Chapter 14: And in the darkness a torch we hold

Kíli craned his neck, struggling not to wince at the fresh stab of pain running through his body as he slung the rope across the support beam of the makeshift wooden construction. Repairs were underway on all fortifications. The north wall had taken the worst damage, and the yard behind had taken damage as well, with parts of the treasury wall collapsed and the grounds ripped apart by the flare that had breached the north wall. Kíli glanced through the remaining gap to his left. Bofur was leading the Dwarves working to close the breach in the outer wall, their work on the main breach continuing with all the speed that Dwarves were capable of; while the inner wall where Kíli was standing being the link to the main yard could not just be filled, and it needed a gateway to move troops forth and back. Unfortunately, the gate had been smashed when one of the Drakár fell. So they had to fix the wall and the gateway. That was what the wooden support construction was for – at the moment, it simply formed a beam construction with a rough wood arch on top to hold the stones that were lifted up. Once the full amount of stones was up there, they'd remove the wood and the stones would press down. Due to the arched shape, the stones would not be able to slip down again; instead, their own weight and shape would hold them firmly in place, they held each other. The walls left and right of the arch had to buffer the pressure and stem the weight, which had been doubtful at first with all the damage the old walls had suffered. But Bifur had checked it and announced it sound. He was an expert on static and construction, if one only could communicate with him, which meant either speaking ancient Moria-Khuzdul or using Iglishmêk solely.

An Iglishmêk gesture from above told him that they were ready. Kíli grasped one of the ropes with both hands, putting his full strength behind it, as did a dozen other dwarves on both ends. Moving the heavy stone blocks up on the wall again was heavy work, and those who went into the coping of the battlements were no exception.

A searing pain rose in his side, making him nearly stumble. He gritted his teeth, digging his heels into the ground, and pulled harder. "Zaî-drak!" The command told him to hold exactly as he was, while the crew up there used their hooks to direct the block to its final place. Kíli was relieved when the command to let go was given and he could release the rope, his arms felt like lead and he could not have hold on much longer. But the stone sat where it belonged. His side was burning, the pain spreading into his arm and leg, a light dizziness made standing hard. His hand found the wall to support himself a little.

"Looks like this is going to be patched up by nightfall," a gruff voice spoke up behind him. Dwalin had come back from scouting across the River. The bald Dwarf cast an appraising glance at the nearly repaired wall. "We'll desperately need those walls before long."

"That bad?" Kíli asked, gratefully accepting the jug of water the work crew handed around. Usually he freely mixed with them, but seeing Dwalin approach him and the other dwarves moved off, allowing them to speak in private.

"Aye, there's a lot of troops gathering at the crossroads under Minas Morgul," Dwalin told him. "Had you been with the Captain when I came back, you'd have heard already. You should have been there, Kíli."

Kíli shook his head, running his hand through his hair to push some sweat-damp streaks from his face. When it came to war – not just fighting but all out warfare, Kíli knew he was not that experienced. He had seen one major battle and never fought an entire war that was worth the name, lonely fights against Orcs and Goblins did not count. Dwalin was the dwarf that could contribute far more to Boromir's strategic planning than he could. "These walls need any hand we can spare to patch them up. And Boromir will have heard all that is needed on military matters from you."

Dwalin snorted. "You should have been there, Kíli. You are our leader, if anyone should be talking to the Captain of our allies, it is you.. And Boromir sees it the same – you know that. He asked about you." Dwalin pointed his fist towards the wall and the ropes. "This is troop work."

"I've heard peasants complain about troop work, I've heard troops complain about peasant-work and I have heard nobles whine about lowly work," Kíli replied, paraphrasing a line he had heard a hundred times from his Uncle, usually when one of them had complained about any kind of work, be it mucking out stables or cleaning up the forge. "but I have never heard the work complain as long as it was done properly." It was one of the many lessons Thorin had passed on to him, and for a moment Kíli remembered the powerful blacksmith, standing by the fire of his forge, hammer in hand. "We need these walls, Dwalin. But I see your point: send someone for me the next time and I'll be there." He conceded the latter point, knowing Dwalin was right on it.

