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.

18. Chapter 17: A spark to light embers

Chapter 17: A spark to light embers

Steps on the stairs made Boromir look up; Thoroniâr had followed them after all, and now was hurrying down the stairs into the main dungeon room. Boromir raised his chin, pointing the Man towards the captive. Like always Thoroniâr understood without the need to actually hear the order and walked past Boromir to release the bindings that still chained Kíli. The Dwarf's knees buckled, and were it not for the grip of the other Man he'd have fallen.

Kíli had tried to stand on his own, but eventually needed to lean on the soldier's arm, to not fall, his legs would not support him. He did not flinch away from the man who had arrested him only… how many?... hours before, for he too had seen the unspoken order from Boromir, it answered all questions where Thoroniâr's loyalties eventually lay. He strained his hands to bent the steel wire rings of the stigma seals on his hands, to loosen them, he flung away the glowing seals, they cluttered down on the cold floor. But his hands burned with the pain of the brands, the stigmas had eaten deeply into the muscle leaving his hands feel like they had been crippled, every muscle in his body ached with the crippling pain Denethor had inflicted, even breathing was a movement that caused sharp spikes of pain to rise in his chest, like an arrow slowly pressing deeper and deeper into his lung. Kíli was aware that the pain was unreal, except for his hands and burning shoulders, none of the other pains was caused by injury, they were echoes and phantoms of the mind, called into being by Denethor.

Across the room, he saw Boromir gently rest his brother on his knees, blood forming a dark stain on the floor. Taking a slow, deliberate breath, accepting the pain it brought, Kíli forced himself to stand on his own, ignoring the fierce pain. All that must be endured can be endured. He nearly could hear Dwalin's gruff voice, like he had so many years ago during their escape from Goblin Town. Without the mighty warrior's aid back then, Kíli would have never managed to keep up with the group during their chaotic flight from the dens under the Misty Mountains, nor would he have recovered from the Goblin King's hospitality. What must be endured can be endured. All pains can be borne. It is our decision to break or stand. If Thorin had taught Kíli to be a leader, Dwalin had taught him to be a warrior. Another slow breath, the pain became more intense, and Kíli no longer tried to ignore it, but embraced it, drew it inside, accepted that it was there. He let go of the hold he had on Thoroniâr's arm, seeing the man's eyes widen in surprise. Making the first step on his own, another wave of burning pain erupted in his bones, and again Kíli did not push it away, during the worst moments of what had transpired here, he had been tempted to give in, letting go of the pain and fade into the darkness of the stones where neither pain nor wakefulness could exist. Dying would have been easy, surrounded in a room of stone, resting on a mighty rock, the foothills of ancient Mindolluin, Kíli could have willed himself to return to the stone, to the sleep from whence there was no waking, the temptation had been there – to end all the pain, to end the long loneliness and just sleep. Kíli's eyes fell to the brothers, what had been done to them and he found that he had to face living again and his feet would carry him through another day.

Kíli walked over to them, each step hurting more than the one before, but he did not let the pain deter him. He knelt down beside them on the floor. Faramir was still bleeding, the blade was still embedded into the wound, positioned a little left of the chest bone, though dwarves did not share the exact anatomy of men, it told Kíli enough. "It must have grazed the lung," he whispered. Denethor's last strike had been cruel and effective, destroying his own son in hate and rage.

Boromir's glance was grim, though his ashen face betrayed all too clearly the pain he was in. "Can you hold him?" he asked, the question half a statement, as he shifted Faramir enough to rest against Kíli.

Kíli understood without further discussions. He extended one of his strong arms under Faramir's shoulders, the other around his side, leaving enough air between the wounded man and his knees to allow Boromir room to work.

Faramir's eyes went back to his brother. "What are you…" his breath came rattling.

"You need to hang on, Fari," Boromir's voice was rough, mixing with a tearing sound, as Boromir swiftly parted the soft material of his long cloak into the broad stripes. His hand closed around the hilt of the dagger, pulling it free with one clean move. He dropped it aside at once, and pressed the first stripe of cloth on the wound. Kíli brought his hand up to put pressure on it, while Boromir used the second stripe to fixate the first with a tight bandage, a third stripe followed, the bandage became red swiftly, but it slowed the flow of blood from the wound.

Faramir's breathing became more labored, his hands curling into firsts in pain. Kíli sighed, it would not be enough. The lung was injured and that killed most injured fighters, if they lived past the initial wound at all. When the bandages were affixed around Faramir's chest, he shifted Faramir back to his brother's hold. If this was Faramir's last hour in this world, he should be with the one he loved, with the one who loved him best.

Freed up for the moment, Kíli looked up to Thoroniâr, who had already mounted the stairs to send a guard for a healer, though it was doubtful that a healer could bring any more help here. "Where did you bring my sword after you brought me here?" he asked.

The Alaris of the Tower Guard looked at him, slackjawed. "Your anger may be justified, Dwarf, but this is not the time for revenge, or for even thinking of putting a Man out of his misery."

Pushing himself to his feet, Kíli had to exercise some force of will to stand, to not simply falter against the next wall. He breathed out slowly, then walked towards the stairs facing the towering guardsman. A hint of anger rose inside him, this warrior had ventured into matters he did neither understand nor comprehend fully, a little more thinking would do him a world of good. "This is not about revenge, you stubborn mule," he growled. "There might be a way to save Faramir yet, but to do so I need that sword. If you love your Lord, you'll get it quickly."

And suddenly it all made sense, for the first time Thoroniâr felt like a glimpse of understanding, because Denethor in all his orders had accused the weapon to be be-spelled. Maybe it was just different, not a magic to enchant or ensnare but something else entirely. He had never considered that the nature of that magic might be something else than Lord Denethor had claimed. He sprinted up the stairs and towards the guard armory where he had left the captive's weapons. The weapons were still placed inside one of the armory chests where Thoroniâr had left them, aside of the sword the dwarf had carried an impressive number of daggers, throwing knives and other small weapons, many of them older and well used but all of them sharp and deadly. He packed them aside to retrieve the blade that lay on the bottom of the pile.

The armory door flew open and Veryan of Dol Amroth strode in, his breath was flying, he must have been running to get here. "Thoroniâr, finally I find you; no can tell me where Lord Denethor or his sons are... A fourth marching column has appeared at the outer fields and a decision needs to be made."

