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.

16. Chapter 15: Twilight whispers

KíliChapter 15: Twilight whispers

Orthanc was silent at night, the wide halls eerily empty and devoid of any living presence. Saruman was long accustomed to the silence of his tower; even now that the wood creatures and Horse Lords were rallying outside, the silence of his halls was not disturbed. Earlier this very day, his staff had been broken by his one-time friend and now adversary, Gandalf. Saruman had refused to be broken like his black staff, and thus had been swift enough to prevent his ill-used servant Grima from throwing the Palantír from the tower. In fact, Saruman had thrown Grimá down there instead; he had no use for the traitor anymore, nor any liking for the slimy fellow.

Now, in the silence, Saruman contemplated his next moves. Gandalf would not leave; he could not afford to leave an enemy behind, especially not one as powerful as Saruman still was. This was a battle of wills that Saruman had to prepare for. Broken his staff might be, but his powers were not yet lost. All of Gandalf's plans and hopes hinged on Gondor – her holding out against the darkness was a pinnacle to his plans. With the Elves leaving Middle Earth and loath to get involved into another war, Gandalf was running out of useful allies. Seven decades ago Saruman had wondered if Gandalf was trying to gain an equally powerful and tenacious ally in Durin's House, but when he had permitted Thorin Oakenshield to die, Saruman had been left to wonder why Gandalf had not invested more time and energy into hammering out a beneficial alliance with the Darf Lord. Instead Gandalf's hopes lay in the world of Men, and in Isildur's line. Coolly, Saruman smiled. What a foolish thing: to place one's hope into the hands of prideful, weak-willed Men. In the hands of men so deeply conflicted, Isildur's House was weak, and would be ill received in Gondor, as best. Gondorians may forgive many faults but not forsaking them in time of need, least of all the Gondorians of this generation.

Saruman rose from his high chair where he had been contemplating the state of the world and approached the intricately carved stone pedestal with the Palantír; the stone glowed like a flickering flame in the nightly chamber. It was beyond this orb to grant him power for the confrontation with Gandalf that was yet to come, nor could the orb give him the answers he sought… but beyond the Eye and all pacts and failings, it would give him revenge.

TRB

Boromir was beyond exhausted: he hardly registered that his body was pained and that he had not slept in days. It was the ninth day since the Enemy had begun to send His hordes against Osgiliath. The ruined Citadel of the Stars held out, breaking legions of the attackers like a rock would break the waves on the shore, but at a high price. They had paid in blood for each day they held Osgiliath, but every day they had held out so far allowed the preparations of Minas Tirith to continue and the freshly mustered troops to get to the White City. Still, Boromir knew they could not last much longer. The armies marching from the Mountains of Shadow were too numerous to hold off with the troops he had here, they were outnumbered ten to one at the very least by now, and Celanost had suffered more and more damage in the days of fighting That the citadel stood at all was a minor miracle brought about by crafty dwarves who found ways to mend damaged walls, meld stone and worked brutally hard to complete the repairs while under fire.

At dawn, they had a breather from the constant attacks; the enemy commander was most likely considering his strategies, because whatever price the defenders had paid, they had wreaked considerable damage – maybe even disproportionate damage – on the enemy troops. "Faramir." Boromir looked at his brother, who had just walked up the long stairs to the battlements. Faramir stood leaning against the battlement, his face pale, deep shadows under his eyes, the slumped shoulders and far off going gaze told Boromir exactly how exhausted his brother was. "With sunrise you will take all of the troops, excepting half a banner of fighters and lead them back to Minas Tirith."

"And you?" Faramir asked, his jaw setting firmly. He would not leave Boromir to make some noble, stupid and entirely useless last stand here.

"I will remain with some of our Men and some of the Dwarves to keep the Enemy busy and off your backs. Half a Banner, not more, we cannot afford to lose too many. We will begin our own retreat by nightfall at the latest. You have until then to gain some ground," Boromireyes went from Faramir to the battlements, his gaze seeking out fighters, those who were strong enough to serve as the rear guard, the ones he trusted to do this and survive. .

"What do our allies think of this plan?" Faramir asked quietly. The Dwarves followed Boromir's lead without any problems – it was fortunate they took their example from Kíli – but Faramir knew from experience that the Dwarven Prince would voice his opinions on strategies in private when he felt it necessary.

"Kíli already told me that the plan is nine kinds of crazy. In fact, he nearly accused me of being a Wood-elf." Boromir's face lit in a grim smile. "But Dwalin agrees on the strategy."

"And you like that?" Faramir asked dryly.

"I respect two centuries of warfare and experience, little brother. We'll keep the hardest, toughest fighters here to give the Enemy hell; you get our Men and wounded back to the City. I trust you; I know you will get them there in one piece." Boromir said with conviction; there was no one better than Faramir to hold a troop together right under the wings of the shadow. Boromir knew beyond the shadow of a doubt if Faramir could not bring these people back to the White City, no one could.

TRB

It was a grey spring day that the guard of Minas Tirith watched the retreating troops from Osgiliath cross the Pelennor to reach the City. The first columns of marching troops had been spotted by mid-morning and a messenger had been dispatched to inform the Lord Steward. But Denethor had been nowhere to be found until late noon, when he emerged from the Tower of Kings. He had angrily sent the guard away, telling him to report to the Alaris of the Tower Guard to have the Gate well-manned when the retreating troops came in. No one dared to tell the Steward that Thoroniâr, the Alaris of the Tower Guard, had been informed the moment the marching column had first been spotted during the morning. Nevertheless, Beregond hastened back to the main Gate, where he knew he'd find the Alaris of the Tower Guard.

