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.

19. Chapter 18: Through the edge of night

Chapter 18: Through the edge of night

The fiery catapult load smashed into the roof of the building, raining tiles and burning beams down on the retreating fighters, the flames licked up the once white walls now stained with sooth and ash. Between the flickering flames Thoroniâr saw shadows moving, low, bowlegged figures moving between the fires with the damnable ease of creatures that lived with pain and preferred death in battle to the torment of an Orc-life. In spite of the flames he advanced, blocking their access to the yard behind the building. Their blades clashed, steel shrieking under the duress of powerful thrusts. The heat of the blaze drove sweat on Thoroniâr's face and made the steel sword in his hand burn with an angry heat. But Thoroniâr did not give ground, five Orcs lay dead at his feet, and he fought the sixths and seventh as furiously, he could not give in, none of them could. . Like never before the tides of war were drowning Minas Tirith, and the enemy had unleashed myriads of Orcs and beasts against the mightiest fortress of men. The people of Minas Tirith had long known this day would come, her warriors had known and they had been prepared best that they could. Boromir had insisted on Thoroniâr being the next Alaris of the Tower Guard so he'd prepare this city for war, now that the bloody tide had been loosened upon them, Thoroniâr began to doubt that anyone could have prepared them for the horrors that awaited the city. The storm had begun by first light, the enemy commander opening the field with a move all too well known to the Sons of Gondor: by sending wave after wave of Orcs against the walls. Catapults were used to throw fire and stones into the city, and they were used to terrible effect.

A rumbling creak above him warned Thoroniâr and he jumped backwards, into the doorway of the burning house. The main beams of the house gave in, crashing down in flames on the Orcs, stone tiles and heavy stone beams followed, burying at least a dozen grey skinned soldiers of Mordor. But it was only a drop in the ocean, a little gust in the ceaseless storm of the Orcs against the walls of the White City. What they lacked in skill they made up with sheer numbers, simply intending to wear down the defenders until exhaustion would break them.

Thoroniâr had known this would happen, it was a foreseeable strategy and Boromir had expected that this would be the Enemy's opening move in the fight for the White City. Four times during the first three days of the siege, it had been his strategies that had forced the enemy to break off the attack and bought the defenders precious time to recover. Each time the risk had been more daring, especially the new destruction of several catapults during a night foray into the enemy ranks.

Reatreating into the yard, Thoroniâr saw the last walls of the house collapse, the flames flaring brightly, their biting smoke something that had stopped to have a special smell for him, there had been smoke everywhere in the last day. A quick look through the yard told him that here were not more than thirty fighters left of first company. "Vargón, take half our men, secure lamp-maker alley," he told the soldier that now was his second on the group. "the rest is with me, we need to hold the postern."

They had a raid outside the walls, and if the postern fell before their fighters could return, their way into the city would be barred. Those raids were going to be Thoroniâr's death long before the Orcs got still led every foray they had sent out; he always was there where the fighting was worst, the most dangerous enemies awaited. He did trust Veryan and Thoroniâr to keep the other parts of the fight under control while he was out. And to this day his tactics had worked, though they became increasingly more desperate with each day that passed. Still… Thoroniâr knew that without Boromir the city would already be lost. Back to back with his brother Faramir and his dwarven friend, he had become a beacon of hope, an example that kept the defenders from despairing.

Another dawn was upon them and the yard was littered with bodies of Orcs and Men when another catapult stone hit the yard, smashing the pillars of the halls to the left of the open space. Stone splinters rained down on the fighters that were pushing the Orcs back beyond the ruins. Thoroniâr's sword had shattered on an Orc helmet and he fought with the blade of a dead comrade in hand. Stabbing another Orc he saw with a grim satisfaction that they had managed to to destroy those Orcs that had made it across the wall – yet.

"Thoroniâr, gap in the wall!" Ceris called for him, a signal all the surviving fighters in the yard heard and pulled back to the wall. The postern was opening, it was a small stone door in the bastion that allowed fighters in and out, but opening it meant always the risk of Orcs flooding in with the retreating troops.

Once the postern was fully open, Thoroniâr and two more fighters adavanced through, to cover their comrades as they came back. Like always he could at once see a now-familiar trio – Boromir, his sword eating through the flood of Orcs like a how through the hay, Faramir, swift, agile and deadly, and Kíli, small but seemingly indestructible. They were the last of the group holding the Orcs off their comrades.

Thoroniâr killed several Orcs that tried to reach the postern while the retreating soldiers made it inside. The last few were through, and they pulled back as well. When the stone door slammed close behind them, he let out a sharp breath.

"How are doing?" Boromir asked the same moment. The Captain of Gondor was marked by the scorches of flame, ash staining his light hair and his armor had more dents than a good armorer could hammer out in a week, but he still managed to ask the question in a voice full of resolve.

"Badly," Thoroniâr reported. "their catapults smashed the main gate two hours past noon, Veryan has the Orcs bottled up between Market Row and Stone Mason's Yards, but the barricades can't hold past the night. The second breach is still bottled up because we collapsed the Trader's Embassy into the only street leading out of that quarter."

There was an eerie calm in Boromir's eyes when he heard the bad news. "Prepare the men to retreat to the second wall, Thoron," he ordered swiftly. "Veryan and his men first, you and yours after and Dwalin's last– I want all of our soldiers out of the first ring by dawn. The barrels are prepared?"

That part of the plan was not one Thoroniâr liked, but it was not his place to question. "Aye, but if they realize what we are up to, we will never make it." He understood why it would be Dwalin to go last, if the enemy knew Veryan and Thoroniâr himself, Dwalin came as the bad surprise they did not anticipate and the dwarven war-master fought with the skill and determination of a warrior many decades their senior.

Boromir fixed him a hard stare. "We capitulate after we are dead, Thoroniâr, not before." He said, his voice a touch harder than before. "And I will give them another worry to think about."

With the Alaris turning to his task, Boromir joined Kíli and Faramir, along with the other 'raiders' who had aided the defenders inside the next yard with another Orc wave. "Change of plans?" Kíli asked him, not stopping to fight even for a moment, kicking an Orc down the broken side of a house.

