Chapter 19: In a dim morning

It had been a long night but at long last morning had come, a pale morning rising above the clouds and a fresh wind from the sea parting the black clouds that had shadowed the skies for so many days. When Kíli finally returned to the Undercity, the sun had nearly climbed to zenith already. He found Dwalin there, who greeted him with a bone-crushing hug. Kíli returned the embrace unashamed – he too was glad that his old friend had come through the night alive. "How many did we lose?" he asked when they went down into the bowels of the Undercity. During five days of battle he had regularly heard from Dwalin who had fallen, but he did not yet know the final toll.

"Ninety-two," Dwalin replied. "we have been laying them to rest in one of the caverns down here and will close their grave our way. Lord Boromir granted us permission to do what we must. They will rest undisturbed here."

Kíli inclined his head; he had known the toll would be high. One out of ten had died. How many of them had come here only because Kíli had chosen to fight this war? He knew the kind of blind loyalty his family still commanded, though he had never believed he held the same sway over his people, like his Uncle had. Still… this war had been his choice; he had come here because he believed in fighting the Shadow, because these were the last days of this age and mainly because Boromir was his friend – a friend thrown into a merciless fight. He had not wanted any others to follow him, but many had – had they believed as he did or felt it was their duty? Had they followed him out of the same obligation that had led his people into so many battles, Azanulbizar, Erebor… he did not want to finish that line of thought.

"Don't you go all teary on me," Dwalin grumbled. "one out of ten is reasonable, if not outright lucky considering the battle we fought. We all knew what we were in for."

"Were you?" Kíli asked leaning against one of the mighty pillars that supported the sprawling ceiling of the Undercity, the cold stone giving him the strength to stand seemingly without effort. "You are here because I chose this…" He had no problem choosing danger for himself – he had often done so – but this choice had affected many. And what right did he have to ask others to follow him into the fiery end this age would see? Kíli's priority had always been to protect his people. When he had gone South to join the fight, he had been sure that they would do fine without him, maybe even better – but instead they had felt obliged to fight as well.

"Aye," Dwalin told him, "because you had it right. This is the end of the world; if we don't fight, we are already lost. Our people, of all peoples, know what it means to face the iron fist of the Orcs. When they heard you gone to fight the Shadow, there couldn't have been a prouder group of dwarves anywhere." Kíli felt Dwalin's strong hand gently on his arm, a gesture of comfort, of warmth. "We all knew what were in for, that this will be a battle to death, and we are proud to follow you under the very wings of the Shadow."

Returning the gesture, Kíli put his hand Dwalin's shoulder. "I am glad to know you are at my back, each of you." He recalled Thorin a long time ago – "I would take any of these dwarves over the mightiest army" – and he understood what his uncle must have felt.

Dwalin shrugged, pushing aside the praise. "Aside these men here, there is no one left in this good world to fight. The Elves? They're running scared and go to their precious ships. Our people? Dain is sitting on his ass in Erebor and wouldn't think of committing an army if he was paid to do so." The old warrior snorted disdainfully.

"He will have his own war on his hands, if Dol Guldur isn't sleeping," Kíli pointed out. Much as he enjoyed the occasional jabs Dwalin would have for Dáin and his ilk, most of the time Kíli tried to be sensible, do what was right and not deepen the gulf that divided his people.

"Erebor is the mightiest fortress of the North," Dwalin grumbled, "well prepared and planned. He could hold out against a siege for years and still commit part of his field army to this battle here. He doesn't get his head out of his…" He quickly swallowed some very, very rude words that no one should utter about any King, least of all if said King's second cousin stood right beside him.

Kíli hid a smile at Dwalin's rant; the old warrior had no gentle tongue and would usually say what he thought in blunt words. He was absolutely honest and had no shred of deceit in him. Kíli relaxed the situation by finding a bucket of water, enough to finally wash beyond the barest necessities. He knelt down and removed his gauntlets and the chainmail to wash the blood off his hands, arms and body.

"Kíli… your arm." Dwalin's eyes had gone wide, and his eyes trailed along Kíli's arm, his hand pointing at it in surprise.

