep, and the night terrors had returned every night since. Boromir would not speak of his dreams when he awoke, but the haunted expression in his eyes was enough to worry Faramir. And he was not alone in his worry – he could see that Kíli silently shared his apprehension, their fears growing with each night that the dreams came back.

Faramir looked up the ramparts where his brother stood listening to the report of one of their scouts. He also spotted Kíli a few steps away, a raven perched on his outstretched hand. In the last two days, Faramir had twice seen Kíli with a silken-feathered bird on his hand. Faramir had no love for any crow or raven – too many of them were servants of the Enemy – and yet, in a calm moment, Boromir had told him that Kíli could talk to the beasts. It sounded like a fairytale, a story of long forgotten times. He was not quite sure what to make of it, Boromir certainly believed it, but it was a little too far-fetched for Faramir's mind. He knew that there were Rangers that were said to be able to talk to beasts, some people claimed the same of him, but no bear or wolf as of yet had talked back or told him secrets. He also recalled reading that Raven was a symbol attached to King Thrór and his rule of Erebor, so maybe Kíli liked those birds for familial reasons more than anything else.

Faramir's thoughts were interrupted when he saw Boromir leave the rampart and march in his direction. "Kíli," he said to the dwarf who had followed him, "find Veryan and tell him to have half a banner ready to ride within the hour," he ordered.

"Half a banner?" Faramir closed the remaining distance to his brother. It was quite a strong number to call out, a banner was a full Gondorian infantery unit of 144 warriors plus an additional 26 archers. A halfbanner was a fighting strength to be reckoned with already. "What did the scouts report?"

"Haradrim troops moving through Ithilien, headed for the Black Gates, most likely. They are following the old Harad road," Boromir told him. "I'll need you and thirty of your Rangers as well. We won't let them reach their Master."

The news banished all other worries from Faramir's mind. "Agreed. I will take Anarion and his men; they are the best and swiftest I have."

TRB

"Mumâk!" The shout echoed through the hillside forest of Ithilien, interrupting Faramir's first inspections of the two captured strangers. A giant Haradrim beast broke through the underbrush, smashing through the cover of their left flank group. Sprinting past the captives, Faramir raised his bow, sending the arrows in rapid succession at the beast and more at its leader, the Haradrim guiding the Mumâk fell from his second shot, while three more arrows only hit the thick grey skin of the beast.

Bereft of its rider the Oliphant began to rampage, huge feet coming down on bush and fighters alike. Faramir saw the familiar agile figure of Anarion skidder downhill and grab a man who stood frozen in the approach the beast to push him away. They would never be fast enough; Faramir pulled another arrow from his quiver and bent the bow. The arrow flew hitting the Mumâk right in the eye. The beast collapsed and Anarion jumped out of reach before he could be crushed by the sheer mass of the Oliphant. He came back to his feet, raising his fist towards Faramir, congratulations and thanks all in one. There were a few more cheers for Faramir's lucky shot, while was simply relieved it had worked, he had not lost one of his men.

"Anarion, up here," he called for the younger Ranger, who came hastening uphill, tucking away some willful dark locks that had come loose during the fight.

"Captain?" he asked when he reached Faramir.

The Ranger Captain pointed towards the two smallish figures, huddled together. "We need to bring them to camp, Anarion. Bind them, but gently and cloak their eyes."

"We are here on an errand of utmost importance," the younger one of the two spoke up, as Anarion tied his hand behind the back. "we travelled with nine companions from Rivendell. One was from Gondor, his name was Boromir."

Could it be? Could these be some of Boromir's companions? Faramir carefully schooled his features to stillness, the same mask he usually wore when confronted with his father. "A strange claim for a stranger to make, and one I will want to see proven," his eyes going past the captives to Anarion, who luckily wore the hood and shawl that hid his face and could give nothing away. He saw the nod and knew the other Ranger had understood the hint and would remain silent.

TRB

The caves of Henneth Annun were the hideout Faramir had always liked to think of as a place of calm, but today it filled him with unrest. Or maybe the sounds of the sprawling caves echoed the restless pacing of his heart. Each tickle of water ringing through the caverns like the rapid beating in his chest. His eyes went back to the two diminutive captives sitting in a corner of the incapacious cave: two Halflings he and his men had captured on their third day in Ithilien. They claimed they had set out from Rivendell with his brother, and then separated from him during an Orc attack near the Falls of Rauros. Their description of the attack closely matched his brother's relating of the events and still, it left Faramir with the feeling that Frodo was not entirely honest with him. There was something the Halfling did not say, that he deliberately left out, and it made Faramir wonder again, what had transpired there, for he felt the same hesitancy to speak about it in his brother. Something beyond a major fight with Orcs had transpired near the waterfalls, something that all involved seemed to dread.