"Tirak, taî ki!" Bifur shouted down at them, and Kíli took the rope again, slinging it around his hands. It was the last block for the gateway they had to lift, and, as the keystone, it was particularly heavy: an arch stone from a ruined crypt somewhere in the lower city. When he put his full weight on the pull, the pain in his side soared again, worse than before. Kíli gasped, the pain strangling his throat, he couldn't breathe. He forced himself to hang on, but the pain shot up his arm, all but immobilising his shoulder, his left arm and hand shaking with pain, he could not hold the rope properly any longer. Closing the right hand all the harder around the coarse material, as it began to slip through his fingers. He stumbled forward, losing control of the rope and would have fallen were it not for a pair of strong hands grabbing the rope and drawing it back. Dwalin helped him hold the rope until Bifur had maneuvered the block into the arch, concluding the construction.

The moment the command to let go was given, Kíli leaned against the wall, the cold stones lending the support he needed to keep standing. His breath was burning in his throat; he suppressed a cough as he tried to catch his breath, angry at himself for being so weak. Losing control of a rope while moving a block was not something that was allowed to happen, no matter how tired one got. "Kíli?" Dwalin's powerful hands steadied him before he could slip down to sit. "What is it?"

"Nothing, a bit exhausted." Kíli pressed his shoulders harder against the wall, making himself stand. He could see Dwalin's worried glance and managed a half smile in response; he could not afford to be weak, not with his people here, with so many friends and allies relying on him, and on their ability to restore these walls. This was not a time to be a whelpling.

"Injured is more likely – you are all pale," Dwalin observed. "Don't you deny it. I have seen your uncle do that a thousand times: pretending to be fine while he was ready to drop from pain and exhaustion." He looked up the wall. "Bifur!" he barked. "Get someone else to take this spot; I'll need Kíli for the rest of the day." Dwalin did not understand a word of Bifur's answer – he had never bothered to learn ancient dialects – but the swift Iglishmêk gesture told him that Bifur had already sent for someone to replace Kíli, along with an even quicker series of gestures indicating worry.

Dwalin led Kíli across the citadel towards the eastern works where most of the Dwarven troops were camped in the old cellars of the old market quarters. The Dwarves did not mind the underground barracks the least and had gladly set up camp there. It hadn't escaped Dwalin's notice that Kíli spent the majority of his nights above ground but he did not ask for explanations that the Prince might not be ready to give. He guided him towards the corner of one of the smaller underground rooms where he was camped and pointed him to sit down on the bedroll. "Now, let's see to your injuries."

"I just will need to change a few bandages," Kíli's response was accompanied by a clear defensive gesture, both arms wrapped around his chest, that Dwalin could only sigh. He knew it all too well, not only from Thorin who had been more than just stubborn in such moments, but from Kíli himself. How often had Dwalin seen him like this, coming back from fighting Orcs or Trolls on his own somewhere out in the width of Eriador, tired, injured and barely able to stand, but putting up a strong front, never admitting to weakness? It was something Thorin had instilled into the boys and sometimes Dwalin wished he could kick his old friend for doing so.

"Then I'll help you with the bandages," he announced, he had practice in out-stubborning this family since Prince Thorin had been old enough to explore the halls of Erebor and he would not let this go. "You might as well listen to an old friend now and then."

The last words had usually been right to spark a debate with Thorin, but with Kíli they had the opposite effect, his shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes. "Very well then, I had trouble reaching the bite marks on my back with the salve, anyway." Slowly Kíli removed the chainmail armor he wore, he was moving stiffly and Dwalin noticed at once that he was still trying to ease off on his left arm. When Kíli removed the tunic he winced visibly, because the movement stretched his side too much.

Dwalin assessed the bandages covering Kíli's injuries quickly, he had seen many wounded in his life and had more than a little experience in treating his comrades. He could tell at once that Kíli must already have been injured when he went into the last fight here, for there were cuts and bruises that had to be a week old or older, while a large blackened bandage covered his left side and lower chest, blackened fluid seeping through the drenched layers of cloth at several spots.

"You better sit down, Kíthal," seeing Kíli in this state brought back an old, affectionate name that he had been called by his family and friends when he had been younger. Dwalin nudged Kíli to sit down on the blankets of his bedroll. "this is going to take a while."

Kíli tilted his head, to look at Dwalin, his dark eyes warm. "I am not that small any more, Dwalin," he said softly. "and I don't think I managed to get the black fever again." He leaned back on his healthy arm, to allow Dwalin access to the injuries without getting jumpy, as he spoke of that winter long ago.

"Not that small, but still sometimes the boy I worry about," Dwalin grumbled while he began to remove the bandages. He knew Kíli well, knew how touchy he could be, it was a remained of the horrible events in Goblin Town. So he hurried, making swift work of the bandages.