Puzzled, Kíli followed the glance; he had felt no injury beyond a few bruises on the arm, and only expected it to be gory because he had rammed his blade into the belly of more than a few Olog-hai and had been hit with the vile stream of their blood. When looked down on his sword arm, he could hardly believe it. All along the forearm, from wrist to elbow, he was marked with a fiery dragon. The horned head sat just above the elbow and it wound all along the arm, with the tail nearly touching the back of his hand. Gingerly, he touched his skin; it was cool and whole, but strangely felt alive under his fingers, but there was no sign of burn or even the needle. Above the dragon's head was a rune band, like it was a treasure the dragon guarded. Kíli twisted his arm to see the runes fully. They were ancient Khuzdul. "Dolek Nardûn," he whispered. "The gift of brothers…"

Dwalin had squatted down beside Kíli, his eyes taking in the fiery mark along his arm. He knew of stories about such marks, heralding heroics and legends, but he had never seen one for real in all his life. Dwalin bit back a snort, he had not believed those marks would even exist, they were part of legends, something bards invented to spice up a good tale. Or so he had believed. "How could this happen?" he asked hushed. "When… what did it do to you?"

"No, Dwalin." Kíli looked at the older warrior. "This… this is a gift." Ever since the events in the Tower of Kings, he had been focused on other things, on the brothers, on the upcoming battle, on fighting and surviving, he had not had a moment's time to truly stop and just feel. But now, that the calm settled in, he felt a calm, a peace he had not felt for oh so long. For the first time in seven decades, the hole that his brother's death left in soul did not hurt. In that short, sweet moment during the spell they had seen each other, like they both were still alive and strangely, it had not hurt. It had been a moment, fleeting and fading but it had been enough to say goodbye, to know Fíli was still there, would wait for him on the day Kíli's time came to leave Arda behind.

Kíli's left hand pressed against his chest, his breath heaved hard, he had so long lived with the pain that he hardly could believe he was whole again, complete and not alone any longer. He knew he would not see Fíli again in many years and the thought carried no sharp pain any more, only a distant sadness. Through a fate he could not even dare to understand, he had been blessed with the gift of a brother for the second time in his life. He blinked hard; tears welling up in his eyes. Mahal,he was not a dwarfling anymore to be on the verge of tears so easily – and yet he was hardly able to hold them back now. "Tis a gift, a mercy…"

TRB

The dawn found Boromir in the what remained of the first ring oft he city, seeing to the myriad of things that needed to be organized if the City was to hold out through another attack that he had no doubt would come. This war had just begun, and the enemy was regrouping. Still, he could see the hope in the eyes of the soldiers, and hope would carry through the next night that would come.

A familiar figure ducked under a half collapsed archway and stepped into the street that had been cleared of rubble. Flakes of ash fell from the stones and marred the clean armor of of the Prince of Dol Amroth. "My Lord Steward." Imrahil of Dol Amroth greeted Boromir..

Boromir shook his head. "It is Captain still, Imrahil. I have not yet taken my father's place and mayhap I never will." He had his doubts he would ever sit in Denethor's chair. Even if the war left more than a pile of rubble of Minas Tirith, even if Frodo managed to complete his mission, even if the Shadow was defeated – Boromir doubted he'd see the day of victory. He held no fears in that thought, he had come to accept that truth a long time ago. All their lives would be spent eventually to protect the White City. My life for Gondor. Gondor above all. No ties but her. It was the vow he had sworn on the day he had become a soldier of Gondor, a son of Gondor and he had lived by that vow ever since. The very thought of following Denethor as a Steward of Gondor seemed unreal, like something from a dream, half-forgotten come dawn.

"Because of the Return of the King?" Imrahil asked, his voice carefully guarded. "There is talk all over the City – with you so publically supporting his claim, every soldier and milkmaid of this City knows it has to be true."

"If you are telling me I should have asked the council of nobles first…"

"You will tell me again that you have a spot for them on the front lines." Imrahil finished the line he knew all too well. "Boromir, how often have been over this?"

"So you doubt his claim?" Boromir shifted his balance, leaning back on his heels as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. "He wields Narsil, the sword of Elendil. No one not of the true line could wield that blade, for it turns on any other who would try. To the latter I can attest myself." He vividly recalled the small run-in in Rivendell; even broken, the sword had not tolerated his touch.

"I am older than you, Boromir, and, like your father, I remember Thorongil well," Imrahil said, "and nay, I do not doubt him. I did not know back then, even as I suspected and hoped… but I do not doubt now." He met Boromir's eyes evenly. "But others will. The noble houses will wonder how it could happen that only days before Lord Aragorn's arriving here, your father could die… and in the presence of only you and your brother."

"Thoroniâr was there as well."

"A man absolutely devoted to you." Imrahil waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, like waving the whole argument aside, along with the man it pertained. "If you ordered him to, he would do anything, even cover up a murder."