Thoroniâr grabbed the sword from the bottom of the chest in a hurry before even turning to Veryan. His pulse was racing and a whirlwind of thoughts were vying inside his mind. The war was upon them and the Enemy had not been needed to wreak havoc inside their own camp. Faramir was dying and he had no time to loose. He also knew that the truth of Denethor's deeds must never come to light; it would forever tarnish his noble sons' reputations. And he had to get back to the tower of Kings swiftly. "Veryan." Thoroniâr strode to the door, meeting his friend's eyes. "Denethor is dead, Veryan, killed by a spy, Faramir was severely injured in the fighting."

Veryan's eyes widened, he stepped backward from the Thoroniâr, his hands seeking the hold of the stone doorframe "By the Light, how bad is it?"

"We don't know if he'll live… it looks bad. His brother is with him," Thoroniâr said grimly.

"Veryan!" A booming, deep voice echoed across the yard. Both men, Thoroniâr and Veryan, stepped through the door outside to see a short, bald figure approach them, followed by a second dwarf. Dwalin did not run but he strode as fast as most men would. "Outlook reports that the second marching column is splitting up, half are riders the others on foot – they are going to set up a full encirclement if they keep going like this. The Outlook also has spotted siege engines with the third column and we need to…" The dwarf stopped dead midsentence when his eyes fell on the sword in Thoroniâr's hands. You!" He shouted. "I should have known – one of you had to have taken him." The dwarf drew his axes.

Thoroniâr wished the dwarf, the war and the sword to the Gate of Night, there was no time for this. "Dwalin, I was sent to bring it to Kíli." He snapped at the angry dwarf. "and there is no time to be lost. A life may depend on it."

Veryan's hand had sunken to his sword, he did not know what was going on here, but their alliance seemed to be fraying by the moment. "Dwalin, I need a full report on the situation," he said, hoping he could draw the dwarf's anger from the blade back to the pressing matters again – the war.

Narrow eyes surveyed him angrily. "Do you think I care if your city burns, when one of yours is behind my King having vanished?" he grumbled, his deep voice reverberating with anger. "If something happened to Kíli, I shall gladly help the Easterlings to raze this miserable hovel off the face of the Earth."

"No." Thirán had stepped up beside Dwalin, and in that moment there was a calm, firm authority in his voice that could not be denied. "This is not what Kíli would have wanted. Thoroniâr, you will lead Dwalin to Kíli without delay. Veryan, we go back and see to the walls."

Slowly, very slowly, Dwalin lowered his axe. "Frérin." He said in a low growl, when he put the weapons away and looked at Thoroniâr. "I better find Kíli alive… and well."

"I will take you to him, he is with Lord Boromir," Thoroniâr decided swiftly, his eyes going back to Veryan. He knew Boromir, if the Lord Captain heard of the situation outside before the walls, he would go at once to defend the city, though it meant leaving his brother to die alone. He would always do his duty, even if it broke his heart to do so. "You are Boromir's second in command – you deal with whatever the enemy forays into this land are. I'll get word to you once there is news of Faramir."

Veryan heard the words and understood what Thoroniâr was saying, they both knew the brothers well. He did not even dare to imagine what it would do to Boromir to lose both, his father and his beloved brother within the same day. Giving him the time to say his goodbyes, or grieve, was the least he could do. And Thoroniâr was agitated, if the cold sweat on his brow, the way he grabbed that strange sword and the slight tremor in his arms was any indication. "Hurry, I will take care of the walls." He said, before he turned and raced back down towards the first wall.

.

TRB

Down in the dungeon, Boromir was kneeling on the cold stone floor, Faramir resting on his knees, the older brother holding him close, his eyes always on the wounded man. "You need to hold out, Fari… we cannot move you yet," he whispered. Kíli could hear the strain in Boromir's voice, it was close to cracking, but there were neither tears nor a breakdown of desperation, in the midst of destruction Boromir was keeping it together.

Kíli had gone to the heap of armor and clothes that had been taken from him when he was arrested, under the chainmail armor puddled in a heap he retrieved his coat, a typical dwarven travelling coat, made of sturdy leather with fur inside to keep warm, and a dark green hood. Going back to the brothers, he knelt down to spread the warm material over Faramir. "We need to keep him warm and awake," Kíli said softly. "It won't work when he is passed out. There is something about being able to accept the gift in the spell."

"I can't ask you to do this, Kíli." Boromir found that he was hardly able to keep his voice from cracking, nor did he have the will to try. He felt Faramir's weakening from sag against him and it tore his heart. "You said it could not be done twice, and look what it did to you the first time already."

"I said I was told that no one dared to use it twice," Kíli corrected him gently, he had gotten up again and used his foot to push one of the braziers closer. "and it did nothing bad. A few years matter little if you have a Dwarven lifespan. Not that any lifespan might be longer than the next few days, all things considered." Looking at the flames inside the brazier, Kíli reached for the familiar friends, asking them to burn stronger, fanning the flame to give greater warmth to their wounded friend.

Before Boromir could answer, hurried steps echoed on the stairs, heavy boots clanking on the stone. Thoroniâr returned and Dwalin followed him. The Dwarf had heard the conversation of the two Gondorians in the courtyard and had not let himself be sent away.

When Dwalin saw Kíli, he pushed Thoroniâr aside roughly and rushed to his side. Before he could speak Kíli had reached for Dwalin's hand, placing two fingers on the back of the broad paw, a quick Iglishmêk gesture, that asked him to be silent for now. It cost Dwalin all his discipline to obey that order, one look at Kíli's pale face and wounded state told him enough of what must have transpired down here. This was a dungeon, and one that had seen fresh use, it took only one quick glance to see the dead body fallen against the wall and the wounded man on the ground, closely held by Captain Boromir. But what he felt most of all was the fire, Kíli had made it burn brighter, to give warmth and what protection such a small flame might provide, protecting others before even thinking of himself. Dwalin stepped closer to the brazier, he might not be a smith or gifted in the arcane arts, but he was a dwarf, the fire spoke to him. The flames became darker when he touched them, burning hotter if more aggressively. They would give the warmth that was needed.

Kíli gave Dwalin a grateful nod, seeing his friend was holding back no matter how angry he was. He extended his hand towards the Guardsman, who handed him the dragonsword.

"How… how can this blade help save Lord Faramir?" Thoroniâr asked, his voice low and doubtful.

"It holds a powerful spell that may yet heal him," Kíli explained, gritting his teeth as he took the sword, his injured hands burning in fresh pain as they touched the Dragon tooth hilt. The blade had never felt heavier, his fingers refused to hold tightly onto the hilt and he nearly dropped the blade. He inhaled sharply and intertwined his fingers with the guard, to put less pressure on his palms.