Beregond reached the main gates of the city on the first wall, looking around he spotted a tall man in the customary armor of the Tower Guard, standing on the battlements above the gate. He did not wear the ornate cloak that signified his rank, exposing the crossed blades on his back, his hands rested on the battlements and his eyes were focused on the field before the city. Beregond hastily mounted the stairs leading up to the fortification. There was no sun on this day and the cold spring wind pulled on Thoroniâr's heavy black locks, which were nearly tied back, and formed a strong contrast to the soldier's fair skin. Only in his mid-forties Thoroniâr had been a war-time choice for the post of the Alaris of the Tower Guard, and he had enough Numenorán blood to keep this post for many decades to come. He stood alone atop the gate, watching as the troops came closer. Dark clouds had settled above the horizon and Beregond felt a sudden chill when his gaze fell out on the Pelennor. Something vile was in the wind, and for a moment he thought he heard fell voices in the air, his eyes went up to the skies, seeking… searching for the shadow that would fall

"Beregond!" Thoroniâr had closed the gap between them with two quick strides and grabbed his arm, effectively distracting him from the shrieks in the air.. "Any word from the Steward?"

If Thoroniâr heard the voices too, he did not show it, and it gave Beregond the strength to no longer listen to the shrieks in the wind. "Alaris, the Lord Steward commands that you man the Gate to prevent any enemy troops from breaking through with our Men. He had no further orders for you," Beregond reported, trying to not sound confused. Why the Lord Steward was not here to handle the situation himself was a riddle he could not solve. In the past the Lord Denethor may have withdrawn from matters of defense but that had always been when either Lord Boromir or Lord Faramir had been in the City to take command. That he would now relegate defense entirely to Thoroniâr was either an expression of supreme trust into a soldier who had fought at the borders until two years ago, or… no, Beregond could not contemplate any other reasons.

Alaris Thoroniâr shrugged. "Thank you, Beregond. Send for another squad of archers; we'll need them once we open the Gates."

Quickly, Beregond saw this order taken care of. He understood what Thoroniâr was saying – they might need to keep something that travelled with the winds from attacking the Gate.

It was at the fourth afternoon hour that the troops arrived. Many of them marched on foot, as the horses were being used for the wounded, as had most of the wagons.

Beregond frowned. The column was too long to be only the Osgiliath garrison. He knew how many Men Lord Faramir had had assembled in Celanost. And even with some reinforcements… the number made no sense, there were at least two thousand soldiers too many in that column, and that was a very careful estimate.

"Three thousand too many, several hundred too small to be Men, if this isn't an Easterling's mischief I don't know what is." Thoroniâr said, his voice stern, while his eyes still surveyed the marching column. "Second company secures the outer ward; archers at the ready!" His clear voice rang out over the wall. "Open the gate!"

Thoroniâr too hurried down to the ward, be it to greet their troops or to fight if this proved to be an elaborate trick to breach the gates, and he expected the latter. Beregond followed him down; it was well known in the Tower Guard that Thoroniâr had been Lord Boromir's choice to replace Targon when the old Man retired from duty. And anyone who had ever served under Boromir knew that he most approved of leaders who'd led at the front, always there where danger was worst, much like himself. So Beregond was not surprised to see Thoroniâr stand in the ward, right in the gauntlet, it was an exposed position, if the enemy used arches the moment the gate swung open, the Alaris would be the first to die, but he would not send another man to take the dangerous spot. Second company had fanned out behind him along the walls of the gauntlet, but they had some cover along the heavy stone battlements.

The huge Gate opened; the great valves moving slowly, Thoroniâr silently counted the heartbeats it took for the reinforced gate to swing open. It took six Men on each side to open the Gate and even then the mighty wings did not move swiftly. Thoroniâr stood tall in his place behind the gateway, he had not drawn a weapon nor did he allow himself any outward signs of being nervous. The gauntlet leading into the ward was narrow, designed to bottle up enemies if the Gate itself was breached. Still, the Alaris was tense; he had seen the much greater numbers out there and expected danger, the Easterlings were not above trickery in warfare, they considered outwitting an opponent something worthwhile. His fears seemed well founded when both wings of the Gate swung open far enough to reveal several soldiers and several smaller figures under the arch of the outer gate- The smaller figures were only four foot high and compact, definitely not Men, but maybe small orcs. "Archers!" Thoroniâr bellowed.

"Hold your fire!" The firm and commanding voice of Lord Faramir countermanded the order at nearly the same moment. Thoroniâr recognised the voice and his eyes found the familiar figure of the Ranger General at once amongst those closest to the gate. He was with the first under the gate, he was on foot, leading his horse which carried a wounded man, like most of the company. Beside him stood a smaller figure, leading a pony much the same way..

Thoroniâr's eyebrows drew together, forming a sharp V on his forehead as he, silently weighed the situation. There were definitely foreign troops with Lord Faramir – he did not know if they were small Orcs or Varigians from the east – but they did not belong here. Had Faramir been captured and forced to do this? He had to make sure, there was no other way. He demonstratively drew one of his swords, signaling the archers that the countermanded order was not fully accepted. "Ecthelion and…!" he called out, giving Faramir the chance to give the right watchword. If he had been forced into cooperating, he just needed to add the words Eryn Amren to warn them of the betrayal.