"We will soon know if you have been speaking the truth," Faramir had told Frodo Baggins, "and what role your slimy companion is playing here." He stated, the creature that had yet to give a name beyond murmurings and curses was held in another cave, guarded by Faramir's Rangers after they caught it fishing in one of the pools. The two Halflings looked at him with annoyance, or maybe there was a hint of resignation in them as well and he left them to their own thoughts.

He had found Anarion, who had been giving two of his group a telling off for not having been swift enough during the Mumâk encounter. One of them had frozen up when the giant creature had charged and his comrade had not noticed swiftly enough on his retreat, that his friend was hanging behind. While Anarion did not berate the men loudly, his anger was all the more audible in the low and sharp words he had for them. Faramir sighed, he'd have to address that later, Anarion had been young when he had won his place amongst the Rangers and pushing himself hard ever since, in fact, his 24 years did not make him much less young. "Anarion, I need you to find Veryan for me and swiftly, he should still be with the troops, tracking the bulk of the Haradrim forces," Faramir had said, after sending the two unfortunate archers away. He had been careful to never mention Boromir's name. He did not want them to know that he'd confirm their claim with the very Man they named. And he knew Anarion would be swift and discreet on this errand.

The very presence of the two Halflings left Faramir restless. Maybe they were the ones whom the dream had spoken of...which spoke in favor of their claim to having travelled with Boromir from Rivendell. . On soft feet, he went back to the cavern where the two Halflings were sitting, keeping to the shadows of the caves, where it was easy to hide. "We have to tell them, Mister Frodo," he heard the stocky gardener say. "You said for yourself that Boromir gave his life to buy you time to flee."

"We don't know that, Sam," Frodo responded in a low voice. "He held off the Orcs to give me time to flee… The others might have reached him in time."

"So you left my brother behind to save yourself?" Faramir asked, both Hobbits jumping up when they realised that he was there. He might have spoken less harshly but the thought of Boromir nearly dying was one still prone to shake him easily.

Both Halflings drew closer to each other, the stocky gardener moving in front of his Master like to shield him. "He told him to run," He said defensively.

So Boromir had stood between them and the Orcs, sending them to flee while he fought. Faramir nearly smiled; this was so much like his brother. He'd never allow someone to come to harm if he could protect them. From his very youth on, Boromir had shouldered that task for his people. Only, this time he had nearly paid with his life for protecting those who could or would not fight their own battles. Faramir had seen the scars and he still worried at what price his brother's life might have been saved. Kíli might play it down, say he was fine and that a few grey streaks meant little in the long lifespan of a dwarf. He even had joked that if he kept going like this he might be the first of his line in generations to not die a violent death… but Faramir was not convinced, Kíli was uneasy with thanks or gratitude, or maybe somewhere along the path of his life he had come to not wanting thanks, so he downplayed his own deeds. But he had noticed the pain in the dwarf's gaze a few times, the tiredness too… what had happened to him that he would go so far for the friendship with someone not even of his own people? "Was he alone, or was there someone with him?" he inquired, staring down on the directly, making the gardener take a step back and bump into his master.

"There was someone – a friend," Frodo replied. "A Dwarf: Kíli son of Dari. I do not know how but your brother befriended him on his journey north."

Faramir leaned against the cave wall, giving up on towering the two small ones for the moment, allowing the Halflings to be a bit more at ease. He knew that Boromir had been travelling with eight companions, though he sometimes spoke of nine, including Kíli. Why had none of them been with him? "What of your other companions?" he asked.

"We do not know," Frodo replied. "We heard fighting all over the forest, but did not see them."

He could not hear the rest of the answer, because there was a great commotion in the main caves, as dozens of soldiers poured in, greeting their comrades, weapons being stashed away and the jingle of armor mixed with heavy steps. Over all the noise and he could clearly hear his brother's impatient voice. "Veryan, I want an answer. I pulled back the troops poised to strike on your insistence and I will not bear one more moment of delay in your answer."

"It was my doing, brother," Faramir said, stepping outside and into the tunnel that connected the caverns.

His voice was nearly drowned out by Sam's shout: "Boromir!"

His brother's eyes widened when he heard the voice, disbelief warring with a smile as he left the Swan Knight standing where he was and pushed past Faramir through the narrow entrance of the cave. "Frodo, Sam! I am relieved to see you alive and well." There was genuine happiness and relief echoing in Boromir's voice as he squatted down to hug both Halflings, who hugged him back. Sam's hug more reticent, while Frodo enthusiastically embraced Boromir.