"It is what you tried for Balin…" Dwalin whispered. "It did not work then…"

Sadly, Kíli looked to his old friend, of course he would remember the spell rebounded from his brother, the one desperate attempt to save an old and dear friend." It had pained him deeply that he had been unable to save the great old Dwarf. "Balin was too far gone already," he said softly, as he knelt down beside Faramir, who was barely conscious clinging to his brother. "it might have worked, had I reached you sooner." Kíli well remembered how the spell had crumbled back then. And he had no time for either, nor for discussions with Dwalin, Faramir was with them still, but soon his soul would take to the journey across the Neverseas, and then it would be too late.

"Kíli… what if it kills you this time?" Boromir wished with all his heart he could save his brother, that there was a way to bring back Faramir. The very thought of losing him frightened him, he held onto his brother like sheer willpower could keep the black figure of death away. The temptation to simply accept Kíli's offer was great, he did not make Kíli do this, the dwarf had offered out of his own volition. But Boromir knew his friend by now, Kíli protected others first and foremost, no matter what happened to him. Boromir knew not how he could face losing his brother, but he also knew that he could not face Faramir surviving at the price of a friend's life. Whenever he had been forced to sacrifice troops, comrades, sometimes friends, it had been rational decisions, necessary ones to achieve strategic goals. To this very day he had been spared the brutal decision to choose who was to life and die without any rationale, without any goal beyond survival. He could not make that choice. "Faramir said it was a sacrificial spell, and it took a brutal toll on you the last time."

Stubbornly, Kíli shook his head, unwilling to lose time to debate but still forced to do so. "Boromir, this spell was never meant for mortals; it was invented by the High Elves during the First Age. If all that the one who taught me the spell said is true, they were among the greatest in their magic: war-like, fierce, and the closest thing of being cast from to the light as any Elf could be. To them, the toll was on their souls, and while it is different for mortals, I doubt it will kill me this time. It is Faramir's only chance now."

"This time? You mean you've used it before?" Dwalin all but shouted, this time he left the fire that was burning happily and squatted down beside Kíli, clearly willing to protect him, though he hardly knew how.

The younger Dwarf sighed, turning his head to look at Dwalin and the older dwarf could see fierce determination in the black eyes, the same stubborn will that had carried Thorin through battle and exile, the same expression when Thorin had been faced with the choice to either sacrifice one of his followers or perish himself Dwalin knew what Thorin's choices had been and he knew how Kíli would choose. "I did use it once, old friend, and it worked. I will not claim that it is not hard to weave, but it can be done." Kíli said firmly.

"Could another do it?" Thoroniâr asked. The guardsman had not interfered so far, now he had comes closer, his eyes dark and worried as he looked at Faramir. Kíli could read a lot of worry, conflict and loyalty in the guardsman's stance. He might not like the man for sending him to this dungeon but he could see that he was absolutely devoted to his Lords.

Kíli shook his head, he balanced the sword against his knee as he lightly touched Faramir's neck, checking his pulse. The Ranger was breathing slowly, aware of his surroundings but the peace – the calm of dying – was settling in, he would go as calmly and composed as Boromir had in Amon Hen. "No. You would have to know how to call the spell from the Dragon's tooth, not to mention that the words are in ancient Quenya – you'd never be able to pronounce them right. And if it shaves off ten years of your life, you will be an old warrior."

"I will do it," Boromir said firmly. "He is my brother, Kíli, and I let things get so far… It has to be me."

It has to be me… The words made Kíli shiver, an icy hand touching his heart. He had heard those words before.

Kíli stood with his back to a bloody rock; nothing distinguished this rock from the thousand others on the bloody fields of Dale. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds, some were minor, scratches and deeper cuts, but two of them had hacked deeply through his armor, a stab in the side of his chest burned with every breath he took and the pain in his left leg had gone from a dull ache to a sharp stinging whenever he moved. In his hand his blade, black with Orc blood, the dwarven sword felt so heavy in his hands, like it was a war-hammer twice the size. He did not dare loosen his hard hold on the hilt, lest he'd drop the weapon. Corpses lay around him everywhere: Orcs, Dwarves, Men and Elves that death had reaped with the same merciless stroke of his sword, ending all their differences and conflicts in the cold slumber from which there was no return. When Thorin had charged at Azog, rallying what was left of the failing armies, Kíli and his brother had been by his side, cutting their way through the Orc host, shielding him the best they could. Kíli had been able to draw off most of Azog's fearsome guard, while Thorin and Fili charged onwards. Kíli pushed away from the rock and stormed uphill where the fight was still in full rage. He saw Azog come about and swing his mace; it was aimed for Thorin but Fili was between their uncle and the deadly attack. The mace flung him high into the air, his body crashing down only steps away from Kíli. Knees slamming into the gory smear that was left of the earth, Kíli tried to bite back a sob at seeing his mangled body. Fili reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Had to be me… I'm the eldest…" He coughed; his body went rigid before convulsing so bad that Kíli expected to hear the bones snap at any moment. Fíli's breath was ragged as he forced himself to a momentary stillness. "Fate gave Mother two sons… one would never have made it…" Blood stained his lips. "Go, Kíli… save Thorin – protect our King…"

Tears burned in the corners of Kíli's eyes and he clasped his free hand over his mouth to stifle the sob burning in his throat. Fíli… dear, brave Fíli, dying alone so he could try to save Thorin. It had been in vain, Kíli had failed and Thorin had died, passing into Mahal's halls beside his eldest nephew. But Kíli understood now. Boromir had to do this: he was the big brother – he could not do any less. Much like Fili had been there for Kíli for as long as he had lived. "We'll do it together," he offered. "Between us, we should be strong enough."

"Agreed." Boromir could feel Faramir go still, his head sagging as his breathing became slow and even. "No, Fari, you can't…" he lightly shook the wounded fighter to make him wake up,; Faramir was barely hanging onto his consciousness. If he lost consciousness and did not wake, he was lost to them. He could not let this happen, Boromir's hands tightened on Faramir's arms. He did not know if it was the pain from his grip or his voice that made Faramir's eyes flutter open again.

"S'cold…" Faramir's voice was soft and slurred.

"You will be better soon," Boromir told him. "just a little longer. You need to stay with us."