Faramir's pose stiffened, his eyes widening slightly as he saw Thoroniâr with the sword in hand. Thoroniâr's throat tightened, the thought that he'd have to cut down Lord Faramir if the wrong answer came sat heavy on him. The Alaris of the Tower guard did not even dare think it; Lord Faramir would never betray the White City. But what if…? He assessed the way the soldiers stood beside Faramir, two small ones, one tall, he'd have to be very swift if the wrong response came, very swift if he wanted to try and safe Lord Faramir.

"Ecthelion and Turgon," Faramir's words rang our clearly into the ward, and Thoroniâr let go of the breath he had been holding. The right password, signaling he was free and free in his decisions. Still… there were strangers with him. Trust in the Ranger General warred against Thorniâr's duty to keep the City protected. If he wanted to prevent an invasion, he had to bottle the approaching troops up in the gateway before they could break into the ward behind him.

Faramir handed the reins of his horse to one of the other soldiers and approached the Alaris of the Tower Guard alone. He kept his hands in clear line of sight, showing he was not preparing to attack. With his keen eyes Faramir had seen how Thoroniâr had assessed the people standing with him, he knew if worst came to worst Thoroniâr would have tried to rescue him, even if it meant his own death. Duty and obligation was the way Thoroniâr lived, which made him so distrustful of the situation now. His duty was to protect this city and strangers at the gates were unsafe by definition. "I do not bring enemies into this City, Thoroniâr," he said firmly, holding the Man's gaze until the proud Alaris averted his eyes. "These are allies my brother brought with him from the north and the reinforcements he sent for." Faramir disliked enforcing his rank so powerfully, staring the other man down, expecting a clear submission, but it was necessary; nothing else would countermand Thoroniâr's distrust for the moment.

Thoroniâr's eyes were still down on the ground, when he slowly nodded and acknowledged the words. He knew he had pushed his distrust very far and the silent reprimand was well deserved, he knew he could trust Faramir, and he knew that his openly displayed distrust could not have been well received. "As you say, my Lord Faramir." He looked up, not at the Ranger but to the walls, thrusting his sword back into the sheath, the signal clear to anyone. "Archers, stand down! Second Company, help the wounded, and dispatch runners to the healers!"

The Gate swing open fully and the troops began to pour in. Thoroniâr watched as the long column passed the gauntlet, all these soldiers were injured, armors dented, the horses carried those who could not walk or had suffered more severe injuries. But even those who had only scratches and bruises looked like they were ready to drop. And there were dozens of those small fighters, many of them leading ponies that were heavily packed, and he also noticed that most of them wore heavy, well made plate mail armor. They certainly looked warlike, even if their strange beards and wild hair gave them an irregular look, to say the least. "Shall I dispatch riders to aid the rear guard, my Lord?" Thoroniâr inquired. With Lord Faramir leading the main retreating force back to the city, Boromir would be with the rear guards, keeping the enemy off their backs and Thoroniâr itched to get a banner of riders horseback and ride to support him.

"The Captain of Gondor explicitly forbade it," Faramir stood beside Thoroniâr, watching the troops enter the city. "He will bring the last stragglers back himself but does not want any troops of the City at risk for it." He turned and waved one of the smaller figures over.

Surprised, Thoroniâr studied the man who had just joined them. He stood a bit above four feet and wore heavy armor; the weapon he carried was reminiscent of a heavy mining pick – one side a pick, the other a hammer. He wore a leather-cap helmet and had an impressive grey moustache, but the way he handled his heavy weapon bespoke familiarity with it, one that was not just the way a warrior was familiar with his weapon, this was a tool turned weapon, if the Alaris saw that correctly. The other one standing with him was somewhat taller, almost five feet, leaner than the first one and with a straight posture that echoed strength and command. His long mane of hair was dark and heavily streaked with ice-grey locks and he wore no tool, but two swords across his back.

"Bofur, Thirán, this is Thoroniâr, the Alaris of the Tower Guard," Faramir introduced them. "Thoroniâr, Bofur and Thirán are the acting leader of our allies until Prince Kíli and Dwalin return with the rear guard."

"Of course they are where the fun is and where they can make the Orcs bleed" was the humorous response, towards Lord Faramir, before the smaller man bowed slightly. "Bofur son Bran at your service" The musical accent was unfamiliar to Thoroniâr as was the greeting

"Thoroniâr, son of Erhawn," he replied without any bows, his gauze met Thiráns, who did not speak or bow either, but acknowledged him with a cool nod, that was easier understood by Thoroniâr. He was a warrior, that much was clear. Thoroniâr was not sure how to read the first one, Bofur. There was a strange mix of humor and grimness in him and he did not show the proper respect towards Lord Faramir, something that Thoroniâr found annoying enough. But then… he knew that Boromir would take allies where he could get them, and he'd prefer capable fighters over manners any day.

"Bofur, your people will be garrisoned in the Undercity for the time being" Faramir said to Bofur, when the silence grew long.

"Thoroniâr, have some Men from the third company lead Bofur and his people to the Undercity; they'll make camp there. Send their wounded to the Houses of Healing with ours, but respect their wishes should they prefer to take care of their own," Faramir ordered, and the Tower Guard was quick to obey.

"The Undercity, my Lord?" Thoroniâr asked once Fourth Company was leading their allies towards the entrances of the Undercity. "I will admit that every other garrison is full with all the troops from the provinces but can troops really be housed in that dank hole? We could move some of the provisions down there and gain room in the old storage holds…"

"They are Dwarves, Thoroniâr." The Ranger arched an eyebrow like he was surprised that Thoroniâr had not worked that out by himself. "They will love the Undercity more than any above ground housing we may find for them."