"We need to pay the enemy another visit," Boromir beheaded an Orc, stabbing the next, Faramir taking out the one that had come too close to his left. Under any other circumstances it would have been unsettling how much the three of them could anticipate the other's actions and reactions, often knowing where they would move in the split of a second before it happened. It allowed them to fight like one man.

"More catapult burning?" Kíli ducked, ramming the blade into an Orc belly, while Boromir behaded one right above.

"No, but I want them to believe that and have their troops protect their precious fire-ballistas. We will be hunting much bigger game tonight."

Boromir saw Kíli's grin, it looked like a mask of demon, because of the blood that was smeared across Kíli's face. "Dictate the rhythm of a battle, break the rhythm, break the enemy – I like it."

TRB

A chill eastern wind had set in when the 'raiders' made their way through one of the minor breaches in the wall and into the enemy ring. Boromir frowned, after days in the stench of smoke and corpses it was almost strange to smell the cold, slightly wet air the wind carried. A shriek rose above the wind when the Orcs discovered them, Faramir's arrows killing the first few of them, Kíli hacking down the next of the group. One of their smaller scouts running away, usually Boromir would have stopped him, keeping their presence covered as long as possible had been imperative on all their raids so far, but this time was different. This time they wanted the enemy to spot them, to know another raid was under way.

Killing the next group of orcs that was moving from the main eastern encampment towards the southern siege towers, they gained some room to breathe. Swiftly they jumped into one of the trenches that had once served to drain water from Pelennor fields. The deep murky trenches had been their best friend during their nightly forays so far.

Boromir followed the swift moving figure of his brother who guided them through the dark, sometimes he wondered how Faramir could even see in nights like these. At least none of them was too tired, or maybe he was just telling himself what he needed to keep fighting. Somehow Boromir had felt less tired, less exhausted in the last days than he should have been. Like the sheer presence of his brothers gave him all the strength he needed.

Blaring horns rang out west of them, and they heard dark southern voices bark orders at the Orcs. Boromir understood parts of what was said, the Enemy was moving troops to protect the catapults, slowing the immediate storm on the walls. They were not in the mood to lose any more of their war machines with no resources to rebuild them quickly.

"They are taking the bait," Faramir whispered, while they slipped out of the trench behind what had once been the barn of a prosperous farm on Pelennor fields. Now it was nothing more but a landmark close to the enemy's command hill. They had to move carefully, the barn was used by the Easterlings as a Guardpost. Boromir could see two guards standing in the dark, talking to each other. They were relaxed, not really expecting trouble. Their voices were unusually melodic for Easterners, and their dialect… he sighed when their slender, light weight figures and light voices fell into place and told him what they were. Men of Dorvinion – the land so famed for it's wine had long tethered on the brink between light and dark, before being annexed by the Eastern Empire a century ago. Its people certainly not the kind of hardened Shadow-fighters the Easterlings and Haradrim were. Still… they were the Enemy now. He drew his dagger and snuck up on one of them, while Kíli took on the other. The same moment Boromir's blade sank into the neck of the soldier, Kíli had killed the other.

"Pull another legion back to protect the towers, if they have not sprung up in one of the sectors they will soon," Boromir tensed when he heard the voice approach from behind the barn. "they are up to something." He knew the voice, the hard accent – he should have known Shakurán would be on the front rank of this advance. It also told him something – their hierarchy had to be chaos – with probably a Nazgul in overall command, Shakurán leading the dark troops and the King of Harad leading his people, there had to be tensions, things they could exploit later on.

He gestured Faramir to keep to cover, his brother would understand what kind of game they'd be playing now – the Game of Fire.

"You are right, Shakurán," he said out loud advancing from the dark into the ring of light the fire created on the other side of the barn. "because Vipers are not killed by cutting off their feet – you need to cut off their head."

Four startled Easterlings came about, all drawing theirs blades but a curt gesture of Shakurán stilled three of them. "Boromir – I should have known it was you messing with my legions," he said with a grin.

"Your legions are a worse mess than usually," Boromir advanced further, their blades touching at the tips but both warriors still standing unmoving. The three other Easterlings had made room but not left the command hill – they had no orders and thus were bound to watch. For once strict Easterling discipline worked to Gondor's advantage. "That Siege Tower this morning… sloppy, you are getting soft on your Orcs Shakurán."

They circled each other, their duel not yet one of force. "Harad commanders, useless altogether," Shakurán broke their stalemate with a light attack, testing Boromir's defences, swift strikes of his sword, easily parried by Boromir. "you probably could whip them in line within a month – something worth considering given the situation."

Boromir blocked the last attack harder than necessary, he knew Shakurán meant the offer, the Easterling had tried to recruit him many years before. "What happened to never asking for my surrender?" he replied, forcing his opponent to retreat two steps through vicious attacks.

Shakurán ducked under the last attack, evading it entirely. "This might be your last chance, Boromir, this army is only the beginning – more are coming. You stand no chance this time, no matter what surprises you pull on me."

The block turned out hard, Shakuran's blade screeching along the black sword and hitting the guard, Boromir brought his blade around to break free. "Numbers and words, Shakurán – as long as one fighter stands to oppose the Shadow the Light is not lost."

There was a flicker of genuine sadness in the Easterling's eyes. "So be it then, it was an honor knowing you." With these words he flung himself into an attack, faster and swifter than ever before, his blade a deathly whirlwind, each attack only the prelude to an even fiercer one.

Boromir stood his ground, forgoing all dance of speed and agility, no frills and fancies, just blocking the attacks as they rained down on him. None of them broke through; each was parried, blocked and misdirected. He kept Shakurán tied up, their fight not the true purpose of this foray but a means to an end.

Behind him Boromir heard a hiss and moments later the barn erupted into flame, along with several other buildings, everywhere around them guard-fires sprang to life, eating into grass, tents and buildings, the flames greedily reaching for all they could reach. Even the fire they were fighting close to licked up towards Shakuran's cloak. Boromir grinned fiercely – Kíli! He must have done this and it worked perfectly. Seeing the core of their camp burn the Easterlings assumed a major attack on their camp and pulled back the Orcs.