"So you believe I murdered my father?" Boromir asked incredulously, his arms came down to his sides and his stance shifted forward, a stance ready to fight. Of all possible explanations the noble houses could come up with, this was by far the strangest. "For what?"

"To clear the path to the throne for Aragorn, who obviously has your loyalty? I know you, Boromir – for a cause you believe in, you would do nearly anything you deem necessary. Sadly, the long war with the Shadow has taught you to do what is needful before doing what is right…"

"Are you saying you truly believe I murdered my father?" Now Boromir's eyes flashed dangerously, anger rising inside him like a white-hot flame. What fools they were! Even worse than some of those at the Council. How could they dare to think he would kill his father? Murder him – for Thorongil of all people? His breath quickened and he felt his pulse tick hard in his temple. Raising one hand he pointed at the man before him. "By what right, by what proof do you make your accusation, Imrahil? Think twice before answering me, for if you have no proof, and I know you have none, I will call you out to single combat and gut you like a fish for your dishonorable words."

The Prince took a step back, shocked by the passionate intensity in Boromir's eyes. His nephew had always been tough, hard, and fierce in his beliefs, but this… this was an anger and fire he had never seen in him before. "I do not have any proof," he admitted, "and I know that the story about the traitor is… easily proven, especially as the Tower Guard has the body of the treacherous person said to having killed your father. Thoroniâr would not forget such a detail. Had I not heard the story from my own son, I would not have believed it on first hearing too."

He had believed it at first but it had rubbed him the wrong way. The story of what had happened had spread from those loyal to Boromir, Thoroniâr had told Veryan, and Veryan politically savvy son of Dol Amroth had polished it into the version that was now circulating in the city. No one could even accuse the sons of Denethor of having lied – it had been done by their minions, amongst which was one of Imrahil's own sons. And those minions – namely Thoroniâr, had seen to it that the body of a traitor was at hand, sadly he had been killed by the Tower Guard after he had slain the Steward, sadly all proof there was of his treachery had been letters, which had been brought to Denethor prior to the arrest being made, and sadly the letters had been soaked in so much blood that they were all but unreadable. All details were covered and Imrahil was sure he was looking at the thorough work of Thoroniâr.

"Believe what you wish," Boromir told him, his hand curling up in a fist. He forced himself to lower the fist and unclench his hands, but the angry pulse was still racing through him. "I did not murder my father; he fell afoul of something… darker and more sinister than I wish to ever speak of."

"Do you truly believe in him?" Imrahil asked suddenly. "Do you in your heart truly believe in Aragorn? Would you follow him? Step aside and see him crowned?"

That was the question they all would ask – did he believe in the returned King? He believed his claim genuine, which was enough. Did he revere Isildur's Line? Certainly not, but he was aware of the powerful symbol of hope Aragorn's House was for Gondor. It was enough to curb his pride. Would he step aside and see Thorongil crowned? If he believed the claim true, it would be his duty eventually, like it or not. But that day was far off – there was a war to fight first and this war needed Aragorn, needed the hope he brought, needed his ability to unite the world of Men under one banner. It had to be enough.

"We have to fight a war first, Imrahil," Boromir reminded him, "and the way things are, I might end up following him to death." He turned around and walked off, not wishing to continue the conversation. They did not understand, or maybe they just judged by what they knew of him. Boromir knew his duty, and he would do his duty, he had sworn to do so when he had just been sixteen winters old, and he would do so to the day he died. It did not help that the subject of Thorongil was a complicated one, to say the least. It would have been easier if he could simply despised the last of Isildur's line, and while he certainly was not a friend of Aragorn, he would admit the Ranger was a good man, a good comrade, more of a healer than a warrior at times and… who knew what King he would be, if they came through this storm? Not that Boromir himself would see that day, but until then he'd do his duty. Having not looked up when he strode down the rest of the way to the broken gate that he only just avoided collision with a familiar figure. Clad in the grey Elven cloak Aragorn, resembled the northern Ranger once more. "Forgive me, I did not see where I was going," Borormir said.

Aragorn raised his hands, like he wanted to block off the very words. "Let us speak outside the walls," he said, and together they walked through the rubble that remained of the Gate and out into the field. Now that the dead had been removed and the Orc carcasses burned, the fields were easier to bear. "I could not help but hear your conversation with Imrahil," Aragorn said after they had silently walked towards the very foothill where Boromir had defeated Shakurán. "He is a proud Man, and sometimes nearly Elven in the webs of intrigues he perceives anywhere."