Dwarves? And a Prince was with them? As far as Thoroniâr knew Dwarves were a wandering people, workers wandering the land in search for employment in forges, quarries and road-works. Hard working, rough people, belonging nowhere and staying nowhere for long, while he knew that the Dwarves of old had had Kings, he doubted they had these days. Much like Gondor their dynasties had burned out centuries ago. So a Prince of the Dwarves? But Lord Faramir had used the title, and he was one of the foremost scholars in this city, if he said this Kíli was a Prince, than he was one. And who knew? Even the travelling people of Northern Harad claimed to have Kings, why not Dwarves as well?

"We did expect Osgiliath's retreat days ago, my Lord," he returned his mind to the conversation while another unit – this time clearly infantry from Tol Falas was marching past them. "when no word came these last five days we readied reinforcements."

Faramir's cool blue eyes met Thoroniârs and there was a flicker of warmth in them. "I doubt my father would have allowed it," he said, with a nearly inaudible sigh. "but I value your willingness to send the troops either way."

"Your father, my Lord, has taken no interest in the matter either way," Thoroniâr said honestly, he may only have mentioned it once and had taken the silence as permission. Sometimes with Lord Denethor it was easier to ask for forgiveness and not for permission, and while Thoroniâr rarely broke any rules, he would not have let any of the young Lords perish out on the River.

"That bad?" Faramir asked softly, his eyes straying up to the towers of the citadel.

"My Lord…"

"Thoroniâr!" Faramir snapped, his voice growing sharper. "Forget your rank and mine for a moment and tell me when was the last time you got a clear order or answer from my father?"

It was the one spot Thoroniâr hated being in – put between the young Lords, whom he both loved and revered and the old Lord, whom he owed a great debt of gratitude and who was the master of this city. Sometimes he wished he had been smart all those many years ago and left the city the only chance he got, instead of getting entangled into the webs of the Steward's Household. Yet… he would never regret the years he had served the young Lords. "Not since your rode from the city," he said, looking at Faramir directly. "he has been only to the council hall and the King's Tower ever since."

TRB

The afternoon hours crept by slowly, Thoroniâr stood at the battlements, watching the darkening fields outside the city, sharp eyes searching for the dust-cloud that would first herald the rear guard. Where were they know? Already away from the river? Or trapped between the river and their path to retreat?

"He said he'd hold as long as he could and then begin retreat," Faramir, who was leaning against the battlements, said softly. "He would have waited till nightfall to buy is more time, if he could. But I doubt that a half-banner could hold out that long."

"A half-banner?" Thoroniâr's eyes widened, he had expected at least double the number for such a mission. "Shouldn't we…" he wished he could order a banner of riders to go out and assist.

"They have some of the best fighters there are with that half banner," Faramir said, while his eyes never strayed from the eastern fields. "They will make it."

The hours dredged by slowly, Thoroniâr stood in comradely silence most of the time, both worried for friends, comrades out there under the rapidly rising darkness.

The Sun was slowly vanishing behind the shadows of cold Mindolluin, taking the last faint rays of light with it, when Faramir saw them: a small group of fighters making their way across the fields, pursued by the enemy. They were on horseback, the horses racing across the plains, enemy riders in hot pursuit. Faramir saw a group of seven riders break formation and turning against their pursuers, cutting down those who had closed in and then racing after the main group. They had less than a mile to go to reach the safety of the walls when Faramir saw a Shadow dive from the dark clouds, descending directly down at them. He shuddered, knowing what they were facing. "Captain, man the Gate," Faramir ordered. "Archers, prepare to pick off any pursuers. Thoroniâr I want hot tar and fire ready on the walls immediately, for the archers." He gestured one of the runners to bring him fresh bundles of arrows for his bow; he had used up all he had during the day-long battle at Osgiliath. Once the runners had returned with tar-pots and fire, Faramir stuck the arrows into the sticky tar that would serve to keep the flame when he fired an ignited arrow.

Darkness spread over the skies as the riders came into range of the City's might walls. Many times they were forced to turn and fight off pursuers, when they came closer, Faramir saw that the pursuers were not Haradrim on Horseback but Orcs mounted on huge hairy beasts – Warg riders. Boromir had guessed that the enemy had gotten such units from the North, but only now they did have confirmation.

Only the most daring of the dark armies had the courage to follow them within sight of the City's walls, fewer of them risked the shooting distance where the archers would cut them down quickly. The rear guard had nearly made it into the shadow of the mighty battlements when a Fell Beast dove down on them again. Huge wings whirling in the dark air as the creature swopped over the column.

Faramir's fist clenched around his bow, knuckled white with tension. He could well imagine that the group down there had long run out of arrows to defend against the creatures. He saw his brother turn his panicked mount and use his axe against the beast's claws. The creature fluttered up and closer to the wall. Fear, the weight of shadow and doubt, whispers of death, of failure and of deepest, coldest despair flooded Faramir's mind, all the things that would creep up on him in the lonely hours of the night suddenly flew on the whirling winds of the dark wings as the creature swooped in a wide circle. Beside him, Faramir saw soldiers pale and archers freeze. He stared into the encroaching darkness as he lit up his arrow. He would not let his brother fall, to neither darkness nor fell horror of the east. Bending his bow to the fullest, he fired the arrow, not at the creature but at the Rider. The burning arrow hit the Rider unawares and a shrill shriek that froze the very blood of any who heard it echoed over the walls. The winged wraith rose up into the skies and flew off, back to the east. "Open the gate!" Faramir heard Thoroniâr's voice; he looked down and saw that the rear guard had reached the Gate, killing the remaining Orcs that truly had come within reach of the walls. Most of their pursuers were already retreating.