Again their blades clashed, and Shakurán's sword shattered under the black sword's force. He flung the hilt aside and drew his dagger, but Boromir used a swift kick against Shakuráns side to make the man stumble too close to a fire, retreating into the dark. Chaos was erupting all around them and it was time to retreat as fast as they had come.

On the time when the first rays of dawn rose beyond the clouds darkening the sky, Boromir led what remained of his men to the second Ring, along with Dwalin and the dwarves. At his orders barrels with oil had been prepared in the lower ring, but with dwarven help they were hardly needed to set the entire first ring aflame, the white city of Gondor was burning, flames licking towards the darkening skies. The fires would buy them time, the Orcs would not be able to take possession of the first ring nor could they storm the second wall while the first still burned. It would buy the defenders precious time. Though Boromir knew clearly this was only the beginning.

TRB

It had not taken a bit more than a day for Boromir to learn how right he had been. The fight for the second wall was harder and more bloody than the battle for the first – the enemy now had to storm the much higher, steeper battlements but did so with even more ferocity. After two days of unsuccessfully running against the second wall, the enemy drew the Orcs back. Boromir had at once known that now came the true trial – the Haradrim and Easterling Elite was sent to do what the Orcs for all their numbers failed to do. And with the Easterlings came the winged beasts, deploying troops right on the wall, tossing casks of fire into the city. The Rangers and every archer the city could muster was fighting a constant battle to keep the beasts off the city, but at least a dozen were shot down above the walls with their deadly loads still in their claws, shattering buildings and killing civilians and soldiers alike. Each death one loss the city could ill afford, each death a loss that was bound to happen as the dark flood ate their way into the White City.

The main Haradrim advance had been accompanied by trolls and other creatures that were slow but deathly when close. For two more days they had been fighting a brutal and daring battle to hold out, but then the second wall was in a worse state than the first. They had not been able to gain a reprieve and Boromir had ordered the retreat to the Third wall while another storm of the Haradrim was mounting against their failing defenses. Their King Tamadhur III himself had led his Elite against the shattered Gate of the Morning.

Wounded and exhausted Boromir had confronted the Haradrim leader himself, their duel stalling the enemy advance slightly. Tamadhur III had been fresh, well rested and a decade older than Boromir, a fierce brave fighter who died after a bloody hour-long fight. The fall of their King left the Haradrim in just enough disarray for Gondor to retreat to the third wall. The third wall was the steepest of the city and shorter than the lower ones, which allowed for fewer defenders to cover more ground.

It was in the light of the new day that they saw the enemy armies receive reinforcements and for the first time in days they felt the familiar Shadow sweep over the city, as several winged wraiths circled high above. Leaning against the high battlements, Boromir looked up counting five of them. Five of those fell foes and most likely their leader was with them: the Witch-king of Angmar – the most fell of all the enemy's commanders.

"It had to happen sooner or later." Kíli too had watched the Wraiths flight over the city. "Eventually they always break their worst creatures out."

Boromir was glad for the dwarf's steadfast courage. "Tell me again that there is always hope," he said grimly.

"Hope does not die," Kíli said, eyes still out on the skies that had not seen a dawn in days. "Not as long as we fight, not as long as we remember that it takes only one candle to drive back the night."

"Well said." Faramir had returned from the upper armory with fresh arrows and a water-skin for them. "But we will need a bonfire to break this night."

In that very moment the sound of a horn echoed from the sides of dark Mindolluin, a far-reaching, clear sound to rip through the darkness over the fields of Pelennor.

"Rohan." Faramir's eyes searched the heights that the Riders must appear soon. "They have come at last." A smile shining on his exhausted features, his eyes shining with new hope.

Boromir looked the other way, down to the field where the enemy was regrouping. "And they will be smashed by the core of their army!" he said grimly, seeing the Easterlings were already having the Orc legions form a shield wall. "Without us their charge is going to fail."

"What do we need to do?" Faramir asked, knowing the way Boromir looked past them, not seeing either them nor the walls at this moment, his mind was racing over the field, thinking of strategies they might employ. It was so like Boromir to see the situation at once and to act on it while hopes or despair still distracted every other man.

"Trap them between hammer and anvil," Boromir told him. "Have all horses and riders ready here fast, all that can ride within the quarter of the hour. We will crush them between two fronts." It was a daring thing to do and would seriously expose the city. Not to mention that they would have to force their path down the old causeway.

Leaving Faramir to take care of the riders, Boromir strode to the next bastion along the wall. "Dwalin, gather all your dwarves and assemble them at the gate; we will need your help to force our way through the causeway. After that… you need to hold the gate for us. This will expose the entire city."

The old war-master leaned on his hammer, his grim nod indicating he understood what role his troops had been assigned. "Maybe we should drive them out of the city while we are at it; force their attention on several problems. They don't have many competent commanders in the field," he suggested, a wild gleam in his eyes.

It was a daring move and a desperate one, too, but if it drew some forces from the main battle, it could work. During the battle Boromir had often seen how Dwalin could predict the enemy, how the Easterling leaders would react – and he came up with great strategies to counter them, two things Boromir valued. "That will be for you and Thoroniâr to do," Boromir decided swiftly. This would make or break the fate of this city, but Rohan's arrival was all they could hope for. This was the day that would decide the fate of all Gondor.

The riders were assembling behind the gate. Boromir gestured Faramir, Kíli and Veryan to the head with him. It would take their strength and will to see this through, to lead the men right under the wings of the Shadow. It seemed so long ago that he had chastised Kíli for charging at a Nazgul at Amon Sûl. Now they would need every bit of that courage.

High on the outer hills of the Pelennor, the army of Rohan appeared, six thousand riders. The entire army of the Rohirrim had arrived, their number greater than Gondor would have dared to hope. Down the hill they charged, at the very heart of the enemy forces, no fear of dark or doom holding them back, and with them came the morning.