"Mahal's hammer, what is that?" Dwalin gasped when he removed a black, stained bandage from Kíli's side to reveal dark teeth marks that only just had missed the stomach, but marred the side and lower chest as well as on the back of the younger Dwarf. Twelve strong teeth had pierced through the chainmail armor and bitten deep into Kíli's flesh.

"A Fell Beast grabbed me during a skirmish." Kíli's hands had found purchase on the rough stone grounds, his fingers digging into the small rifts between the ancient paving tiles. "It's healing slower than I wish it would."

"And you always healed fast." Dwalin had seen Kíli recover from many of injuries over the years for he was maybe the only one Kíli had allowed to see his wounds, the moments when his strength gave out. He knew most scars the younger Dwarf bore: the numerous scars the Battle of Five Armies had left; the marks of later injuries; the frightful speckled scar on Kíli's shoulder that the bone-breaker had given him, and also the shameful lash marks on his back: marks the Orcs had put there along with the horrid brand that marred his left shoulder blade. Of all the shameful scars this was the worst – a dwarven warrior sworn to a House or King may bear a tattoo signifying his loyalty in the same spot, the Orcs had marked Kíli as property and while Dwalin knew that the younger warrior had recovered from that ordeal long ago, he could not prevent himself from feeling a helpless rage that he had been unable to protect his Prince from that. Most of these, excepting the bone-breaker scar, had healed fast and cleanly without festering. But these wounds in his side did not look like they were healing at all, their rims were blackened and seeping dark blood, and the flesh around the teeth marks was swollen sickly. "Why does every warrior of your House have to end up in some vile beast's mouth at least once?" he asked gruffly.

"So you can tell us that we are stupid fools, old friend," Kíli teased, managing a real smile in spite of the pain.

"Brave, stupid fools," Dwalin corrected him. "And… Kíli… there's only one way to deal with these wounds… and you're not going to like it."

He saw Kíli's eyes widen almost instantly. For a moment, the grim warrior melted away to give room to a much younger expression before Kíli managed to control his fear. "No, Dwalin… it can heal by itself."

The expression in Kíli's eyes… it belonged to a much younger dwarf, and Dwalin wished with all his heart he had not go there – that there was another way to deal with this injury. Nearly eight decades had not done much to fade that memory, but time wasn't half the healer she was said to be. Dwalin had been there… in the Goblin Caves, when they had brought that brand, a red-hot glowing iron, searing brightly in the darkness of the cave. If Kíli had faced the flogging bravely, strongly… there had been fear in his eyes when he had seen the brand, when he knew what they would do.

His scream… Dwalin could still hear it in his mind that strained scream of agony echoing against the walls of the cave. He'd have gladly traded places with Kíli, if he had had that choice, but all he had been able to do was to hinder Thorin from launching himself at the Goblin King, because that beast, that vile Goblin, did all this only to torment Thorin, enjoying inflicting pain doubly through this torment.

Dwalin bit his lip, he had been force to use the blue fire to eventually cleanse Kíli's shoulder wound, because the Bonebreaker wound would not heal. And the only mercy he had been able to give the youth had been to move far away from Beorn's House that the other would not be witness to it. He knew that Kíli had overcome his fear of glowing iron mostly since then, he was able to work in a forge, and he had mastered his control of fire to a point where he could touch the flames and let them touch his bare skin without so much as a singe. But the prospect of being burned again, of the uncontrolled flame touching him again… it still held all the old fears, and Dwalin could see that clearly in Kíli's eyes, even in the way he locked away the fear behind a mask that would fool most people.

"Kíli." Dwalin gently held his shoulders, speaking softly, like to the young warrior that he had brought from the caves so long ago. "It won't heal… it will kill you if it's not done. I'll send someone for Brea; see if she has something to put you out."

He might as well have not suggested that, because the younger Dwarf's jaw set in a firm expression. "No. I'll manage," Kíli replied, his voice strained but firm.

Dwalin hung his head, knowing he would lose this argument. Kíli knew that there had been many injured during the last fight, and there would be more soon enough. He'd never take a pain stilling draught that might be needed for someone with worse injuries. "I still need some things from Brea's supplies." He said, getting to his feet, he would send someone to fetch the tripod he'd need.

TRB

"That should do for a while when your neighbours come rattling around again." Bofur crossed his arms in front of his chest and studied the wall with satisfied eyes.

Boromir had to admit it was good work. The breach had been completely filled, sealed, and the wall stabilized to a good extent. "Neighbors?" he asked, turning to Bofur.