Faramir hurried down the stairs of the wall, relieved to see his brother alive. The half banner that had left behind in Osgiliath had been decimated, but those who were still standing had survived even under the wings of the Shadow. Amidst them Faramir saw a familiar figure – tall, the tawny hair matted with sweat, the heavy axe still in hand, ready to fight again if any more creatures came after them. Relief, warm, intense relief flooded through him, Boromir was alive, he had not fallen to cover their retreat, he had come home again. Only now he realized how much he had feared that his brother might still die… might be lost to them.

"Faramir!" Boromir put the axe away and strode through the gauntlet towards him. "Did you make it back alright?"

"We had little problems breaking through," Faramir greeted his brother with a short clap to the shoulders. "we were more worried about you. How bad…?"

"Osgiliath burns," Boromir said grimly, "they won't be able to use the fortress against us."

"So you have returned, my son." The familiar voice made both brothers snap around. Denethor, Steward of Gondor, stood at the other side of the ward. Boromir had not seen him coming and was startled by Denethor's sudden appearance. "Long have I waited for this day."

Stepping forward, Boromir greeted his father, feeling suddenly tense in his presence. Denethor had aged greatly since he had ridden away, he seemed frailer and the way his gaze went here and there was unsettling. "The Enemy is on the march, Father. We had to give up Osgiliath, and it will not be long before they reach these walls."

Denethor's eyes pierced his son's gaze. "And you did not bring anything from the north that would avail us? Except those… allies?" He offhandedly gestured to the Dwarves that had come in with the rear guard, casting a derisive glance towards Kíli and Dwalin.

"There was nothing of what you hoped for," Boromir said firmly, trying to not think of his father's wishes regarding Isildur's Bane. "And allies are what we need to win this war." He looked over to the Gate, with a glance asking his brother and Kíli to join them while he waved Thoroniâr with a curt gesture to have the ward cleared This discussion, especially if it involved Isildur's Bane was not one he wanted overheard.

Faramir and Kíli followed Boromir's wish and stepped towards the stairs leading out of the ward. "Father." Faramir knew very well what Boromir was doing, by asking Faramir to introduce Kíli, he made sure that the forms would be correct and he also reinforced that they both were committed to this alliance already. Denethor had tried to play them against each other in the past and presenting a united front had been a successful tactic in the past. "This is Prince Kíli, son of Dis daughter of Thrain, of Durin's House.

Denethor's steely eyes locked with the dwarf's gaze, Kíli met his eyes levelly, unflinchingly. Boromir could see the tension build as neither of them gave ground, eventually Denethor sniffed disdainfully. "Not much of a House that lives as wandering blade-smiths and has to abide by the whim of every Lord of the Land," he said coldly, with a dismissive gesture. "I remember your face, Dwarf, and that of your ragged family that you call a House – my father deemed it wise to tolerate those who could make decent weapons in this land, and so did I in the past, if you did not overstep your low station. But in these ill-fated days, Gondor has fallen so low she can't be choosy with her allies and must indeed be grateful for the aid of a banished Princeling." With one angry turn, the Steward walked off, leaving all three of them standing at the stairs leading out of the ward.

Boromir's fists were clenched, he paced a few steps back and forth to prevent himself to go after his father and tell him off forcefully. He knew his father had expected something else, something that could not be and must not be. But could he not appreciate the help they had gotten? The Dwarves were not obliged to aid Gondor, nor had they ever been allies of the White City, that they had come to fight for them was generosity and sheer bravery on their part. Not to mention why Denethor had to have it in him to slander Kíli's proud family, if all Princes in Exile were like he and his Uncle Gondor would have less worries as well. "Forgive my father, Kíli, he did not mean his words as harshly…" He tried to salvage the situation; Kíli deserved an apology for those words. To his relief, his saw Kíli shrug.

"Do not worry yourself, Boromir, I understand him. He is a proud Man, and having to ally with those who came to this country as wandering workers more often than not cannot be easy for him." In truth, Kíli cared little what regard the Steward had for them or not; he had long learned that the friendship of a fellow traveler on the road was worth more than the grudging regard of many a lord. And he did not wish for his friend to worry about words that had not reached Kíli either way, he had been called worse in the past.

TRB

The Undercity proved the near ideal Dwarven barracks. Built in the time of the old kings, it was a sprawling labyrinth of underground halls, floors, stairs and chambers. Having fallen into disuse and disrepair for the last thousand years, the Undercity had seen use as foreigner's quarter, storage area and in the last decades it had stood empty altogether. Kíli found the main force had already set camp in a number of halls that were close to a crossing with three exits up to the city, they could be on the battlements swiftly from here. Camp was made in typical dwarven fashion, groups spreading out to form their little camps, setting up tripods with fires and hanging small lanterns on the stark pillars. Bofur, who had organized the camp greeted him with a grin. "I hear you already saw the Steward. Charming fellow, that one."

Kíli put a hand on Bofur's arm. "He is the leader of these people, and we can't afford squabbles amongst ourselves, so no quips or jeers at him, old friend."

"Aye, but he's lucky to have such a son, or this City would already pay taxes to Barad-Dûr," Bofur said shaking his head. "I'll see to the others; you look like you are ready to drop. Grab a few hours' sleep. Trouble will find us soon enough."