They placed the Dragon hilt between his hands, Boromir gently closing Faramir's fingers around the hilt, though it threatened to slip from Faramir's weakening grasp, like life itself was slipping away from him. The white polished material seemed aglow with warmth. Boromir put his hand on the hilt, steadying the weapon in his brother's hand; Kíli placed his atop, ignoring the burning wound in his palm. "Speak with me…" he said softly.

Do not speak of hope forlorn

though night may cloud your eyes,

from darkness rises a new morn'

and so the darkness dies.

Don't fear the long dark night ahead,

when dusk begins to rise,

you fought, you stood and you have bled,

and so the darkness dies.

Raise your eyes towards the stars

before the darkness flies,

they call you home from all the wars

and so the darkness dies.

Blue runes began to shine on the sword hilt, enveloping the blade and the three men in an eerie light, like cold flames running through them. Pure agony ripped through Boromir as the flames touched him. It was not induced by them, but by something deeper, reaching inside him and draining on his very essence. In these unearthly moments, he could feel the pain shared by his brother and by Kíli, their presences linked his so strongly he swore he saw the mithril chain binding them to one another. Then the emptiness came: a vast blackness swallowing them up, but they still were together, even as there was nothing but blackness stretching around them, a place that held nothing but sleep. And there in the darkness he saw him, not as the old man or fearsome wraith Men so often would paint him as – the man who stood tall in the vast emptiness was a warrior, a guardian to all those who crossed into this darkness. His glance at Boromir lasted only for the moment a feather might need to touch a pond but longer than the Gondorian's entire life. A great calm spread through him. For all his life he had been told that the gift of mortality was a bitter one. Now he knew they were wrong. This warrior was no dread horror, no cruel end, it was by his mercy that Men would be permitted to leave their pains and burdens behind and come home.

It was then that he saw the light, a warm, soft radiance touching him, Boromir could neither explain nor even try to understand it, but within the rays of that disembodied light he felt safe, protected, even in the void between life and death. There was no place that this light would not shine on, and no darkness, no shadow would be perpetual before it. Only then he realized he had closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the warrior was gone. And while he was still in the emptiness, he was not alone any more. It was the strangest of things to see the emptiness end, where it was touched by the light of a roaring fire, the blazing light of a forge. It was not the light he had seen before but he knew beyond doubt that the ray of light had guided him here. Before that fire he saw Kíli, his figure illuminated by the flames. He stood with his hand raised, like reaching out for something - and only then Boromir saw the figure of a younger dwarf with blond hair, standing inside the forge. Their hands touched midair, and the strange dwarf smiled at Kíli.

It all faded away, the void, the fire, the light and suddenly Boromir felt the room again, the stones under his knees, heard the hissing brazier and the jingle of Dwalin's armor as the warrior moved back and forth restlessly. Never before Boromir had felt his body so small, so tight, after seeing the void, feeling the true boundaries of his soul, the heavy muscle and bone of his own form seemed a crashing weight, a narrow prison to hold him. A sharp, deep crack resonated from the walls. The Dragon sword shattered, the blade cracking into pieces as the Dragon's tooth was consumed by the blue fire. Nothing remained but a few broken pieces of the blade.

Faramir blinked and sat up, with ease, his hand went to the makeshift bandage, eyes wide in disbelief. With a nearly impatient movement of his hands he pried away the blood-soaked dressings, revealing nothing under it – the wound was entirely gone, no scar, no other mark heralding that there had been a blade embedded into his body only moments before.

Boromir's gaze went from his brother to Kíli, who was kneeling on the ground with them, he too was alive. Relief, a relief so strong that it felt like the River Anduin itself in spring, flooded through him. They lived, neither had been taken into the night, they had come through this darkness. Impulsively he hugged Faramir, feeling his brother return to the hug. They lived. No matter what came, they lived. "I thought I'd lost you…" Boromir hardly recognized his own voice, when he finally managed to push out that whisper.

Faramir pulled back, grasping his shoulders. Their eyes met and Faramir smiled. "You pulled me back," Faramir said, his voice shaky too. "you and Kíli."

Both brothers turned to Kíli, to draw him into a hug with them both. The dwarf smiled, strong arms curling around their shoulders in a fierce embrace. Boromir had been more careful with that hug, knowing Kíli was injured, but when their friend pulled back he noticed how easy and smooth Kíli's movements were again and that the pained rigor of his hands was gone too.

"Your hands?" he asked. He had seen Kíli's shape prior to the spell and their friend would need a healer.

Kíli raised his hands, they were free of pain of now, as was his body. He still felt the twinge of the bite wound in his side, but everything else, the pain from Denethor's hands, the fresh burn wounds… he did not feel them anymore. And he could move his hands again. Slowly Kíli opened his hands for the brothers to see. . Where the searing wounds had been; the skin had healed and instead of a branded seal something else had appeared inside them – the wings of a raven, one each, shone in deep black inside his palms.

TRB

When Imrahil approached the outer battlements, he was surprised to find Veryan in charge of defense. His son was striding along the upper battlements, speaking to two Dwarven warriors, and the Banner Leader of the soldiers on first wall, while they went. "We can't bar the Gate entirely, Bofur. Much as I'd like to bury it behind all the earth and rocks we can find, we'll need access to it if we need to risk another foray into the field. The City does not have another Gate to permit riders in, and hope is still that Rohan will honor their vows." He pointed down to the walls of the outer ward. "But Thirán, if your idea works and you can create some chaos amongst their foray troops, it will slow their setting up camp considerably."

The dwarf called Thirán stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest. "They make the mistake to use Mountain Orcs for their lowly work, for digging trenches and fortifications, and I know their kind all too well. Before night falls, you'll have some nice ruckus down there, you have my word on that."

Bofur had silently studied the walls and the gate. "That gauntlet is well thought out, Veryan," he said. "if we place our fires along those walls, we should not run out of hot water and hot tar – Orcs hade scalding as much as we do."

Imrahil did not approach him but silently watched. Years ago, when he had permitted his youngest to be raised here in Minas Tirith, in the house of his recently widowed brother-in-law, he had done so out of compassion and out of respect for his late sister Findulas. She had wished for her sons to have friends, something the prideful Steward often had prevented. But he had tolerated Veryan, who with his dark hair and proud bearing was a vivid image of his aunt. While Veryan's rise in Gondor's armies was a source of pride for the family, it also was a source of contention. Raised in this City, raised close to the war ravaging Gondor's borders, Veryan had become a warrior, a youth who had too early followed the Steward's eldest into the fight. He had all the skill and deadly abilities of a Swan Knight, but none of their gentleness, or appreciation for things other than war. And he held most of Gondor's nobility in firm disdain, siding with Boromir on most matters. The glance Veryan had shot him during their meeting earlier in the day had been enough to remind Imrahil of this.