TRB

From two sides, the final attack on the shield wall had begun, trapping the Witch-king's very army in between two equally strong and determined forces, yet the battle had only just begun. This army, led by the Lord of the Nazgul himself, stood where lesser armies would have fled and a cruel battle soon raged on the fields. The Witch King deployed the Easterlings led by the fiercest field commander against the Gondorian troops while he himself turned against the Rohirrim. It was the worst, darkest battle the world of Men had faced since the last Alliance had defeated Sauron an Age ago. The Witch King killed King Theoden of Rohan, along with many of his men, but then he was confronted by the one person he had not expected on this field – Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan.

His fall was to be felt across the entire field, even for those who had not witnessed the brave battle Eowyn of Rohan fought against him. Boromir felt the dread, the fear that had ridden on the Nazgul's wings wash away, the Shadow broke apart and a ray of light fell from the clouds above them. There was still hope – the soldiers around him cheered, even as they fought. But their cheers died quickly when they saw the enemy forces regroup.

Shakurán felt a fierce pain rip through him as the Witch King shrieked his soul into the emptiness of the cold spring day. The sun had broken through the clouds, the light clear and cool on the blood fields. On any other day, in any other battle, the fall of such a Nazgûl Lord would have been enough to bring immediate retreat for Mordor's armies and for a moment he expected Khamûl's order to pull back but instead – the other Nazgûl fled, shrieking high in the air, leaving the field entirely, leaving further decisions in his hands. He was the highest ranking leader still deployed, with the Prince of Harad the next in the line of command.

One glance was enough for Shakurán to assess the field – the Gondorians had fought well, more than that, worthy of song and legend but even with their Rohirric brethren they were at the end. Tired, exhausted and outnumbered. And Shakurán was not yet at the end of his wits or resources. He swiftly ordered the smashed center to break up into two separate attack wings, one flanking the Rohirrim, one attacking the Gondorian fighters. The veiled sorcerer conveying his orders swiftly. "Tarkhan!" He turned to the Prince of Harad, now his right hand commander, "I will need all your reserves, , especially the Mumakil, let us smash the armies of the West on the very walls of their beloved city."

The young Haradrim saluted him, both fists crossed on his chest. "It will be done, Shakurán, I have a father to avenge."

Watching him leave Shakurán shook his head. "You have a father to follow, boy." He whispered, knowing that youth was no match for Boromir of Gondor.

Boromir saw what the enemy was doing and he knew that Shakurán again held command of the field, he knew the style, the hand all too well. If he let him complete this strategy they'd be lost, for Shakurán still had superior numbers and resources on his side.

He had the center of his troops on a hill only four hundred paces from the city walls on a hill named Wildgrass Howe, where the Easterling troops were rallying. Boromir raised his blade to signal his troops, once more rallying all remaining fighters behind him. He did not know how long they could hold out, how they were still standing, or even able to fight and function in the midst of this madness, but the only rest they'd find would be in death – and the battle was a long from over.

Their charge at the Easterlings was a mad, desperate attack, a fight like none ever before. They had to storm uphill, into the not yet closed Easterling ranks, the regrouping troops trying to to prevent Boromir's fighters from breaking through their formation, but there was no relenting, no stopping in their charge. Boromir fought at the very front of the attack force, he, Kíli and Faramir the leaders of a fight that blurred into a whirlwind of stabs, jabs and blocks, corpses tumbling, blood and more blood smearing the grounds they pushed forward on. He did not know where the strength came from, but they broke one formation after the next, each stroke, each attack in perfect coordination, creating the gap for their fighters.

They pushed through a faltering rank of foes and suddenly Boromir saw him – Shakurán, giving orders to one of their veiled sorcerers. Faramir threw a dagger to kill the sorcerer while Boromir advanced against Shakurán, this fight – the fight of the battle leaders would be between them and them alone.

Boromir went into the fight differently than into any of the former clashes, no careful testing of defences, no playing about with words, he attacked directly and forcefully. Tired though he was, bleeding though he was from several wounds, he did not stop, nor slow down. His attack was swift and fierce – and it was met in kind. For Shakurán was not yet exhausted and he had prepared for this moment as well.

He was just one fighter but he gave Boromir more trouble than a dozen of his brethren at once. Boromir had always known Shakurán was good, but now that Easterling was driven to fight with all desperation, with all fierce will, holding nothing back, he was surppassing himself. At times he seemed to be able to foretell any attack and every parry, each of his own attacks came very well planed, all too often making use of one of Boromir's weaknesses, which he knew from too many years of respectful enmity.

Boromir fought as concentrated as possible, not falling for Shakurán's tricks and games, forcing him to fight on the closed space of the Howe. But for a long time, he could not see any weakness in his opponent, for Shakurán guarded too well against all weaknesses he had shown in the past. Boromir did not recognise how time went as their blades clashed, pieces of armor shattered and they got back to their feet to fight, again and again. The very epythome of the entire war, frozen into two single fighters, battling it out to what would most likely be mutual anhiliation. He did not hear the shocked call of Faramir when he nearly stumbled and fell under an attack of the Easterling, nor the encouraging shout of Kíli, when he had nearly broken through Shakurán's cover and broke the armor under the armpit. He nearly forgot they were present, he nearly forgot that there was anything else but this one fight.

Again he parried an attack. Shakurán became more aggressive by now, quickening the speed of their fight. "Force your rhythm on your opponent, then break the rhythm and break the opponent along that way." A well known voice whispered in a distant corner of his mind, he smiled, seeing that Shakurán was exactly trying to do this and he was not going to let it happen.

His smile had confused the Easterling already, for this was not a day to smile at all. Boromir suddenly leapt forward in attack, Shakurán's parry came not as easily as before, but at the next strike he had already recovered and parried with the usual grace. His next attack came, Boromir evaded it with a fast turn to the side, the blade sliced his chainmail in his upper left arm and left a trace there, nothing serious. He retreated one step, blocking the next attack of his opponent. For moments their blades were blocking each other with an horrific pressure. Boromir felt his armmuscles clench under this pressure and understood what his opponent now was up to. He tried to break the black blade, or his own!