He was right enough. Kíli felt like he had just fallen asleep, sitting against one of the pillars upholding the ceiling, when he was shaken awake by Dwalin. "Lord Faramir wants you," the Dwarven warrior grumbled. "Must be important – it's in the dead of night."

Kíli could see the Ranger a few steps away and got to his feet. "I'll be back after dawn, Dwalin," he said, grabbing his weapons and following Faramir up the stairs that led out of the Undercity. "Nightmares again?" he asked softly as they strode up towards the Citadel.

"Worse than ever," Faramir responded softly. "It seems to get worse with exhaustion. Kíli… what happened to him?"

"Not here," the Dwarf whispered, his eyes indicating the nightly streets patrolled by the Tower Guard and Faramir understood that Kíli did not find it advisable to discuss this in earshot of anyone. They walked briskly and reached the Citadel within the quarter of the hour.

Faramir led Kíli through several empty hallways and towards the tower where the brothers' quarters were. Their shared quarters consisted of a rather large room, furnished comfortably, but fairly simple in style. The bedsteads occupied two niches by the windows. Boromir's exhausted sleep was troubled, the tall Man shaking in the throes of a nightmare, whispering words neither of them could understand. Kíli gently touched his forehead, the gesture was tender, gentle, conveying his worry even stronger than his dark eyes could. He began humming a tune Faramir had heard before: a haunting and beautiful song full of sadness, loss, and a grim determination. When Faramir closed the door, Kíli softly added the words in the Common Tongue:

The pines were roaring on the height,

The winds were moaning in the night.

The fire was red, it flaming spread;

The trees like torches blazed with light.

The bells were ringing in the dale

And men looked up with faces pale;

The dragon's ire more fierce than fire

Laid low their towers and houses frail.

The mountain smoked beneath the moon;

The dwarves they heard the tramp of doom.

They fled their hall to dying fall

Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.

Far over the misty mountains grim

To dungeons deep and caverns dim…

Faramir listened to the words, speaking of the fall of their great kingdom two centuries ago, the song was beautiful if haunting. His eyes went to his brother, Boromir's fists clenched in his sleep, his tossing stilling only little but his breathing became more ragged, the dream not abating.

Wordlessly Faramir pointed to a stool standing beside the niche, it would allow Kíli to sit down, this was not the field camp, where they all had been on the floor either way.

The Dwarf followed the gesture, without ever stopping to sing, by now a number of the songs were familiar to Faramir, he could tell them apart by their tunes, some even by their foreign sounding words. He knew that next to no strangers ever learned the secret tongue of the dwarves and he felt privileged he would hear so much of it, only he wished it was under other circumstances.

The hour wore on and Boromir calmed only slowly, the dreams being not easily chased off this time. Kíli watched Boromir's reactions to the songs and slowly changed from the ancient battle songs to softer tunes, warmer melodies, that made Faramir wonder if they were dwarven lovesongs, if such a thing existed in the world, or if they were children's songs. Eventually he picked up on a very familiar tune. Lets go to the burrows was a lullaby that would always remind him of his long departed mother.

Only that the tune sounded different, darker and moodier carried by Kíli's deep voice, and when the dwarf began to sing, adding the words, they could not be more foreign to Faramir.

Lets hide in the burrows, lets hide in the bogs,

the Dunlendings are hunting beyond the fogs,

Let me hide you swiftly, the hunters are near,

be still, be silent they must not hear.

Your father is sleeping under the Mount,

we burried your mother where she'll not be found

your brother sleeps by Mirrormere's side,

come little one, I need you to hide.

Listen, my wee one, how the thunder rolls,

in the dark outside rummage the trolls,

Listen, my wee one, how the heavy steps fall,

it's the Orcs out there, they'll kill us all.

Hide in the dark, never whisper a word,

hide in the corner to escape the sword,

Hide under the floor, duck down really low,

be silent, be still, you'll escape the blow.

Listen, my wee one, out in the storm,

before the walls lurks the great worm,

Listen, my wee one, the long night is here,

outside the camp the Dunlendings are near.

Hide in the dark, never whisper a word,

hide in the corner to escape the sword,

Hide under the floor, duck down really low,

be silent, be still, you'll escape the blow.

Listen, my wee one, the years will pass by

we'll meet again, just you and I

Listen, my wee one, to the halls of stone

you and me we soon will come home.

Follow the fire, to guide your way,

Follow the hammer, do not go astray,

Go down to the river - I will find you again,

Follow the others on the day I am slain.

It was the strangest mesh of two ancient songs that Faramir had ever heard, and the words… they made him shiver. Kíli was focused on Boromir and had possibly not even realized that someone else was listening. Maybe he would not have chosen that song otherwise, for what it said about his people's wanderings was dark and painful.

Thoughtfully Faramir studied the dwarf's now familiar figure, there was that strange dichotomy between the wanderer and the warrior, the banished man and the Prince… sometimes he thought that through these moments he was allowed to see a side of Kíli that few ever would perceive.

Boromir stilled with a sigh, slipping into a deep dreamless slumber, but when Kìli rose to move away, he stirred. With a smile, Kíli sat down again. "I better stay for a while," he said softly, they already knew already that Boromir would not react to their voices, except in the hour before dawn.

"I'd be grateful if you did," Faramir had sat down by the table again, he had been reading in the light of a single candle when Boromir had become restless. "I appreciate that you are taking this upon yourself."

"That's what friends do," Kíli said simply. "His dreams… they are getting stronger."