Imrahil had four sons: one already dead and buried near the ruined Watchtowers a few leagues north of Osgiliath; two Swan Knights, both deployed in Minas Tirith at this very moment; and Veryan. All his sons served Gondor, all of his sons had been sent into battle to protect her, and in moments like these, Imrahil felt that burden all the heavier.

Veryan saw him and after dismissing the soldier with a curt gesture, joined him in the ward. "What brings you down here, Father?" he asked in a hushed voice. His arched eyebrow clearly indicating his surprise to see Imrahil. .

"I heard some grumbling from Hirluin of Morthron and… where are the Lord Steward's sons?" he asked, frowning. Neither Boromir nor Faramir were visible in near vicinity, and there was no doubt that Veryan had command at the moment. Had both brothers already taken to risky forays into enemy lines?

"You haven't heard yet…" Veryan sighed, rubbing his hand across his brow, his shoulders slumping slightly, the posture of the stern Swan Knight melting away for a moment "Father, Lord Denethor was slain by a traitor a few hours ago. Lord Faramir was injured defending him. At least Boromir made short work of whoever the treacherous bastard was. Thoroniâr got word out to me."

"Denethor… dead?" Imrahil stared at his son with an unfocused gaze before blinking rapidly. "Murdered, you say? Are you… are you sure?"

"Yes, Thoroniâr apprehended a traitor some time during the night, but he got loose again and killed the Steward." Veryan's eyes went to the Gate, the walls and the field beyond, he let out a slow breath and straightened his shoulders once more. "Boromir is now Steward of Gondor – or he will be once this war is over."

"But where is he?" Imrahil could see the implications arise almost immediately. It had been clear that Boromir would be Steward one day, though most of the noble council agreed he'd not make a good Steward by any length – too much a warrior, too little a Lord. But now in the midst of war coming to Gondor, with the darkness unleashed, he might be the one Steward to see them through this.

"He is at the Citadel." Veryan's voice sounded like this was the most obvious thing of them all. His eyes went back to his father and he crossed his arms in front of his chest, the moment of weakness passing and the soldier against stepping into the foreground. . "Listen… the Enemy won't be doing much except setting camp this night… I doubt they are ready to act come morning. We have Rangers out there creating chaos among the Orc units, and Thirán seems to know more of those Mountain Orcs by name, than I can count. He will incite some nice riots among before long, once night falls we'll burn the oil that's been deposited in every trench and cranny during our retreat, which should scorch their camps nicely. The brothers… they will have only this one night to mourn their father… and I intend to give them this one night. If war has its season, so has grief."

It was a rare display of compassion Imrahil saw in his son and he silently agreed. The council and the noble houses had to be informed too, but he could do that himself. Tomorrow he would send several Men to Rath Dínen: an honor guard for the departed Steward. There would be no time for ceremonies. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Veryan call out to Thoroniâr of the Tower Guard, who came hurrying down the long street that descended form the second gate. The Alaris joined them, along with the Dwarven war-master Dwalin. "Any news?" Veryan asked and Imrahil could see the hope shining in his eyes, the voice going from the calm command voice to a more lively, more caring tone. He too hoped that Lord Faramir would survive, losing him along with his father would be a painful blow to this city… and certainly serve to even more unbalance his older brother Boromir.

"Good news," Thoroniâr said, and he actually smiled, something that happened rarely. "Faramir was healed; he will be permitted to stay with us. But… it took much out of all of them."

"Then we will take care of the City till morning," Veryan said. "Beregond has done good work in your place, Thoroniâr. Dwalin…"

"I see you are preparing for the siege already." The old Dwarf looked about. "We'll need water, and more cover. These are Orcs; they'll bring catapults."

Imrahil stepped back, leaving them to their tasks. Shaken though he was by the news of Denethor's departure, he felt more worry even for the present. The Enemy was at their front gates, unleashing a storm like the world of Men had not seen in generations beyond counting… and the heart of the city was weakened. Denethor's leadership might have been frail at times but it had been wise, shrewd and always intelligent. Boromir… Boromir was cut from a different cloth and while he certainly was a warrior like none other, Imrahil could not help but wonder what Gondor might loose of itself under his pragmatic leadership.

TRB

Boromir stood in the dark dungeon under the tower, Faramir and Kíli beside him. None of them looked towards the corpse that was still resting against the cold stone wall and Boromir was glad to know his brother and friend so close, their very presence was comforting, calming, there was an odd sense of being complete with both of them close and in this night, the night of such a loss he was all the more grateful for it. Together they walked up the stairs to the citadel yard and Boromir called for the guards to carry Denethor's body to Rath Dínen, where he should rest with those of his line that had gone before him.

"He spent a lot of time in this tower," Faramir said, when the guards departed, the torches they carried with the bier the last thing visible in the dark of the yard. "if there is any reason for his deeds… any answer as to why he would commit such acts of cruelty… it must be hidden inside these very walls. But I do not wish to ask."

"We have to, brother." Boromir replied, his hand still on Faramir's shoulder. "If we do not find out what drove him mad, we are in danger still. I…a part of me wishes there were a rational answer for his actions."

"Sometimes the most irrational things people do, seem very sensible and rational to them," Kíli said, his deep voice gentle, softening the harsh truth he spoke.

Boromir recalled what he knew of Kíli's Uncle, of the curse that had driven the great dwarven King mad with gold, if there was a dark power at work here as well, they had to find out, more than ever. "Would you come with us, Kíli?" he asked. "You have seen more of such vile enchantments than any other… and I'd feel better knowing you with us."

The dwarven warrior lightly touched his arm. "Then I will come with you," he said firmly, a note of protectiveness in his voice.

Again they entered the tower, mounting the long flight of stairs that led towards the topmost room of the tower of Kings. The nightly room was alight only with the silver shine of the moon, painting a cold pale light on the floor, making the arched window pillars cast long shadows across the white stone floor. The long shadows of the pillars and walls gave Faramir the strange feeling that he could see his father stand in the shadows of this very room.

On the table in the middle of the room they found a softly glowing orb sitting, bright light shining from the Stone. The light of the moon glistened on the cold surface but it did not spark the soft shine that emanated from the deeps of the stone. "What is this?" Boromir asked in a hush.