"Yes, those neighbours: dark skin, stinky breath, bad manners, and awfully fond of you." Humor sparkled in Bofur's eyes as he spoke, and Boromir laughed. There was a grim edge to the Dwarf's humor that he liked; they were a tough, hardy folk, if somewhat rough.

"Not that they like you any better," he pointed out before turning to his reason for coming down here. "Can you tell me where to find Kíli?"

"Aye, Dwalin grabbed him a wee while ago," Bofur said. "I guess the war-master will fill him in on the situation out there."

Another Dwarf came towards them, a bit smaller than Bofur and with dark hair and a deeply black beard. "Bofur, do you still need all the tripods up here? Dwalin says he needs a blue fire down in camp." Only now the Dwarf stopped to realize that Boromir stood with Bofur, and gave a quick salute, fist over heart. "I apologize for interrupting, Lord Captain." The Dwarf quickly bowed. "Brea daughter Briga, at your service."

Boromir gasped, casting an incredulous look at Brea. It was not the fact that it was a Dwarf woman that puzzled Boromir – he could not have told that she was female, not with her magnificent black beard and braided hair. Even her voice was so deep she could easily pass for a male. No, it was her name and face that shocked him. He had never met her before, but in that dream in Lorien, he had seen her among other Dwarves fighting in Dwarrowdelf. How could he have known the name and face of a Dwarf he had never met? He blinked a few times, raising his chin, forcefully returning his attention to what she had said. "What is blue fire?" he asked to cover his surprise. "Is something wrong in your camp?"

"Nay, Captain, camp is fine," Brea reported. "Blue fire is what your kind call fire without smoke: a deeply blue flame we use in forges, construction, and sometimes healing. It's not recommended to cook on it, though. Dwalin will need one of the tripods to light one down there; I guess it's an injury."

"Take this one, Brea." Bofur pointed at one of the simple steel tripods sitting close by the wall. It was an old, cracked thing, that had seen too many a transport on a pack-pony, but the black steel frame was still stable and it had held a blue fire earlier, used to weld the broken stones of the walls. "We won't do any more stone-melding tonight, either way. And tell Bifur to have the work crews eat in the upper yard until I tell them otherwise."

The Dwarf woman took the indicated tripod and headed off. Bofur exhaled slowly. "Has to be an injury," Bofur said mumbling into his beard. "Dwalin is a warrior, not a smith or stoneworker."

"What use is blue fire with injuries?" Boromir inquired, already turning towards where the Gondorian healers had erected their camp for all the wounded. "Should I send a healer down to your people?"

"Blue fire is used to burn, clean and seal poisoned wounds," Bofur said, casting an uneasy glance at Brea's vanishing figure. He closed his strong hands together, fingers interlacing. "Nasty process, that. And, no, don't send anyone. Just do me a favor and be a bit patient. If it's one of our people, Kíli might be down there to see him through that torture."

"Taking care of our people comes first." Boromir had done similar things in times past, sometimes a wounded warrior had to be put through an excruciating treatment, cauterizing wound, amputations… the latter maybe the thing he was most squeamish about. He had stayed with Erandir as the brave soldier had succumbed to the bite of a Morgul Blade, it had one of the most horrible deaths he had ever witnessed. He had no doubts Kíli would stay with whomever had to be put through such a procedure, he would leave no one to suffer that alone.

TRB

Kíli bit down on his lip hard, trying to bite back a howl of sheer agony. The pain was like red hot flame and pure acid eating into his skin the very same moment. Dwaling had touched the blue fire with one of his knives and set the steel blade aflame, each touch on the wounds was excruciatingly painful as the blue flame and hot steel ate into Kíli's flesh, burning all poison and stain from the tormented flesh, sealing the wound at the same time. There were twelve bite-marks along his body and it took three to four sears to truly seal one. Between dealing with each, there was a short break when Dwalin cleaned the blade and relit it on the blue fire. Each time it got harder for Kíli to see the blade approach anew, he did not look away, but each time he was closer to simply begging for it to stop, swallowing the words, hanging onto whatever strength he could muster to see this through. When the last wound was finally sealed and the pain abated from the sheer agony to the intense searing on the twelve sealed scars, his breathing was ragged and he struggled to not allow a sob to leave his throat. He managed, barely. "That was the last one, lad." Dwalin gently spread a cooling salve on the freshly sealed wound before placing a soft compress drenched in the salve on it, and then wrapped the firm bandage around Kíli's torso, to hold it in place and shield the wound.