Faramir could see Kíli's worried expression; the dark eyes always became worried when he looked to the sleeping warrior. "Kíli, something is haunting my brother. Only once did he speak of it, and in words I dare not believe," he said softly. "Of all people, you are the only one who may know what befell him on his journey. He spoke of darkness, dishonor…" Faramir did not dare to repeat the words his brother had spoken as they had left Henneth Annun.

Kíli looked at the sleeping Man, then back at his brother, compassion clearly written in his dark eyes. "Faramir, your brother did nothing dishonorable on his journey, even as he holds himself responsible for things that he thought and dreamed. He was touched by the darkest and foulest magic I have ever seen: a curse so dark and powerful… nothing compares. But he fought it – no matter how hard it became, he fought; he refused to do the Enemy's work. And he conquered it: he did not betray his comrades or the quest he had agreed to protect. He did it all alone, holding the darkness at bay, even if the price was to break his own soul. I have never seen a stronger or braver Man, Faramir." Kíli sighed. "But I fear the price for resisting the curse is extracted from him through the torment you see."

"The quest… the errand of utmost secrecy Frodo spoke of," Faramir said, the pieces suddenly falling together as he remembered the words from his dream. "The Halfling… and Isildur's Bane." He could hardly imagine what his brother had been confronted with, a power so ancient and vile that even the Elves and much wiser beings had not dared to touch it. How did Boromir find the strength to fight like this – to fight the war every waking hour, and then fight a losing battle for his own soul during the dark reaches of the night?

"I am surprised you did not sleep too," Kíli observed, startling Faramir from his dark musings. "you must be exhausted too."

"I spend the afternoon waiting," Faramir replied, grateful for the distraction. "and I forgot time when I started to read." His eyes pointed to the leather bound book on the table, it had been a relish to have a few hours of quiet to himself.

He saw Kíli smile warmly. "I can imagine, the same happened to me a few times at a friend's house. He had a knack for gathering interesting and obscure books." He tilted his head trying to see the letters on the leather back of the book. "I take it is not a treatise on warfare?"

"No, I leave those to my brother," Faramir replied a gentle poke at his brother's love for anything related to war echoing in his voice. "this… this actually a treatise on the dwarven situation. A little more than century ago a number of guilds complained to my great-grandfather Turgon about the wandering dwarves and their impact on many businesses. Turgon had one of his scholars conduct a study into the whole matter and the result was one of the few newer works on your people."

"Have my people given you so many questions?" Kíli asked, surprised. "Bofur knows Menfolk well, he is on amiable terms with the Dunedain settlements up North, I'd have thought he'd have no problems navigating the inevitable misunderstandings."

"No, I did not mean it that way," Faramir explained, relaxing slightly into his chair. "I have already noticed how much you, and many of your friends, are adjusted to life among Menfolk, as you call it. You wear your hair and beards inconspicuously, you call yourselves 'dwarfs' though you'd normally would say 'dwarrow', you use our phrases and idioms, your friend Dwalin curses like an Easterling Captain, though."

"He fought in the War of the Twins," Kíli replied. "and I don't know how many other wars off in the East, something called the first through fifth Firelands campaigns, if someone knows your Eastern Neighbours it is Dwalin."

Faramir knew a distraction when he saw one, by admitting that his close friend had fought in the Great Imperial Succession of the Easterling Empire, Kíli could have easily shifted their conversation away from its starting point, because most Gondorians would have angrily jumped at such facts. But Faramir went on. "You usually sit in a way that distracts from your smaller stature and you take off your bracers and gloves to make your hands look smaller – your learned precisely how to blend in. And… in many ways you are not like the books claim dwarves to be. I assumed that the Exile of your people had something to do with it… and thus dug up the one book that had been written on your people after the Exile."

"And what did you find out?" Kíli leaned back on the chair, drawing up one leg, resting the foot on the side of the stool, so he could lean on the knee.

"Not much… the book deals with confusticating superficialities." Faramir said, gesturing him closer as he re-opened the book.

Dwarves travel in groups, living and working together, often offering all members of their respective group for work services. Contrary to our easily duped neighbors of Rohan, in Gondor, no educated Man of Gondor should fall for the claim of 'small dwarves' being in such groups. The so-called 'small-dwarves' are not of a different tribe and in no way petty dwarves, they are indeed dwarven children, or Dwarflings as the correct term is, that work alongside their elders and sometimes even pretend to be adults in their own right…

Faramir shook his head, while the text held several warnings against employing such dwarves, along with observations of the capabilities of young dwarves, it did not really dig beyond the surface. The other page held an ink-drawing of a forge with an adult dwarf and two youngsters working.

Kíli had stepped beside him, his eyes quickly scanning the page, lips curling at some passages of the text, but when his eyes touched the drawing his mouth opened, before he hastily covered it with his hand. A sudden pain reflecting in his glance.

Hastily Faramir put the book aside. "Kíli?" he asked. "Do you… do you know the dwarves he drew?"

Kíli let his hand sink, nodding slowly. "Aye… I do… did." He took the book to look at the drawing again. "It was so long ago… when were we ever so young?"

"You… are you saying one of them was you?" Faramir rose, stepping beside him to look at the book too. One of the smaller dwarves was drawn with a wild mane of hair, even as it was tied back because he held the tongs while the older ones worked with their hammers. And the adult dwarf… he too held some semblance to Kíli.

"My Uncle Thorin, my big brother Fíli," Kíli's eyes warmed when he looked at the drawing. "the midget would be me. I did not have a growth spurt until I was nearly fifty."