"And you wish to know whether or not his accusations are true." Boromir responded.

"Nay!" Aragorn stopped, facing Boromir. "Not even when I feared that the Ring may take you have I been thinking that low of you. I know you would not stoop to murder; you are far too honorable for that. You would not sacrifice your honor, least of all for me." Seeing Boromir's surprised glance, he raised his hand. "Can we speak openly? Here, away from all prying ears?"

"If you wish so." Boromir inclined his head deferring to Thorongil's wish, as he took half a step back and relaxed his stance into the same posture of a soldier discussing something with a superior.

Aragorn saw the shift of stance in Boromir, subtle but clear deference still written over the man's demeanor. "You still do it," he said. "You treat me like I am your Lord, even as I know I am not." He raised his hand, forestalling the comment that was sure to come. "We were not friends when we set out on our quest, but we respected each other, Boromir. And out of that respect I ask the truth from you. Why? You made it clear you all but despised the House of Isildur, yet you greeted me as the King of your people."

Looking past him, Boromir's eyes went up the Citadel, to the white tower of Ecthelion. "You are Gondor's hope, Aragorn. Maybe her last hope. I would not deprive my people of that."

His eyes went back to the plains; the wide land surrounding the city had always spelled home for him. It was the land he had grown up in, the fields and trenches he had roamed about with Faramir, the field paths he had ridden along on the back of Erhawn's tall stallion, Thoroniâr behind him… only two boys in that moment, knowing nothing of war or pain. Home – they had soon enough learned that their home was tethering on the edge of the Shadow, that fire and death awaited less than a day's ride to the East. And he had sworn to protect his people. And yet he knew that all he could do to defend Gondor would not be enough – much like the rule of the Steward's house had never been quite enough, always in the shadow of the empty throne to remind them that no matter what they achieved or how hard they fought, they were not good enough in the end. At a time in the past it had made him bitter to be considered second to one who had shirked his own duty.

But all that was in the past, and when he looked over the burned fields and scorched villages, all he wanted to bring peace back to Gondor, to spare her further suffering, and if following a King would achieve that, he'd do it. His own feelings, raw, untamed and still stubbornly angry were of no consequence where Gondor was concerned. To resist and cause enmity was to do the Enemy's work and he had already come too close to doing that. He realized that he had been silent for too long and swiftly continued speaking. "The last thing we need is strife while the Enemy knocks on our very gates. You are the Man who can reunite the world of Men under one banner to fight the Shadow. You are the ray of light that may yet save Gondor. And thus I stand with you."

"Gondor above all." Aragorn spoke the words softly, remembering the oath every soldier of Gondor took. He knew Boromir lived by this creed absolutely. He was also shaken by Boromir's belief that he could be the savior of Gondor, even as it was the only reason why Boromir supported him. He would do anything for Gondor – even sacrifice his own lofty pride and ambitions.

"I thank you for your honesty, Boromir." Aragorn studied the other Man's face silently, Boromir's features were lean, more drawn then they had been when they had last seen each other, the fighting, the siege, exhaustion and grief had etched fresh lines into his proud mien, though those were secondary to the strength, the determination written over him. The face was not open though, it was the carefully guarded mien of a soldier, not giving away vulnerabilities. When Boromir had spoken, Aragorn had seen many emotions reflected in those green eyes, anger, pride, hurt, and contempt, along with sadness. The desperation he had seen in Boromir's eyes in Rivendell was gone though, as had some of the bitterness, but how Boromir had found the strength to overcome them remained unknown and There was no doubt that Boromir did not think of him any higher than he had during their wanderings and Aragortn wondered, if he'd ever win his honest respect. "And I am glad to know you with me in this."

Boromir was about to reply with something, if only to suggest that they return to the city, but he saw a bright spot on the fields beyond Aragorn's shoulder. His eyes narrowed, staring past Aragorn out on the field, where a single white rider had come in sight, his horse racing across Pelennor fields with a speed that seemed nearly impossible. Boromir drew his sword, the black blade steady in his hand, the cold steel did more to calm him than all the talking before. "Back to the Gate, Aragorn…" he ordered sharply, Saruman had picked an ill time to make an appearance here.

Yet Isildur's heir laughed. "Sheathe your sword, Boromir – this is one foe you will not need to fight."