Boromir let his muscles relax, allowing the blade to be thrust to the side, diving down fast and attacking from below. He ran into a good parry. "This won't work." Shakurán commented in his calm voice. His next attack made Boromir stumble and fall, he managed to roll to the side and jump on his feet again, before Shakurán could make use of it. The pale blade missed him barely.

Boromir parried to other attacks without attacking again, going all defensive for the moment. This fight he was not going to win with any of his usual tactics. He parried the next hailstorm of attacks, giving up some space, by retreating some steps. When an especially hard hit ripped apart his cover, Boromir swung the black blade in a surprise move against Shakurán's sword hand. He gave all strength to this blow. The Easterling's fast reaction made him miss Shakurán's sword hand, but hitting the blade full force. Perhaps it was Shakurán had not expected this, perhaps the strength of the blow was too much, but the blade flew from the Easterling's hand, landing between the corpses of dead soldiers twenty paces away, falling outside of the ghosts reach. His opponent had not run from him, even when disarmed.

Shakurán picked up another blade, but where Boromir had been honorable, letting him recover a weapon or even catch himself in the past, this time he did not. The time for games, for duels was over, this was for the fate of the White City herself, and she would not fall because her Captain was too squeamish to land the death blow on a foe, no matter how much respected. The black sword sank into Shakurán's chest before the Easterling reached the new weapon, his body tumbling to the ground. There were no last words, not even a last barb, he died swiftly and silently as so many soldiers had this day.

A howl went through the ranks of the enemy host. The Rohirrim had charged the Mumakil, cutting their way through them; Shakurán had fallen, the Easterling host was in disarray… and still the Orcs rallied again, under the command of yet another Haradrim leader and came against Boromir's men like a black flood. Exhausted, Boromir tried to close the ranks of his faltering army, it seemly strangely ironic that he'd die on the same hill where he had felled Shakurán, or maybe it was fitting after all. They had fought the hardest battle of their lives, they had managed to destroy the enemy leaders and still… it was not enough – the black flood kept coming and there was not enough strength left to stem it. Grimly, Boromir closed ranks with his troop at a burning hilltop before the city. His brother by his side, his friends with him… if this was the way to go, so be it.

And then the ships came. Out of the dusk they sailed like ghostly forms on the far river. Whence they had come no one would dare to guess, but their forms rose like wings from the mists. The Orcs screamed for it was an army, a ghostly, pale army that poured forward from the ships, cutting through the hosts of Orcs like a scythe through the grass. And between the mist and smoke, the armies of Gondor saw a banner rise – the banner of the King.

TRB

Relief flooded through Aragorn like a warm spring would flood through a frozen creek when he finally released the traitors from their obligation. The weight lifting off his heart that moment was like letting a tone of stone and steel topple to the ground after upholding them for too long. Calling upon the Oathbreakers had been a decision he had not wished to make, much as his choices had been limited. Still, he felt better knowing them gone and at rest. Surveying the battlefield, there was as much relief as pain there to see it. Theoden King had fallen and the Rohirrim army had faced severe losses on the field. And Minas Tirith… the white city had held out better and longer than Aragorn had dared to hope. When Eomer had first said that the scouts had seen Mundburg aflame, Aragorn had feared he would be too late to save the city.

Now that he stood here, on the fields before the city, seeing the scorched lower walls and the battle field before the ramparts he could only admire the fierce determination and iron will the soldiers of Gondor – all the sons of Gondor – had shown in defending their home. Boromir would have been proud to see them. The name of their fallen comrade cast a shadow on Aragorn's soul. When they had lost Boromir in Amon Hen, he had hoped against all hope that he may have been captured along with the Halflings, but neither Merry nor Pippin had seen the faintest trace of the valiant Captain. Whatever his fate had been, his last stand had saved Aragorn's life. And now that Aragorn saw this battlefield, he began to understand that Boromir had been a prime example of his people, of what Gondor's soldiers were.

With Legolas and Gimli at his sides, Aragorn made his way towards where the Gondorian army had smashed the Easterling's center on the foothills. Search for injured and recovering of the dead was already underway, men of Gondor and Rohan searching the fields together, calling for healers here and there. Up on the foothill, several men, probably captains, seemed to be giving reports to their leader, whoever now was in command of Gondor's army. Even at a distance, Aragorn could tell it was not Denethor, for the Steward was an old man, and the man who stood there with his back to him was obviously not aged. The very breath hitched in Aragorn's throat when he came closer, it was not the biting smoke in the air, nor the stench of battlefield that made his throat tighten, but the man he saw standing up on the hill, that once had been Wildgrass Howe but now was trampled battlefield.

The man up there could not see him, as his back was turned towards Aragorn, but his whole appearance, beginning with the light hair and muscular stature, was very reminiscent of Boromir. Even the stance, which made Aragorn guess the man had his arms crossed in front of his chest, was so much like their comrade. This had to be his younger brother then – Faramir. When he came closer still, his sharp ears picked up a familiar voice.

"…no time to waste on ceremonies. Once Dwalin's people have cleared out the Undercity, we will put the dead to rest there. It's that or a pyre, Veryan. The enemy may have turned tail but they were merely taken by surprise. I'll give them less than two weeks to regroup and bring another army right before these very walls."

It could not be, Aragorn though, hearing the familiar voice, realizing that the man who had led the defense of the city was the very person he had believed dead since Amon Hen. "Boromir?" The word came out croaked and low, carrying no further than his own ears. He could scarcely believe it, it seemed all but impossible that Boromir should have survived, let alone made it home to defend his city. Did he dare hope? Hope against all hope that some miracle had saved the man who had stood between him and death at Amon Hen? "Boromir?" This time Aragorn managed to speak out loud, though his voice still shook.

The Lord Captain turned around, his hand falling to his blade, but at once releasing the sword hilt when he saw the man who had addressed him. Aragorn saw Boromir's green eyes widen in startled disbelief, the very same disbelief Aragorn felt was reflected in Boromir's mien.. "Thorongil!"

He was maybe the only person still to use the name that Aragorn had hidden his true identity under so many years ago in Gondor; yet Aragorn knew that it was the name under which Boromir had first heard of him, for good or ill, with all the opinions he had created through his deeds and failings back then. The Captain's surprise lasted only a moment, seamlessly he snapped into formal behavior and bowed. "Your coming truly saved the battle, my Lord."