"Thank you, Dwalin." Kíli slowly sat up, reaching for the older warrior's shoulder, grateful he was here. How often had Dwalin been there for him? For his family? How often had they been able to lean on the mighty warrior when their own strength ran out, when the pain became too much to bear? If anyone had seen them in their weakest, most wretched moments, it was Dwalin, who had been there for them, rescued them from the abyss that had threatened to swallow them up, time and again.

Movement at the upper stairs snapped both of them out of his thoughts. Faramir had entered the Dwarven camp. The Ranger strode in hastily, looking around with a quick movement of the head that reminded Kíli of a hawk spotting mice. He quickly pulled his tunic on, covering the fresh bandage before it could be seen. In the dark corner where they sat, they had not been in the Ranger's field of sight right away. "Faramir, did something happen up there?" he asked.

"Not yet," Faramir's glance strayed to the tripod with a bright blue flame churning inside. He had read about this fire – the ancient writings of Numenór held several fascinating treatises on dwarven spellcraft, but he had thought this to be something of an older, bygone time, a time when legends had still walked the earth. , "but my Rangers have found the Orcs stashing catapults and siege ammunitions for their coming attack on the other side of the River in the ruins."

"We need to get rid of them," Dwalin grumbled, "or they'll scorch us before long. Captain, I take it you already have a plan?"

Putting a hand against the wall, Kíli pulled himself up it hurt, but Faramir's words were distraction enough to even make him hide a smile. This was Dwalin: see the target and go for it and woes betide anyone between him and his destination. He was one of the greatest warriors of the Dwarven people, and an even better war-master. His skills had been honed by nearly two centuries of war, and although many of those wars had been the battles of other people, they had shaped Dwalin into the fighter he was today. Hastily Kíli pulled his chainmail on again, the pain echoing from his side was still fierce, but it was not as weakening as the pain of the not healing wound had been. He felt that he could stand react reasonably well for another few hours. He could keep going, keep fighting, it was only a matter of will and focus.

"I do," Faramir said, "but it requires a number of your people, along with mine, to crawl through the old sewers and burn down their catapults."

Dwalin handed Kíli the weapon's belt with Winterflame's sheath attached to it. Kíli slipped it over his head, so the blade hung at his back. He saw the short glance from Dwalin and the unobtrusive series of finger gestures asking his opinion, and gave a quick nod. "We best do it tonight, before they can assemble their catapults. Dwalin, get Bladvila, Bifur… We need people who can at least decently sneak."

Faramir frowned, before Kíli had slipped on the tunic, he had caught a glimpse of bandages and while unobtrusive the way he had used his hand against the wall to get up, bespoke a more severe injury than the dwarven warrior might want to admit to. "Are you sure you are well enough to go, Kíli?" he asked, not sure if he was intruding on dangerous territory here.

Kíli was grateful for the salve dulling the pain, the cool it spread through the sealed wounds was a true relief. "I am well enough, Faramir," he said firmly, stepping away from the wall, standing on his own. "I will not slow us down."

TRB

The sewer entrance was a low tunnel outside the fortifications; it was supposed to run under the River and to the other side. The way Faramir approached it, navigating between the ruined buildings towards the half-sunken entrance, squatting down quickly to check the entrance and then gesturing them to move up, Kíli was sure the Ranger had crept through that tunnel dozens of times. At Faramir's shoulder he saw his brother – Boromir was with them as well. Kíli smiled. This was something he liked about the brothers: no matter how often the Enemy seemed to beat them down, they always came back to put a good dent into Mordor's ranks. Arda was lucky to have such Men defending against the Shadow.

The sun was slowly finishing her long journey behind the western hills when they arrived at the tunnel entrance. This way into the old sewer was nothing more than a hole in the ground that had been set with stones long ago. The Ranger Captain was the first to enter the dark hole; the others followed him without delay.

Although the entrance was very tight and low, the tunnel became somewhat higher a few steps, even as it remained fairly narrow, and the walls seemed to press down on them. Kíli used his hand on the wall to guide his way through the complete darkness, a whispering sense of the stones seeping into him the moment his fingers touched the hewn stone wall. No matter how small the tunnel was, it was fairly comfortable for him, being a Dwarf. He could stand with only minimal need to duck and was able to move with ease, the presence of the heavy walls closing in on him, more a comfort than a hindrance. But for the tall Captain of Gondor, his brother, and Veryan, the tunnel was much too low. The Men were stooped almost double as they shuffled over the water-worn paving stones. They crept on, the silence of the dark more stuffy than even the air in here. There were nearly no sounds or echoes – the earthen walls swallowed every sound or noise up, even the occasional slurp of heavy boots on the wet stones. Light and air were two things this dank tunnel had not seen in a long time.