TRB

Aragorn looked about the stark room in the Citadel; he had known the very same room many years ago, and it felt strange to stand here again, like no time had passed, like he was still that younger warrior he had been when Ecthelion had ruled this city. But it was an illusion, for the room itself was changed. The Captain's guard room was said to reflect the different personalities of the Men who held the rank of Captain of Gondor.

During his time as Thorongil, he had seen two different Men hold this spot. Under Harluin the room had felt antiquated, dusty, a room of forgotten glory; and under Turayne the room had felt comfortable, welcoming, with a circle of deep chairs at the fireplace, and two tables always stacked with reports, notes and a variety of books. Now it was neither: stark, pragmatic and much changed from the past. No banners adorned the walls; the only thing to break the stark stone surfaces were two detailed maps, one of Mordor and one of Harad. A weapons rack by the door allowed an assortment of swords and other weapons to be stored, always ready to fight, and there were a number of simple chairs grouped around the stone table, allowing for discussions or strategizing among the officers.

The only comfort the room still had was the huge fireplace to the side. Aragorn had been surprised when Boromir had chosen this place for them to speak to Gandalf instead of the council hall, but he understood that it might simply be habit. He did not know precisely for how long Boromir had held the place of Lord Captain of Gondor – but he certainly had a for a number of years, and he'd have been one of the youngest men to rise to this position either way. Even now – at the age of 41 he would be counted young in the company of those who had preceded him.

Aragorn had sent for Legolas, Gimli and Eomer, who should hear of Gandalf's return as well. All three had arrived swiftly, with Legolas and Gimli greeting the White Wizard heartily, while Éomer cast a quick look about, before walking to the fireplace, leaning with his back against the stone surface. Boromir returned to the room the same moment, with his brother Faramir and Kíli accompanying him. Aragorn silently agreed with the choices, the Captain of the Rangers would need to know about their planning and Kíli… he was as much an ally as Éomer was. Although his saw Gimli visibly tense when Kíli walked in.

Gandalf turned away from his conversation with Legolas. "I feared for this City," he stated, sitting down in one of the chairs by the table. "Saruman… How deep his treachery went we may never know, but his pride and vengeance lived on with him to his last moments. He worked evil on the mind of Lord Denethor, for revenge upon me and upon those who foiled his plan to gain the Ring." Aragorn saw how Gandalf's glance went to Boromir, who stood at the far end of the room, in front of the wall with the map of Harad. The Lord Captain was at ease in this room, on familiar grounds, and met the wizard's gaze evenly, even as he acknowledged the words with a grim nod.

"The Lord Steward is dead, Gandalf. If what you say is true, a greater evil then we could see was at work in his demise." Boromir kept his voice steady as he spoke, the news that Saruman had been manipulating Denethor through the Palantîr were worrysome on some level but largely irrelevant to the current situation, as he seriously hoped Gandalf had dealt with the traitorous Istari.

The moment Denethor's name was mentioned, Aragorn saw Faramir tense and Kíli's face snap into an impassive mask. Both left the spots they had been standing in, and closed ranks with Boromir, which put them on the one side of the room, with Aragorn and his comrades on the other side. He did not like the way Gandalf's question had opened a front here.

Gandalf cast a sharp glance at the Lord Captain, he too had noticed the change in the three and scrutinized Boromir more deeply. "Dead? How? What happened?"

His question was met with silence by Denethor's sons. Aragorn saw the tension in both Men, and knowing what Gandalf had just said, he wondered what darkness had worked on Denethor's mind, what had transpired here. If Denethor had truly fallen into darkness his own actions might have been guided by Saruman's hand – Aragorn did not want to imagine what kind of madness had played out in this city prior to the battle. But now that he thought of this he wondered, if Boromir had avoided to have this meeting in the Council Hall because his father's presence would still linger in the very hall Denethor had ruled Gondor from for many decades. "I know that this is painful for you to speak of," he said when there was no answer, "but if Saruman had a hand in Denethor's death, we must know."

"For what difference, Aragorn?" Boromir crossed his arms in front of his chest, shoulders tensing as he gave Aragorn a hard stare. "He is dead. What was done to him and by him is irrelevant for us now that the war is upon us."

"He may have done more than you saw," Gandalf replied. "Saruman's mind held the strong notion of making him turn on someone to divide you."