This moment failed Aragorn for words. He knew Boromir had never been his friend, hardly respected him – they had agreed and disagreed on a good deal of things on their journey – and the Gondorian Captain had made his belief that Gondor needed no King very clear. Even his brave actions in Amon Hen Aragorn had attributed to the natural loyalty the warrior had given to each member of the group, whether he had liked them or not. The last thing he had expected upon arriving here was Boromir at least formally accepting him and his claim. Stepping up to the man, he drew him into an embrace that conveyed all that he felt and could not say. "We believed you dead," he said. "When we could not find you, we thought you perished." Pulling back, he took in Boromir's face; there were a few deeper lines speaking of exhaustion and sorrow, of things the man had gone through since they had parted.

Boromir took half a step back, nearing formal distance and slightly inclined his head. "I came close, Aragorn – the Orcs of the Eye already had me. Had it not been for Kíli and his timely arrival, I'd not be here now."

"Kíli?" Stepping back, Aragorn noticed the two shorter figures among the warriors of Gondor, both were familiar and this was the least of all places he would have expected to see them. "Thirán?" The second question was asked in a much lower voice, when he recognized the second dwarf, who had kept him alive during his darkest days, in chains, down in the deeps of Moria.

Thiráns grim face lit up with a smile. "A long way from the deeps to this battlefield, Aragorn." And only the two of them knew how long. "When Kíli decided to support Lord Boromir in this war, we brought all our brethren to give the Orcs a reminder that they do not rule the world."

Hundreds of Dwarves defending the White City, led by their Prince in Exile? More had transpired than just a surprising return home, that much was obvious. Kíli and Thirán having brought them here… during those dark days down in the mines Aragorn had learned of Thirán's true name, and of the cruel fate that lay behind the dwarven warrior. Aragorn determined that as soon as he got the chance he needed to sit down with Boromir in a calm place and hear the story of all that had happened. .

He wanted to reply when another man came striding up the hill. Like many of Gondor's people, he had dark hair and the tall stature that heralded the blood of Numenór. He stopped about five paces away, saluting fist over his heart, waiting for permission to speak. But Boromir forestalled this with a gesture, pointing the man to stand with the others assembled here. "It was the banner of the King you saw raised on the field today," Boromir said, voice firm and clear as he turned to address the Men clustered around them, "and it was not raised in vain. Before you stands Aragorn son of Arathorn of the House of Isildur, heir apparent to the throne of Gondor."

There was a number of different expressions on the soldier's faces, Aragorn observed. The man standing to Boromir's right, who looked remarkably like him, paled, his eyes widening – from fear or shock, Aragorn could not guess. The one to the left, a Swan Knight, if the grimmest of his kind that Aragorn had ever seen, was unconvinced. He did not speak up and Aragorn could only guess whether it was out of respect for his Lord Captain or simple false politeness, but the way he looked aside made it clear that he had doubts. The late arrival, a man with a face that reminded Aragorn of a person long dead and gone, inclined his head slightly in lieu of a bow, respectful if guarded. Finding the right words for them, Men who had fought all their lives for this city, was something Aragorn needed to reach deep inside his own soul for.

"When I rode from Rohan," he began, striding up the hill and standing precisely beside Boromir, "I feared for this city. I did not believe it could hold against the Hordes Mordor unleashed, not when Sauron himself was determined to raze her from the ground. This day I am overjoyed to see her in the hands of such capable defenders." Surveying their faces, their reactions, Aragorn saw the man whom he guessed to be Boromir's brother relax slightly, the others aside of the Swan Knight gave up on their stiff postures, the wall between him and them lowering a little.

When he had finished, there was a moment of silence, Aragorn knew that it was unlikely that the soldiers would speak out of turn, least of all in a situation that was so tense. It was the man standing beside Boromir who took charge of the moment and bowed. "It was our duty to hold the White City, my Lord and we will fight and die to defend her." There was a glance exchanged between him and Boromir, Aragorn was sure most people would not spot the short silent communication between those two.

But a moment after, Boromir again took the lead. "Aragorn, this is my brother Faramir, Captain of the Rangers," he introduced the man who had spoken.

The introduction was not so much of a surprise, Aragorn had already noticed how similar the two brothers looked – only that Faramir did not share his brother's strong muscular stature and had the finer, more intelligent features. He also resembled Denethor more strongly, if one had seen him in his youthful years and Aragorn also saw traces of Ecthelion in the young Ranger. "I have heard much of Ithilien's Rangers, though it has been some time the Eagle Owl flew North."

He saw Faramir's eyes widen and a sparkle rise inside them. "The same could be said about the Grey Hawk flying South," was the answer, that very nearly had Aragorn smile. When he had originally met Boromir in the wilds of Eriador he had assumed that it was due to Boromir's position as Lord Captain of Gondor that he knew some superficial details about the Rangers, but with the very leader of the Southern Rangers his brother, he would have picked up some details.

When he looked to Boromir he saw an amused glance in the green eyes and guessed that Boromir too had remembered. "This is my second in command – Veryan, Knight of Dol Amroth," the introductions continued.

There was no warmth out of Veryan, he bowed as was proper, not giving anything away nor allowing any breaking of his steely façade. Contrary to most of his family he had the dark hair of Numenór, even though his face bore the proud and noble features of Dol Amroth. Aragorn had met several of the House, none so cold or distanced, but who knew what the man had been through? What did he feel about the situation? Aragorn did not hold the detached demeanor against the man.

Boromir turned to the late arrival. "and this is Thoroniâr, the Alaris of the Tower Guard,"

Now Aragorn was truly surprised tough the face actually conjured up images of the past, reminding him of a person he had not seen in many decades. The last time he had seen her, she had been freshly married. "Any relation to Erhawn of the Guard?" Aragorn asked, he well recalled the young guardsman and the healer lady… their marriage had happened not long before the campaign against Umbar began. Erhawn had been a friend.

"He was my father, my Lord." Thoroniâr's response was well guarded, polite but the way he crossed his arms in front of his chest built up a defensive posture.