"A Palantír, a far-seeing stone," Faramir said reverently. "It is said that the Kings of old had several in their possession, bringing them back from Numenór whence it sank. Those stones were supposed to be artifacts of an Elder Age."

"Said to be made by Feanor himself," Kíli added. He had heard the legends of these stones along with the other great legends of the Elven smiths. "Their power was feared and revered."

"Should Denethor"—Faramir could not bring himself to say 'Father'—"have tried to use this Stone? The gift of far sight is terrible enough without wishing for more of it."

"Not far sight," Boromir replied grimly. "Jealousy. In his search for the power of the ancient kings… in his wish to prove himself as superior as they were, he tried his hand at something too terrible and too great." He closed his eyes; a part of him understood well the temptation, the wish for power and the willful defiance of wisdom. Ever since Boromir had seen himself in the visions of the Ring, he knew he too bore the same weakness, the same pride. And while he hated his father for raising his hand against Faramir, while he was unable to mourn Denethor's passing, he understood how the old Man had come to this place; how pride and despair, and anger at one Man – Thorongil – had driven him there. It was a bitter thing to be considered second as a matter of course to some stranger, to a Man who had hardly cared for Gondor's struggles but who would be seen as superior to them without question. But while Boromir understood these feelings, he had conquered them in Amon Hen, when he had chosen to save the King's life.

"We must let him go, Fari," Boromir said softly. "We need to let him pass. I shall never forget his end, but I will not be ruled by it. He chose to take this road… and I will not walk beside his shadow." Straightening up, Boromir turned to his brother, finding an astonished and proud expression on Faramir's face. "We'll go from here together, Brother."

Faramir reached for Boromir's shoulder, a gesture of comfort, silently confirming that they'd stand together. Often had he seen the terrible pride of their father in his brother, and often he had stood by, seeing that haughty pride carry them to heights or crush them, always a lure, always a danger, it had spurred some of Boromir's most daring heroics… and some of his gravest mistakes in this very city. Faramir loved his brother fiercely; with all that he was, including the pride, the flaws and he still had feared what that pride would do to Boromir's soul, which it would eat away the good honorable soul his brother possessed. Now that he stood here, beside his brother he could hardly believe it. In the past Boromir would not have found that calm clarity, that acceptance, the sheer strength to conquer what vain pride and haughty will might dictate, he saw a wisdom in his warrior brother he had never seen there before. Faramir lowered his chin, closing his eyes, his heart was suddenly so much lighter, whatever may lay ahead, they were free of Denethor's shadow.

Kíli had retreated to the door, leaning against the stone frame and watched them, his heart glad that they both had passed through this darkness; both brothers lived, as it should be. He silently watched as they stood with each other, finding strength and comfort in the other's presence, like brothers should. He smiled, even with all the pains of this day, with the old horrors of the past dredged up… this made it worth it. The two brothers would go on together, stronger than before.

"What shall we do about the Stone?" Boromir asked his eyes going back to the table. The night was moving on and they had little time to see that things were set into a semblance of order.

Faramir looked around and found a silken kerchief, colored darkly blue nearly like the stone itself, laying orderly over the side of one of the chairs. It had been placed there neatly folded and he was sure that it must have been used to cover the Palantír. He took it, the soft silk unfurled in his hand, it vaguely reminded him of the silken stole his mother had used to wear so long ago. He shook it out to full size and gently spread it on the Stone. When his hand touched the cool orb, even though the sheer barrier of cloth he felt a tingle under his very fingertips, his eyes were drawn to the cool blue silk on the stone and he saw the silver light shine through the cloth. The room blurred, like sudden rain was forming a barrier between him and anything but the orb, even the blurred forms of his brother and Kíli began to spin, whirl away, the ground faded away and he fell… the world fell away..

Faramir stood in a watery valley. Trees were moving about, his eyes widened and he blinked rapidly, but he still saw them. Huge trees slowly walking through the water and rubble… yes, there was rubble swimming in the water. Ents, a calmer part of his mind supplied, he had read about such creatures, but surely had never expected to see one. His eyes followed one huge walking elm tree that approached a wall. What wall? Faramir frowned and looked up to the skies, seeing the looming tower. Orthanc… This must be Orthanc. But how?

"You cannot leave him to his schemes, Gandalf." The firm voice made Faramir spin around. Two men were standing at the water's edge, he approached them, walking on the swimming rubble of the water with sudden ease. They were only a few paces away, or had it been more and he had suddenly bridged the distance? One Mithrandir, the other a Man Faramir did not know but still instantly recognized. There was a pale light surrounding him, which left no doubt who he must be. Isildur's heir, the King of Gondor. "Saruman is planning evil still and fear for all those his hate will devour," the Man continued. "You are the only one who can confront him."

Gandalf's eyes became very serious. "If I do so, you will have to go on alone, Aragorn, and Mordor is unleashing all its might against the White City. Deprived of their Captain, ill-prepared and without hope, I fear for them. Théoden will ride with all his Men, but it will not be enough to break the siege that will enclose Minas Tirith."

Aragorn raised his chin. "You always spoke of the strength of Men, of the hope you were placing in us, old friend," he spoke in a firm, yet slightly resigned tone like he had repeated this argument before and it had not been heard. "I too have doubted the strength of Men; felt there was none, neither in them or me… until the day a Man who had no love and little respect for me fought a fierce stand to save my life. The way he fought and the way he must have died were testament to all that the world of Men can be. I will not leave his people – my people – to their fate, but neither will I leave others to suffer from Saruman's revenge."

Faramir watched this exchange, his pulse racing, the very core of his being shaken. He did not know of whom the King spoke, who had been so brave to save him, to give his life to protect the Heir of Isildur, but he had given the world of Men hope again. All the tiredness Faramir had felt, even the soul-shaking sadness he had carried with him, having felt his father's hand raised against him and all the doubts in his heart fell off him. He knew he'd take up the sword and fight to the very last, they would hold out against the Shadow, no matter how long, no matter what the Dark Lord might throw at them, there was Hope, Hope and Light had not left the world, they never would.

"Faramir!" The familiar voice of his brother seemed to echo from far away.

"He's coming around, Boromir; his eyes are clearing," another, deeper voice added.

Faramir blinked. He found himself sitting on the floor, his back against one of the stone chairs, the ornaments carved into the leg pressing into his back. His brother and Kíli were squatted down beside him. He rubbed his forehead, still dizzy from the experience. "The Stone… it showed me something."