Boromir followed his brother, who was gliding through the darkness like a shadow, hardly to be seen and never to be heard. Behind him, he knew reliable Dwalin, his firm steps as steady and calm as his own heartbeat, while Kíli was the soft footed shadow at his side.

Boromir had not failed to notice that Kíli was injured, he had been moving stiffly when they had met by the tunnel entrance and he still was favoring his right leg, it did not need a great memory to guess what was at the root of the problem – Boromir had been surprised when Kíli had gotten to his feet like that after the Fell Beast had grabbed him. He had considered sending Kíli back to rest, he had never seen any man injured by those beasts that had not come down with bad fevers, many had died of these wounds outright. But Kíli had showed no signs of fever nor immediate weakness and he had decided against it. He trusted Kíli to know how much he could take, and it truly seemed that dwarves had been carved from stone in a lone winter's night and been given souls by a fierce storm. If he was entirely honest, even if he had not firmly trusted Kíli to know his limits, Dwalin had been the second reason to accept the presence of an injured fighter.

He had seen Dwalin fight and lead mercenaries during the Pardos campaign and during the unrest in North Harad, and he knew that dwarf to be a fierce fighter, capable leader and someone who did not take nonsense from anyone, not even a superior. Boromir stifled a smile, Dwalin suffered no fools or foolish decisions, and he was absolutely unafraid to talk back, as Boromir had found out back then. He seriously doubted that Dwalin would let anyone, not even a crowned Dwarf King, get away with any nonsense. Still…

Under normal circumstance Boromir would have joined with Faramir, their skills had always been complimentary and they worked well together, this time… this time he decided to work differently. Their scouts had reported two locations they needed to strike at, he would send Faramir and Dwalin for one and tackle the other with Kíli. It was the best way to spread their strength and skills evenly.

Boromir did not know how long they had been creeping through the old tunnel until his brother squatted down at a stone brink, deftly jumping down a low ledge. They followed him down and found themselves in a low stone tunnel that was not a water drainage of sorts, but a proper, dry tunnel, with no washed out stones and no old mud caking the ground., The vaulted tunnel had been properly paved and secured in older days, connecting either cellars or maybe even some defense points of old. To their left, they could see a caved in tunnel passage, blocked by huge stone fragments and rocks that had crashed down when the ceiling gave way, maybe under some shift above ground or maybe from the impact of a catapult stone; to the other side, their path led on. A heavy, low barrel vault arched its heavy ceiling close above them as they moved on. Boromir glanced around; they had definitely left the sewer and must be in some older tunnel or cellar of the former city. Nevertheless, he reached over, a quick squeeze to the arm encouraging his comrade. It would not be far.

Faramir was the first to enter the tunnel to their right. Their steps echoed softly on the stone floor. Now and then, the tunnel was so narrow that they only fit through sideways, armor scraping against the smooth stones. The walls pressed close, like the jaws of an angry mouth. It was cold and wet down here; the soft dripping of water was the sole sound, except for their own steps that accompanied their journey in the dark. They did not use torches, to avoid being spotted too early by the odd guard the Orcs might have posted down here. Faramir never used torches when sneaking in on the enemy, Rangers fought in the dark, they dared to tread the Shadow's own paths and often must be able to function without any light to guide their way. It was in their nature.

Eventually, they came to a place where parts of a groined vault above had caved in and the narrow walls had caught most of the rubble. Only at the very bottom had a very low passage remained. Faramir's hand gesture pointed them towards it; they'd have to crawl through that hole. The Ranger went first: squatting down, he deftly began to crawl into the passageway under the rocks. Kíli followed next; after that came Boromir, followed by Dwalin, and Veryan. The channel was so low that they had to crawl on all fours, the pressing weight of tons of rubble like a crushing bulk above them. Boromir inhaled slowly, his hands clawing into the sluggish ground they crawled over, with every step he progressed deeper into the cave in, the feeling that the stones above were getting heavier and heavier rose in his chest, and breathing became harder. Boromir's head jerked back, when he heard a soft crack. Had the stones above them just moved? Was the brutal weight above them coming down to crush them? "Steady," he heard Kíli's voice ahead in the dark. "We are nearly through." Boromir had no idea how Kíli could know, how he could be so sure or so calm under the pressure of the stones but his words proved true: after a few more paces, the shaft ended. Kíli had already climbed out, offering him a hand to get out. "Small wonder no one thinks this passage can still be used," he said in a hush, while the others followed Boromir out of the passage as well.