It seemed strange, nearly unthinkable, that Thorin Oakenshield, the King and Hero Faramir had heard and read about should have been subject to a book like this, dealing with the problematic of the displaced dwarfs. Or that his nephew would eventually come to Gondor to fight against the Shadow, to protect Faramir's brother, a strange fate indeed.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Kíli closed the book forcefully. "there is no need for pity, we survived quite well."

Duty first, grief later, pity never. Faramir did not know where he had read that quote but it echoed strongly in the dwarf's words. "I did not mean it that way, Kíli," Faramir said, quickly covering up for his mistake. "I was wondering… about Arnór, our people there have faced a similar fate, and yet Gondor knows next to nothing of what happened to them."

Kíli sat down again, beside Boromir who slept peacefully. Settling down comfortably, the dwarf gladly changed topics, delving into what he could tell Faramir of the last century among the Dunedain and the lone lands, and soon they were engaged in a lively conversation again.

TRB

High up in the Tower of Kings, Denethor sat with the Palantir between his hands, his brow furrowed as he watched the Seeing Stone unfold the secret he had pondered so long, why his son had failed to retrieve Durin's Bane, why he had returned empty handed… why he acted like it was no failure at all. He sneered when the Dwarf masked his treachery by noble words, explaining the reasons to Faramir, the Steward did not believe one word of this blather. Boromir had not decided by himself to forgo the prize that was Isildur's Bane. He had been tricked into letting it slip past him – Denethor was sure of that. Angrily, he watched as the Dwarf lightly touched Boromir's forehead, pretending to drive away the nightmares. Jealous hate rose inside him. Was Faramir so useless, so blind, to not recognize the significance of this gesture? No, he did not see – he was blinded like a fool.

"So this is the truth at last," he whispered scathingly as he saw what happened in the tower opposite of his own seat. "Not only did you steal my son's love for me, his loyalty, but you bewitched him. You enchanted him to serve you. But you cannot hide it from me, Dwarf-spawn."

The colors inside the Seeing Stone swirled as they pulled Denethor forward, giving him visions of things he did not wish to see. The White City once again ruled by a King of Isildur's accursed house; Boromir stepping back from the office of a Steward while Faramir, the weak-willed fool, swore fealty to the new King and became Steward instead. Denethor wanted to pull away in disgust but the Stone would not allow it, forcing him to watch how Boromir left the White City to join another quest leading him back to the mountains of the north. His son… his wonderful son… in a hall deep under the Mountains swearing his loyalty to…

"No!" Denethor screamed and forced himself free of the Palantír. Breathing raggedly, he struggled to rein in his temper. "I shall not let this foul bewitchment stand now that I know what you did, Dwarf," he said to the empty room, a plan forming in his mind.

In the silent hours before dawn, Denethor left the Tower of Kings and called the Alaris of the Tower Guard to him. Thoroniâr arrived swiftly, bowing low before his Lord. Denethor studied the Man. He had been Boromir's choice for replacing Targon, while Denethor had wanted an older candidate. But now that he watched the tall warrior, with the black hair and grey eyes heralding his proud ancestry, he was glad he had given in to Boromir's wish, for Thoroniâr was devoted and loyal to the Captain of Gondor and would do all that was necessary to free the Man who trusted him so highly. "Walk with me," Denethor ordered, as he descended the stairs towards the old courtyard before the Palace. "I have a mission to entrust to you, one that Lord Boromir's life will depend upon. Fail and the consequences for my son will be dire, for he is in grave danger."

He could see the warrior tense, his shoulders betraying that he was expecting to be pointed at his target right away. "You will assemble a force of loyal Men," Denethor continued. "Only the most loyal and devoted, who can be trusted to never speak of what they will see. With those, you will wait on the stairs that lead out of the eastern Citadel tower. When the Dwarf that calls himself Kíli son of Dis leaves my son's rooms, you will apprehend him at once."

The Steward stopped, his eyes meeting the soldier's gaze squarely, forcing the Alaris to look at him in turn, impressing the weight of his words to the warrior. "Neither you nor any of your Men will ever speak of this again, do I make myself clear? I will never hear a whisper of it, and if you hear such whispers, you will strike down the one who uttered them with you own hand. Boromir's life and honor, depend on it." He saw the Alaris's jaw set in a firm line, the slight widening of the eyes as he digested the words. Oh, Denethor knew what interpretation the words would find a soldier's mind; he had purposefully chosen them that way, because it would guarantee Thoroniâr's silence. He would never allow such dishonor to be muttered about.

"Are we to kill the Dwarf, my Lord?" Thoroniâr asked coldly, it might be the best way to approach this, once the offender was out of the picture; Boromir had a chance to recover. It might need some help from Faramir, but Thoroniâr was sure that the Ranger would never abandon his brother, no matter what had transpired.

"No." Denethor shook his head. "This is not your task. I need him alive and you will deliver him thusly. You will bring the Dwarf to the ancient dungeons under this very tower and leave judgment to me." He waved his hand, dismissing the soldier.

The Alaris saluted him fist over his heart. "As you wish, it shall be done, my Lord." He turned and strode off to take care of the task given to him.

Denethor smiled coldly. Boromir's choice in the Man had been well. Of course it had to be – all of Boromir's choices had been well before he fell afoul of that Dwarf creature. Denethor returned to the Tower of Kings, his stride was sharp and his mind was already three steps ahead of his aging feet. He would allow no one to steal his beloved son; this Dwarf would learn the hard way to not move in circles where he did not belong. Hastening up the stairs he again entered the Palantîr chamber. Until he heard that the task was done, he would use his newfound power to find out all the secrets of his new adversary.