"It did? But you barely touched it." Boromir looked at the table, where the silk covered the Palantír. That stone might have taken whatever strength and heart Denethor had left and now it was clawing into the next of Boromir's family, he'd love to smash the horrid thing, maybe he would ask Kíli if it could be destroyed, the dwarf knew more of such artifacts than them combined.

"Yes. It showed me hope," Faramir said. "Boromir… Isildur's heir, the King, he is on the way here, with the army of the Rohirrim. If we hold out long enough…"

"So he made it out of Amon Hen," Boromir closed his eyes, leaning his forhead against his own hand, his shoulders unclenching a little. When he looked up he smiled. "That is good news; and if he brings Rohan's armies, even better. We will hold out until he arrives."

Such words a month ago would have stained his mouth with bitterness, but today they were sweet, rich with determination. Thorongil was hope for Gondor, and Gondor was in dire need of hope, and maybe there was something left to the old spell of the Kings, to their ancient luck, Gondor could use some of that too. And whatever Boromir might think of Thorongil, whatever faults he placed at the other man's feet, they were unimportant now. It did not matter if he liked of disliked Thorongil, or if Isildur's heir might or might not wear the winged crown of Eärnur or not. Boromir was glad that the King would give Gondor that hope it was all that mattered.

"We should leave here." Faramir rose from the seat. "'Tis an eerie place, and knowing our father dwelled in it makes it darker still."

The three of them walked down the long flight of stairs and down into the courtyard. Night had fallen and an icy wind blew from the east, the smell of smoke and ash traced the chill gusts. When Kíli bade the brothers a good night, intending to go to the dwarven armory in the Undercity to find another weapon, Boromir held him back, while he was sure that Thoroniâr would have retracted any orders the guards might still have had regarding Kíli, he still preferred to make sure for himself that neither of them would attack or try to kill his friend. "Wait," he said. His glance went between the three; his own sword broken at Amon Hen, Faramir's shattered in Osgiliath, and Kíli's Dragon sword broken by the spell that had saved them. From afar, from years back to the past, Boromir remembered something. "Take some torches and come with me."

The part of the Citadel they now entered was equally as dusty as the Tower of Kings, only that the lower levels had been used for storage. "Where are we going?" Faramir asked, raising the torch to see better in the narrow spiral staircase they were climbing. He could not recall ever having been in this part of the Citadel, and he had loved exploring when he was younger.

"It is something Grandfather showed me the summer before he died," Boromir explained while they walked. "I was only seven at the time." He had not thought of all this in long years but somewhere deep in his heart he remembered the drowsy afternoon in the height of summer that his grandfather had taken him for a walk through the Citadel. "He showed me a chamber here in this tower and he said that one day, on a day so dark that it seemed hope itself had left this City, I should remember. When my family and closest friend would be without blades to defend, and wounded from terrible treachery."

He stopped in front of a simple heavy door made from oaken beams and iron clamps. Dust had settled on the hinges and the rough stone ground before it. In long years no one had come up here. Boromir placed his torch into the stone sconce beside the door. "I can't think of a darker day than this," he said, "and… all he said came terribly true." He still fondly remembered his grandfather, and maybe Ecthelion had truly foreseen this hour.

The door seemingly had no lock apparently, nor a handle of any kind. Boromir carefully traced his hands over the rough wood, feeling splinters and small nicks in the planks until he found two small metal bulges, like nails not properly hammered into the wood. He pressed one down, while pulling at the other. The ancient mechanism still worked and the hinges holding the door from the inside unlocked, he pushed it wide open; the hinges creaked loudly, rust raining in small flakes, leaving russet traces on the dark grey stone floor.

The chamber behind was a typical small tower room, built into the side of the wall, the room was semicircular, thick walls and a heavy ceiling enclosing a surprisingly large space, with two slid-like windows opposite of the door. Kíli and Faramir placed their torches into the sconces inside, their light falling on a single, simple table standing in the middle of the room. It was an ancient table, probably discarded from some fancier room and relegated here to storage. On it rested three swords, three different blades glittering in the flickering torchlight. The middle one was longest: a heavy sword for a strong fighter, the steel blade darkened to almost black, only the silver runes in it reflecting the light. To the right lay a lighter, one-handed sword, a typical Ranger blade, shining in bright silver. The blade to the left was more fanciful in form, straight backed with a long curved edge´, the only of the three to be single edged, and the elegant curve of the edge slightly reminiscent of a wing. The steel had been matted to a dark grey, and the engraving gave the blade a faint reminiscence of a wing. He did not know how Ecthelion could have known that they would stand here one day, or how long these swords had been resting here. Even back then, when Boromir had been a child, the room had been dusty. But now that they stood here, there was little doubt for whom each blade was meant.

Carefully, Boromir took up the black sword; it fit his hand as if it had been made for him. He whirled it around his hand, to test out the blade's balance. It was perfect. There was little doubt a true master had made it. Holding it closer to the torch, Boromir could see the runes glittering silver on the blade, but he was unable to decipher them. It was not the familiar fluent form of Tengwar letters nor the intertwining forms of Adûnaic writing, these were runes, he had seen such writings, fading on the walls in Dwarrowdelf. "Is this Dwarven writing?" he asked, turning the blade so Kíli could see the runes.

The Dwarven warrior's eyes quickly traced the writing. "It is," he confirmed. "Those are Khuzdul runes."

"What do they say?" Boromir's eyes traced all three blades, seeing similar engravings shining on all three of them.

Kíli read them again, searching for words to express what stood written there. "Till hope dies and life is gone, till dawn fails and light burns out, on the last day to carry hope into the Eye of the Shadow."

The words touched Boromir deeply; he could not tell how a blacksmith from decades, maybe centuries ago, had known to engrave these words on the sword, or why his grandfather had chosen to hide those swords here, but they fit. Dear Light, they fit – they were the blessing and the vow he would carry into the battles to come. "What does yours say, Faramir?" he asked, knowing his brother might even riddle out the inscription on his own.

"It seems to be written in verse," Faramir said, still focused on the runes. "at least that's what the arrangement of runes would indicate, of the old books are correct. But beyond that I doubt that there is any hope for a scholar among Men to be able to read more than the most basic Khuzdul."

Faramir showed the blade to Kíli, who shook his head. "It is an old Dwarven dialect from Moria," he explained. "Even among Dwarves it is rarely spoken. It uses runes not in the sense of letters, but of entire words and meanings packed into one rune. Writing verses and riddles in these was a tradition among the artisans of Moria."

Kíli traced his fingers over the runes, like he wanted to feel them as he sought to convey the intricate meaning into Westron words.