Faramir gestured them into silence as he took the lead again, guiding them through a watery tunnel towards the exit. When they could see the archway out, the Ranger's raised hand gestured them to duck and wait. Faramir was kneeling behind the sewer exit, the broken stairs leading up to the simple archway leaving the tunnels, were half blocked with hewn stones from the shattered building above, providing him with cover. His eyes were trained on something beyond Boromir's line of sight. Unmoving, crouched into the cover the tunnel mouth offered them, they waited in the darkness, their breaths forced into the softest sound possible and still expecting to hear a shriek announcing their discovery any moment. Boromir was tense, the longer he was ducked behind the corner, waiting… waiting for the shout that could come any moment. What was Faramir waiting for? A patrol to pass them? An Orc to move away? What was he seeing, again Boromir strained his neck but except for Faramir's kneeling figure behind the rock, he could not see a thing. After long minutes of silent waiting, Faramir rose and gestured them to move after him. They came out of the tunnel under the remaining arches of a former palace. Out in the broken street that once had been the main thoroughfare of Osgiliath they saw the retreating figures of an Orc patrol vanishing into one of the side streets. "The catapults are south of the King's Square," Faramir whispered. "The ammunitions are stored near the former Seer's tower."

"Take half the troop south, to King's Square, Faramir," Boromir decided quickly. "Dwalin, you go with him. Kíli and the others are with me."

The night was cold and windy. The foul smell of murky water hung heavily in the air as they stole through the ruins of eastern Osgiliath. Boromir did not see the Orcs coming, but he heard their steps, stomping, regular heavy steps on the flagstones, an Orc patrol was marching in their direction, their heavy steps making enough noise to wake any sleeper in a one league radius. He gestured his troop to retreat into the entrance of a broken house with him, where they could find cover. Hastily his eyes went across the road towards the shattered statue of Elendil, which lay parallel to the road. He could see Kíli ducked behind shoulder of the stone figure, crouching without the slightest movement. Boromir held his breath; if only one of the Orcs turned his head and looked to the side Kíli would be discovered. He could see that Kíli was absolute still; there was no movement in him, not the slightest reaction to the Orcs marching past him so close that he could have touched them, the last of them marching past the statue without noticing the dwarf hiding behind it.

Exhaling sharply, Boromir gestured the others to rise and follow him again, to cross the road swiftly. The Orcs kept their pattern of patrols every half hour. It was not hard for Boromir to understand the way they worked – he had seen it often enough. The soft hooting of a Dawn Owl signaled them that the coast was clear. They moved across the street and joined Kíli, who was peering through another old gateway leading towards the Seer's tower. Boromir ducked when he saw a spark of light at the top of the ancient tower. The others froze with him. The pale blinking repeated a few times, before flickering out of existence. Boromir exhaled sharply. It had probably been the Moon on a broken window.

Softly, they crept over the plaza under the tower and found cover behind the broken guardhouse there. On the other side of the stone ruin, they saw the stacks of catapult ammunition: balls of dry straw and wood soaked with pitch. They would be lit before loaded onto the catapults, and carry deadly fire into Celanost. Boromir had seen them used before, the impact alone enough to smash a roof or ceiling, and only their fire was worse, it would set the city aflame, forcing his soldiers to either flee the fire or die trapped between enemies and the flames.

Hearing the heavy steps on the flagstones again, the whole troop found cover behind a broken wall. Kíli squatted down beside Boromir and their eyes met, he saw calm, a steady focus in those dark eyes and Boromir knew he had been right not to doubt Kíli's strength. Motionless, they let another patrol stomp by them; their Orc leader exchanged a few rough barbs with the guards at the catapults, most of them insults and lurid suggestions. Boromir only understood fragments but the amused, if grim mien of Kíli told him that the dwarf's Orkish was most likely fluent enough to understand what the Orcs had suggested to each other. When the patrol was off on their round through the city, Boromir nodded to the others. There were a few Orc guards with the storage. Some were swiftly shot by Kíli, while Boromir and his Men made short work of the rest. Boromir gestured Kíli over to him, he knew the dwarf was able to create fire, he had done so before, his way would make lighting the whole storage was easy enough: the pitch soaked straw would burn happily.