Boromir knew he should not be surprised; Thorongil had fought with Gondor's very best to defeat Umbar, and it was likely he remembered Erhawn from those took only a glance on the way Thoroniâr's posture shifted to defensive, and the way he avoided Aragorn's gaze, to tell that he was uncomfortable with the topic. "Your report, Thoroniâr," he said, helping the man avoid further conversation.

Thoroniâr gladly took off for familiar and safe territory, as Boromir saw at once. "The lower city is cleared of enemies as is the Undercity. We are moving the severely injured to the Houses of Healing; there's a steady stream coming in of course and all lesser injuries will be sent to the barracks or camps for treatment. Among the wounded is Eowyn of Rohan, my Lord. She is the one who defeated the Witch-king, but… there is doubt she'll last the night."

"She fought the Nazgul?" Aragorn interjected. "Whatever wound she received must be destroying her. Bring me to her quickly!"

On the way to the Houses of Healing in the upper city rings, Aragorn saw the destruction wreaked on Minas Tirith: the lower city rings were entirely scorched, burned by the retreating defenders to slow down the Orcs, her walls battered and broken. But the white city stood – by the light, she still stood! "You fought hard to hold out that long," he observed to Boromir, who guided him through the chaos.

"We knew you were coming," Boromir simply said. "It was a matter of time."

"Does your father know I am here?" Aragorn wondered why there had been no word about Denethor, Steward of Gondor. He well remembered the cold-hearted, haughty man from days long past and he wondered how he would be received by him.

Boromir shook his head, lowering his chin as his shoulders tensed. "Denethor, Steward of Gondor… was killed on the eve of battle," he said slowly, like every word was a heavy burden. "His passing came before his time."

What a wealth of horror the brothers must have gone through, Aragorn realized. Their father dying or being killed possibly by the enemy, on the eve of the worst battle the world had seen in an Age. He also noticed how Boromir used his father's name, something he had never done before; the affection that had echoed in his voice when he had spoken of the old man during their journey was gone. Yet Aragorn could neither guess nor divine what had transpired prior to the battle. "I am grieved to hear that." He could not honestly say he would grieve for Denethor, but he grieved for the pain his passing must give his two sons.

Aragorns words triggered a change in the other man. Boromir straightened up, his shoulders squaring, and his jaw setting in a determined line, the moment of vulnerability passing as swiftly as it had come, and the Lord Captain of Gondor once more snapping into place. Within one breath he had gone from grieving son to leader again, disallowing any intrusions on his private pain. What strength, what grim, terrible strength enabling him to bear his own wounds in such silence, Aragorn wondered.

"He was not the only one, nor the first. Many more will follow and sleep in their cold graves before this war is over," Boromir replied grimly, striding up the road faster to swiftly reach the Houses of Healing.

TRB

In the same night that Aragorn reached Minas Tirith, two wizards faced each other in the tower of Orthanc. They battle had gone for days and was not fought with blades, but with the sheer power of their wills. Saruman's staff lay broken but the former white Istari was still a foe not to be underestimated and he knew his opponent well. From the stairs of the tower to the very top of Orthanc their battle went, and it was through will and determination that Gandalf slowly gained ground in their struggle of powers. Leaning heavily on his staff, Gandalf looked up the last flight of stairs where Saruman stood, his white robes fluttering in the chill spring wind. "You have been deep in the enemy's council, Saruman, what does he plan?" he demanded, not for the first time.

Saruman laughed at the question, his voice hollow and hoarse, how could Mithrandir be so blind? The power rising in the east was too great to be opposed and the Halfling was all but lost under the shadow. Saruman's eye had not been able to see him, and he doubted that the little creature had ever reached the dark lands. He staggered a step backwards, the wind threatening to push over his exhausted body. "The world of men will burn; Gondor is failing, breaking… and with it this world shall perish," he announced, calling upon his powers for one last time, his bones ached when he reached for the power that he had once commanded so easily. His hands shook, exhaustion sending tremors through his entire body.

"What are his plans?" Gandalf did not let himself be deterred, he knew the dark Lord well, had confronted his lesser form in the fortress of Dol Guldur, but he needed to know what Sauron's tactic would be. The Dark Lord had yet to fear the united strength of the free people of Middle-earth. Slowly he ascended the stairs to the tower's platform, using his staff as an aid to walk. Each bone in his body was weary, this fight had already gone on too long, Middle-Earth was tethering on the brink of destruction, and he needed to know where the blow would fall.

The Lord of Orthanc raised both his hands to the skies, flames appearing in them. "He shall burn your hopes…" he whispered as the flames fell upon himself and Gandalf, a horrible storm of fire, consuming Saruman entirely.

Gandalf stumbled backwards, raising his arm to shield himself against the flames, the stench of burning flesh burning his nose, the smoke watering his eyes as he watched Saruman's chosen end. He had wished for him to find healing but there was no healing for much despair and treachery. But in Saruman's last moments he saw a glimpse of the dying wizard's mind – saw the Palantír of Minas Tirith, resting hidden in the Tower of Kings and how Saruman had reached for Denethor's weak mind, placing knowledge of unnamed torment there and thoughts of destroying their own allies, of destroying those that would aid Gondor – of burning a shameful alliance. Aragorn! He must have set something in motion to prevent Aragorn's return – for what other 'shameful alliance' could Denethor perceive? A gust of wind whirled over the tower to carry away the ashes the fire had left behind. Tired, wishing to just sit and rest, Gandalf clung to his staff. . "What had you done?"

The was no answer, only wind whispering on the heights and the cold slowly seeping into his aching bones.. Gandalf sighed; if Saruman had done what he had seen, Minas Tirith might be beyond saving. He hastened down the stairs of Orthanc where Shadowfax still stood at the edge of the water. "We ride to Minas Tirith," he said, half to himself, half to the loyal horse. "Show me the meaning of haste, old friend."