The smith that made me

called upon Mahal

fanning the flame

of the forge's fire.

The smith that made me

made me to save my man

from any face of death.

I obey no greed,

No rank, not for reward,

But for loyalty.

The strength I carry

will be a beacon

to all who would follow

and a burning brand

to the enemy.

And I shall break

upon the hand

which is not faithful.

Kíli spoke slowly, sometimes hesitating, searching for the right words to express all that the blacksmith had put into them.

Gently, Faramir traced the runes on the blade with his index finger. Loyalty, faith… It was a good blessing on the blade and a good demand on it also. Looking at it closer, he found the mark of the blacksmith on the guard of the sword, the small sign barely noticeable but it was there. It was one he had seen before. "Strange," Faramir frowned and looked closer at the minuscule sign before looking up to his brother. "Grandfather must have had these made when he was young – it is the same blacksmith's mark on this one as was on your old sword, Brother."

Turning the black blade, Boromir checked his, finding the familiar mark as well. He saw that Kíli must have found it too, the Dwarf tracing it gently with his calloused hand, and Boromir remembered something Kíli had said the very night they had met. "You said that my sword had been made by one of your kin," he said. "So were these… weren't they?"

"Yes." Kíli looked up at him. "They were made by the same man. His name was Thorin – Thorin Oakenshield." He had known Thorin had worked in the villages and cities of Men; he had come with him through Gondor himself when he had been young. They had travelled the length and breadth of Middle Earth together, as long as they had each other nothing had been able to faze them. His hand curled around the hilt of the sword that lay in his palm like it had been shaped for him. Thorin had made this blade… made it so long before the night came, before they had even dared to dream of returning home.

His hands shook and he hastily put the blade back on the table, his throat tightened when the memory of Thorin working in their makeshift forge outside of Osgiliath became stronger even. Covering his mouth with one hand Kíli tried to stifle a sob that threatened to rise in his throat… he was no young dwarfling anymore, he would not cry like a child! With his free hand he reached for the stone wall, trying to steady himself, the cool stone providing a measure of calm, the steadiness of the very bones of the earth. Stone endured, it did not break or fade, it lasted through it all, fire and rain, pain and blows, be like stone and a dwarf would be indestructible.

Boromir had put the sword away when he saw Kíli nearly collapse on himself, the dwarf was in his own way a powerful figure, strength and confidence easily overshadowing the shorter stature of his kind, but in this moment it melted away, as pain bowed Kíli's shoulders and he struggled to not break down. Thorin… it had been a stupid question to ask. Boromir of all people knew how cruelly Kíli's family had been ripped from him, what kind of fate his people had lived through. He closed the distance with Kíli and grasped his strong shoulders, it was the closest thing to a hug possible without their height difference becoming awkward. "Kíli,"

The single word startled the dwarf from his pain, his face stilled; becoming a painfully controlled mask, a low, hoarse breath and then Kíli looked up, his dark eyes shining with pain. "I am sorry… I shouldn't have…"

"No," Boromir could see how his friend again tried to lock away the pain. Had he ever allowed himself to mourn? To give in to the pain? Boromir vividly recalled how long the death of his own mother had haunted him. "after all what happened… finding these swords here must feel like a cruel joke of fate." He saw Faramir closing in with them, his brother was the more empathic of them, he probably read much more in Kíli's demeanour than Boromir could.

"Thorin… he must have made them during the time we came through Gondor together – after Celanost was build." Kíli's voice was hoarse. "I… I should be glad so much of him remains, his works endure even when he left this world."

"But you wish he were here," Faramir observed gently, he recalled Kíli's reaction to the drawing in the book the other night. How much of a curse a long lifespan proved to be, he wondered, but for the war Kíli might well live another century and facing that with the burdens he already carried could not be easy.

"If he were here, he'd tell me to stop whining, Durin's blood does not cry like common tavern wenches." Kíli found his voice again, recalling Thorin's grumble was less painful. He had not felt the pain so keenly in a while but also the will to not break, to wanting to go on. He could lock it away and go on, dismiss it as a moment of weakness, but the presence of the brothers changed him. Their presence was comforting, giving him strength, for one time he wanted to not just lock away the burden. "When Thorin died… when Fíli died… I thought a part of me had died too. I wished I was dead and buried with them, I wished to go to sleep and never wake. Only months later I understood how selfish that was… their friends mourned them as much as I did, Mister Dwalin… he was devastated by the loss, I couldn't just shrink from my duty. I had a duty to them, to my friends… to my people."

He looked up at them, dark eyes meeting green, the brothers knew about duty, about living for a duty that would never end. They had shouldered the burden of the war against Mordor since their youth. "And so I did – going on, fighting on, trying to do right by my people. The decades passed… and I could still feel them, like their shadows were near me, invisible but there, unreachable." He reached up, returning the gesture towards Boromir, his hands resting on the muscular arms. "Not any more, I know they will wait until my time comes, I will see them again but not today. I want to live – not necessarily to survive this war – but to live long enough to give the Shadow hell. You taught me that."

Size difference or none, this time Boromir did hug Kíli, much like he would if it was Fari. He felt Faramir's arms closing around them and there was a strange calm in their presence, together they were strong, there was nothing they could not face.

It took them a while to calm enough to go back and gather up the blades on the table. Boromir watched as Kíli took the oddly shaped blade again, shape, size, hilt… it was like perfectly made for him. "What does your blade say?" he asked, wondering what the rune band on the blade might mean.

Kíli turned the blade so they could see the writing embedded in the engraving. "Guide me, Raven's Wing, I shall follow you home."

It seemed humble a blessing beside the other two, but Boromir understood. For the House of the man who had made those swords, for the man who now wielded it, home was not the Ered Luin, nor even the fabled Erebor, but Moria. Dwarrowdelf. The blessing on this sword spoke of returning the dwarves to the fabled Dwarven Kingdom of old, of returning to the Kingdom that they once had come from, of leading them home.

He saw Kíli look down on his hand where the black wings of the raven marked both his palms and then back to the words written on the blade. What destiny, what hope… and what legacy had been handed down with this blade?

TRB

Early dawn found the three warriors standing side by side atop the lower City Gate. During the night, the Orc armies had all but encircled the City, thousands… tens of thousands of Orcs were amassing on the fields outside and legions of Haradrim and Easterlings were pouring in behind them. The Pelennor was black with enemy hordes and soon the storm would begin. They did not speak. They did not need to. They would hold out as long as was necessary.