Shouts and shrieks of alarm on the other end of the city, along with a bright flame bursting up from the King's Square, told them that Faramir had also reached his target. The catapults of Osgiliath were burning.

TRB

The next dawn brought rain: heavy grey rain from the southern seas. Spring was slowly settling in, bringing warmth and life back to Ithilien. This day Boromir had no eyes for it; he stood on the main wall of Osgiliath, facing east. The burning of their catapults the previous night had incited the anger of the Enemy captain, there was little doubt about that. If it was Shakurán who still had command of the other side, Boromir was sure the Man was vexed. Along the River bank and on the ruined bridges, the Orc legions were gathering, there were two full legions marching towards the south crossing and another three on the main crossing of the river, preparing to storm the citadel Men still held in the heart of Osgiliath. There was no doubt that this time a full storm was under way.

Boromir's eyes surveyed the walls. The archers had been placed on the top spots: the towers, the Sunrise Gate, and the bastion. He could see his brother there, along with Kíli, was sticking his arrows into the mud on the wall. On the other side of the yard, Veryan held command of the north wall. The Swan Knight must have felt the glance for he raised his blade in salute to his Captain, a grim way of saying that he was ready to fight. To fight and die.

Beside Boromir, Dwalin leaned against the battlements. The Dwarves had been spread along all walls to bolster defense. The former mercenary and now war-master was as cold and calm as rock. "They'll make us wait, Captain," he observed. "Beat their drums, howl, make us nervous…"

"Any words for your men?" Boromir asked him quietly.

"I already told them that there's thirty Orcs for each of them to kill. They know their task," Dwalin grumbled, leaning on his war hammer.

"Only thirty?" Boromir asked dryly. "That won't be quite enough."

Now the Dwarf grinned at him. "Veterans take fifty," he said with the icy confidence of a man who had already seen too many battles, and fought many long wars.

Out there on the other side of the River, the drums began to beat – Orc drums, hundreds of them. Boromir knew their dread song, and the fear it inspired. Somewhere on the walls rose a voice, beginning to sing. Boromir recognized Veryan's voice, clear as a clarion, before several others joined in, drowning out the drums.

Dwalin peered up at him. "You all right, Captain?" he asked in a lower voice, only audible to Boromir. "You seem… prone to pondering these last days."

For a moment, Boromir considered simply not hearing the question. During the restless night hours linking the past few days, he had been pondering the dream again. But then… he had no answers, and asking for them now was as good a time as any. "Dwalin…" He turned to the Dwarven warrior, who had not given up on his relaxed pose against the wall. "That Dwarf lady who is with you... Did she ever travel to Gondor before?"

"Dwarf lady? There ain't no such thing, Captain," Dwalin said with a grin. "But if you mean Brea… She might have long ago come through this land. She's a trader and when she set out with a few ponies and pack loads, she travelled the length and breadth of human lands. Why, though?"

"When I crossed Moria with my friends, I had a dream." Boromir leaned his arms on the battlement, eyes on the other side of the River. "We were fighting there: Kíli, you, me… fighting and driving the Orcs out of Dwarrowdelf. Brea was there too. I have never met her…"

"And now you wonder how this is possible." Dwalin's usually stern face became suddenly pensive. "Maybe it was given to you to share a dream many of us have," he said softly. "To see Durin's blood return to the halls of our ancestors. Mayhap for that one night under the darkness in Moria you dreamt as we might, seeing what we would hope for." Dwalin's eyes strayed up towards the Sunrise Gate, where Kíli and Faramir stood with the archers.

Boromir's glance followed up there too, understanding that Dwalin was not looking at a comrade or friend at this moment, but to his King: the rightful heir to Durin's throne. Ever since he had come to Moria, he had begun to understand some of the Dwarves's story, their losses and their long war against the Orcs, and found he admired and respected them all the more for their strength. If he truly had been given the gift to share their dream, it was a good dream to be part of – a proud and noble one. He looked back to the Dwarf beside him as the song on the walls died down. "Do you have a Dwarven battle song to greet them?" he asked.

Dwalin pushed away from the wall. When his deep voice rang out over the walls, the other Dwarves didn't hesitate to join the powerful song.

Tairag azir nid guryet…

From the fire of a Dragon

And from the shadow of the deeps

Rose a warrior, a man with an axe

On the day we marched

Into Azanulbizar