"Boromir, we feared you had perished at Amon Hen." Frodo's smile was a relieved one, holding honest affection for the Gondorian Captain. He pulled back a little positively beaming at him. "I am so glad you survived." Faramir was amazed at the enthusiasm he could see shine Frodo's eyes, the young Halfling was truly happy and glad to see Boromir alive. And Boromir was glad too, only Faramir perceived the way his brother looked down for a moment, a gesture of shyness… shame… that was very unlike the brother he knew.

"There were so many Orcs. What happened there? Where are the others?" Frodo asked his hand still on Boromir's shoulder.

"They are not with you?" Boromir asked, his head flinching back slightly. "I had hoped they went with you after the fighting was over. Kíli was there to save me from the Orcs, but we only knew the others left Amon Hen before we could find them."

"No, we went alone," Frodo explained. "I hope the others are alright." His voice sank to a hush. "I really hope they escaped and will be alright." It was all of worry the Halfling allowed himself, Faramir noticed, because when Frodo looked up again, his mien was calm… no there was a surprising smile in his eyes.

"We were captured while we crossed your land east of here, Boromir," he said with a small, comradely poke against Boromir's arm "You did not exaggerate when you said that Faramir was a Ranger as good as Strider."

"Now I know why my brother has sent for me," Boromir observed, tilting his head to look up to Faramir, his green eyes sparkling with amusement.

Faramir arched an eyebrow in question, but before he could respond, the stout Hobbit huffed..

"He thinks that we are Orc spies," Sam pointed out sourly, causing Boromir to truly laugh this time.

"You will have put him right about that." Now Frodo laughed too, and for a moment the two just shared the joke that had gone partially on Sam's and Faramir's account. When they fell silent, none of them spoke right away. They exchanged a glance and Faramir noticed how both Frodo and Boromir tensed at nearly the same time. "You can't go on alone, Frodo. The Enemy is building up a veritable army all along the mountains." Boromir said, his voice more firm, the warrior speaking, making plans on how to go ahead.

"You can't come with us, Boromir." Frodo crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Your people will need you when the army we saw cross the Black Gates reaches your cities. They will need you to defend them. You always said you had to return to fight for them."

"And I believed you traveled with others able to aid you in your task, Frodo," Boromir protested. "I will not send you alone to Mordor. Not while I still draw breath."

A gentle smile broke the Hobbit's determined mien. "I know – you'd lay down your life for any of us," he said with great warmth, "but… you know why it can't be. You know what nearly happened in Amon Hen. And even with Kíli with you…"

All color drained from Boromir's face, and Faramir was surprised to see horror and deep shame in his brother's features. From one moment to the next the proud Captain gave way to a warrior marred by self-loathing and shame, his hands shook and he made a fist to hide it. "You are right, Frodo," Boromir admitted in a hoarse voice. "I cannot be trusted where your task is concerned. But I will find you all the help I can."

Suddenly, the Halfling stepped up to Boromir to squeeze his shoulder, a strange gesture from someone so small. "I do trust you, Boromir. I know you are stronger than you believe of yourself. But He knows you – He knows your weak spots. You fought Him so long and hard, He must have marked you as a major obstacle. Your people do need you, now more than ever before and I have to continue my task. You let me go once. Can you do it again?"

There was a strange power the small creature wielded over Boromir, Faramir had to admit. Boromir had closed his eyes, his face a mien of intense concentration, but he accepted the Halfling's verdict with a slow nod. "We will bring you to Osgiliath and I will get you across the River there. You will have an easier passage that way."

TRB

Aglaran had been set to watch the wretched creature they had captured down by the pool. Most of the time, the thing, it was neither Man, nor Orc, nor any other race he could identify crouched cursing and whimpering in the corner of the cave. Smallish and two-legged it might have been an emaciated Orc only that the face was all wrong, the eyes too large and the skull to evenly shaped. The Ranger did not really want to know what kind of wretched thing this truly was, maybe an escapee from Southern Mirkwood or a miserable cretin from the eastern lands. In the commotion after Lord Boromir's hurried arrival, he had been extra attentive that the captive did not get away. "Aglaran." He saw a familiar short figure come down the cavern path. Kíli traced his hand along the stone as he walked, like he was studying the very rocks surrounding him. "Lord Faramir said you had captured some kind of creature?"

The Ranger pointed inside the narrow cavern that had only one exit. "Take a look. I still think it is some kind of Orc."