TRB

High upon the passes of the Ered Lithui, the night knew no rest nor silence. While the main armies had perished on the Pelennor, legions had escaped and retreated; the Haradrim and Easterlings had made it across the river; Tarkhan, son of the fallen King of Harad, had taken command after Shakurán had been slain by Boromir, much like his own father had been days before. The retreating troops had reached Minas Morgul and quickly taken over any orc garrison and barracks to be found. In the general confusion of the lost battle, disputes between the orc troops and the Haradrim rose all too quickly and there were too few Easterlings left to handle these before they spread.

Deep in the tower dungeon, Anarion heard the noises and the Orcs arguing with the Haradrim taking over the tower. He could not see what was happening, not since the orcs had forced him to face the searing blade for their own sport, a pain beyond pain taking away his eyesight forever. But the Ranger's ears told him all he could not see. There was fighting in the tower, and chaos; swords clashing, Orc cursing, strong, harsh Harad voices making demands, and there were the screams of injured Orcs and dying Haradrim. The smell of death – of dried blood and fresh bodies seeping into the dungeon that already stank of sweat and despair. He curled his hand around the metal bars confining him, feeling the rusty texture crumbly under his fingers and pulled himself up from his knees. At once he heard the shuffle of movement and the clanking of Orc armor, telling Anarion that he had drawn the attention of the orc warder, the only orc still down here. "What you think you're doing, soldier-boy?" the Orc sneered, coming closer. "Snaga, Lugdush and the others will have some sport with you when they have done away with that Southron rabble."

Anarion leaned on the rusty metal bars, resting one wrist in a gap, the gaps between the bars were not regular, the cage was not regular in anything, but most of the gaps were large enough to fit his hand through. The Orcs relied more on brute force than finesse to keep they captives. "Do they? Looks more like your stinky friends are getting their skins tanned." His voice was hoarse; the screams had left it raw and speaking hurt but he cared little. He even used the word 'looks' in spite of it hurting his soul even more, he could not allow himself to be weak, to evade what was obvious or fear anything connected with his injury. He would not allow them to make him flinch at every time he thought of seeing, if he did, he'd truly be their broken victim.

"Think this is going to help you, soldier-boy?" The Orc came closer – Anarion could hear him shuffle along the stone floor and smell him, Orcs never washed and stank as a matter of course. Though during the last days he had begun to notice differences between their stenches. Paying attention to such details had kept him sane in the dark days past his blinding. He waited with icy cold until he could tell the Orc was right in front of the bars. In the complete darkness surrounding him now, he needed to hear the Orc's breath to tell where his throat would be, but then his hand shot up and grabbed the Orc by the throat. The warden choked, struggling against the iron grip, trying to break free, but Anarion did not let go until he heard the breath of the warden still and felt him go limp. Drawing the body close to the bars, he squatted down, carefully searching the dead orc. Only his hands could see for him now, but he could tell the forms of the armor; found the belt, where the sword and the keys hung. Carefully he retrieved the cold, smooth iron key, exhaling slightly.

He needed to search for the door and the lock, again his hands guiding him through the total darkness. He took much longer than he would have had he still been able to see, but he knew that his eyes were gone; and he could count himself lucky that they had not simply squeezed his eyes out – an infected injury would have killed or weakened him beyond all that they had done anyway.

The lock clicked softly as he turned the key and Anarion pushed it open, it creaked slightly, the hinges being unoiled. Anarion used his hand against the bars to guide himself, reaching beyond his fingers found the rough, uneven stone wall, damp with humidity, lending his fingers solid hold. As he stood there, in the open gate of his cell, surrounded by darkness, the enormity of his plan hit him like the cold waves of fear the Nazgûl exuded. How was he to even think of escaping when he could not see? When he could not fight? Until now he had not allowed himself to think back on all that had been done to him – he had focused on what lay ahead, on escape. Now, in the moment of doubt, it all came back: Orc hands... the pain, the fear, the degradation…

His stomach roiled in revulsion when the memories resurfaced, the bitter bile burning in his throat and his hands shook. Cold sweat tickled down his neck, further clamping his long hair. His hand covered his mouth as the disgust, the shame clawed into him again. He should have resisted better, not let them… his throat tightened, but his wounded eyes were unable to produce tears anymore and the remembered pain and shame was shaking him like a storm. Swallowing hard Anarion forced the burning bile out of his throat, taking a slow breath.

"No," he whispered, taking a step forward, always one hand on the wall to find his way in the dark. "I won't give up until I'm dead." He remembered the Orcs always coming in from the left side, so he went that way, the wall guiding him, providing a vague sense of direction. When he reached the stairs, he could hear nothing: no voices, no fighting, only silence. Except for the wind howling outside the tower's windows there was no noise at all, a blanket of utter stillness stifling the tower. Cold air came from above, pebbling against his skin under the ragged clothes he had been left with. Slowly, Anarion began to ascend the stairs, he kept his right hand against the wall and his feet found their steps after the first few quite regularly. No one looked down on a stair he was ascending; only few people noticed that they did not use their eyes to walk entirely. Anarion's body was aching with every step; he did not allow himself to think of it, focusing totally on the task at hand. Atop the flight of stairs, something caught his foot and he stumbled, nearly fell.

Kneeling down, he traced his hands over it, feeling cloth and metal, the form of limbs. A corpse was resting in the hallway; someone had died here, but who? Moving his hand higher, Anarion found the head, his fingers tracing over unblemished features, of even proportions with no piercings, smooth skin and long hair. Haradrim or Easterling, no Orc. And he had been killed using a garrote, the metal still attached to the throat. Gingerly loosening the flexible, thin metal sling, it was a cold as the body before him. Anarion took it. It was not a good weapon, but one he might be able to use. His hand felt the silky cloak of the dead man and a thought came to him. As quickly as he could, he removed the scaly chestplate, the leather underarmor and the cloak from the dead warrior's body. The leathers fit him passably, as did the scaled chest armor. Throwing the long cloak around his shoulders, he pulled up the hood. He had a long way to go still, Gondor was further away than ever before, but he had a guise he could use and the chaos amongst the enemy troops would hopefully last a while longer. He may never make it home, he had a fighting chance however. As he approached the Tower's exit, feeling the cool air, clean and fresh mountain air on his face, Anarion felt hope.