When Kíli stepped past him, the mangled thing spat at him. "Nasty, nasty Dwarfse, strangling poor Smeagol…"

So this thing had met Kíli before, Aglaran thought as the creature muttered and wailed at the walls. Where might they have met and how had the thing escaped if it had been strangled? But before he could ask, Lord Boromir joined them. He cast a disdainful glance at the captive. "Aglaran, tie this thing up and keep it gagged; we are leaving shortly," he ordered.

The Ranger nodded and turned to grab the ropes, the mangled thing twisted under his hands as he tied him up, trying to bite him. Slippery and agile as the creature was, Aglaran decided that it might be wiser to transport it in a sack, where it could not slip away.

Meanwhile, Boromir had taken Kíli aside, leading him into one of the empty caverns. Now that they were alone, Boromir allowed himself to let go of the strong mask he had upheld for his friends. "Frodo is here, with Sam. None of the others made it out of Amon Hen, it seems." He needed to say it, to speak it out loud, maybe to make it real, to deal with it.

"Or they were separated from Frodo just as we were," Kíli replied. "What do we need to do?"

That was his friend, no doubts, clear words and ready to act at once. In the middle of this, of the nagging feeling of the Ring once more all too close, Kíli was a rock to lean on for Boromir. "I need you to stay with Frodo for the duration of his journey with us. Guard him, make sure no one harms him." Boromir sought Kíli's gaze, green eyes meeting black. Silently Boromir pleaded that Kíli might understand the danger they were faced with once more. "I entrust his safety to you. If anyone, especially me, is trying to harm him, you will cut them down." Even me. It remained unsaid, but it was what Boromir wanted from his friend, to again be his shield between the Ring, the betrayal and the lure calling for him.

The Dwarf met his eyes steadily. "You have my word." He said, his voice warm and reassuring, he would do what was needful, no matter how hard it would become.

TRB

It was only on the march back to Osgiliath that Faramir had a chance to catch up to Boromir. Not since his brother had left Gondor more than a year ago had he felt such disquiet. Before they had left the caves of Henneth Annun, he had witnessed a short conversation between Kíli and Boromir. He had not wished to spy on them, but had been packing up fresh arrow bundles before heading out in the next cavern. He disliked having spied on his brother, and still… what he had heard had shaken him. "I entrust his safety to you. If anyone, especially me, is trying to harm him, you will cut them down." Boromir had instructed Kíli, and the dwarf had confirmed these orders without protest.

Faramir had felt a little insulted by these words. Did his brother not trust their own troops anymore or their authority over them? But then he recalled the pain and shame on Boromir's face during his conversation with Frodo. Whatever had happened on Amon Hen, it had deeply shaken and hurt his brother. Kíli knew, maybe had been witness to the secret, and thus Boromir trusted him with it further. It still felt strange to see his brother place trust in someone else before Faramir. He nudged his gelding into a canter and caught up with Boromir at the head of the column. "Our father will not be happy if you let two strangers walk unsupervised in our lands, when they wish to go east," he said. "Especially if they carry something…" He knew their father had whispered of such things in the past months. Faramir had tried to not listen to the murmurs of power, of a gift of a mighty weapon, and his heart had warned him to try and speak of it to Denethor. But whatever his father had hoped Boromir would find North, it was most likely now with the two Halflings.

"Then he best not learn of it any time soon." Boromir's eyes were focused ahead, where they could see the silhouette of Osgiliath rise from the mists. "Not until Frodo is well on his way."

"You do not wish for him to detain them… or learn what secret they carry," Faramir's words were much of a guess, but one he was sure about.

"Aye," Boromir replied. "It would bring harm to him… to all of us."

"You never went so openly against our father before you left." Faramir wished he could stop and talk to his brother with more time, ask him what this was about, what dreadful secret he had carried from the North. But this was nothing he could ask while they were on their ride. Still he was unable to hold back all his questions. "You have changed. What happened to you?"

Boromir looked at him and there was a haunted expression in his eyes. "I was broken, Fari," he said softly. "My very hopes turned into foul betrayal. But for one friend who stood between me and dishonor, between me and death, between me and despair, I would have fallen."

Faramir's hand closed hard around the reins of his gelding, as he stared at his brother, disbelieving what he had just heard. It could not be with all the flaws his brother may have, dishonor and betrayal were two things he would never suffer… and yet, Faramir saw the pain shining so clearly in his brother's eyes and the shadow of self-doubt that marred his proud face. Faramir wanted to ask for more, wanted to learn what had been done to his beloved brother to bring such an expression to his eyes, such words to his lips, but the sound of a bronze horn cut short their conversation. The horns of Osgiliath rang out into the night, signaling for help. The city was under attack.