"My liege…" Faramir spoke up, keeping his tone calm and diplomatic, he had to try and smooth over the waves. Knowing his brother like only he could, he could tell that Boromir had worded his defiance as politely as he still could, but was close to dismissing Aragorn from this room like an unruly recruit. With his brother's temper so tense, Faramir would have to try and run interference between him and Isildur's Heir. Why had both of them to be blessed with a stubborn will? "We will not deny you answers, but my brother is true in his words that all that was done is now past." He wished he'd never have to speak of that day again, of Denethor's last hours… and of his last deed. Faramir knew he could forgive the old man for what he had done to him, but he was pained and ashamed of Denethor's actions against others.

It pained Aragorn that he would have to insist on the details; he could see how deeply the death – no, not just the death, but the way Denethor had left this world – had hurt both of his sons deeply. Before he could speak, Kíli stepped forward, placing himself between Aragorn and the brothers. "Lord Denethor tried to make use of this City's Palantír to learn the Enemy's weakness." Aragorn saw at once how Kíli's posture had shifted, he stood tall – if that could be said of a dwarf – firm and in control, what he said was a statement and one that he expected to be accepted without further debates. This was a Prince speaking, not a warrior, nor an ally. "But he was confronted with something through the artifact that broke his mind and he committed suicide. If Saruman indeed used one of the Seeing Stones as well, it would explain what happened to him."

There was truth in Kíli's words. Aragorn had long learned to hear deceit when spoken, but he was also sure that there was much more to this story. He also understood what went unsaid in the moment that Kíli stood between him and the brothers. Of all people present in this room, Kíli's bloodline and legacy were ancient and high enough to put him on even rank with Aragorn himself. And that he was challenging Aragorn's questions to the brothers in that manner made clear he saw them as his allies, whom he would defend against anyone. Aragorn sighed, he had seen the friendship between Kíli and Boromir grow in Moria and now it had blossomed into a full-fledged alliance, complicating things even further.

"What of the person Saruman wished to turn him against, Master Dwarf?" Gandalf asked, a hint of temper in his voice. "If his plans are still in motion, even past his death, there might be danger here."

Boromir understood the unspoken fear of the Wizard: that Denethor even from beyond the grave would strike a blow against Aragorn. It was something that would have fitted the diseased mind of the Master of Orthanc.

"And what if I told you that all Saruman may have whispered into Denethor's mind has already transpired and still is none of your business, Master Wizard?" Kíli's voice had sunken to deep growl, and in that moment he was more similar to his Uncle than he knew. "Not all secrets need to come into the hands of a Wizard."

Gandalf cast the dwarf a glare full of barely restrained temper, muttering something about the stubbornness of dwarves and having had enough of dwarves for quite a while.

Boromir turned to Kíli who still stood between him and the others, exchanging impressive glares with Gandalf, who muttered something about the stubbornness of Dwarves. "Prince Kíli?"

Boromir's words had the Dwarf's attention at once, he turned away from the Wizard, giving Boromir his full attention. Their eyes met and Kíli could see the sadness, pain and resignation in his friend's eyes and he understood words where not necessary, he could hear all Boromir wanted to ask him in the silence between them. "This tragedy is yours to share, Lord Boromir," he replied a small inclining of his head indicating respect for Boromir's decision, "and I still stand by my opinion that there is no need to pry into your pain. The danger has passed."

"True though that may be, Aragorn has the right to know what fate befell the last Steward," Boromir said with finality. "And I have learned that such things – secrets, whispers in the dark, knowledge hoarded and kept away – are the weapon of the Enemy, for we only hurt ourselves through our own secrecy. It may hurt us when these things come to light, as the sunlight will hurt our eyes, but it is the only way to free ourselves of the chains the past weaves on us and heal." Boromir knew that Kíli would understand what he was trying to say, much as his own words sounded strange to him. "You never spoke of my father's actions against you…"

Kíli forestalled any further words with a gesture of his hand. "There was no need to speak of them. It was by your hand that I was saved."

Facing Aragorn, Boromir suddenly felt calm, calmer than he had since he had gone to the King's Tower. "My father believed me bewitched when I failed to bring the Ring to him," he said, his heart lightening as the truth he had carried so long in silence came to the light. It was painful, all dark secrets hurt when brought to the stark light of day, but is also broke their power, "and he rightly concluded that Kíli had something to do with my failing to do so. Believing it was a spell or enchantment, he turned on him to… learn the means by which it was achieved."

"What madness could have possessed him to so misread friendship and loyalty?" Gandalf asked, both of his hands clutching his staff so tightly until their knuckles went pale.

"I do not know what my father saw in the Palantír, and I am grateful for that mercy, but when my father's state of mind was revealed through his own actions, he also revealed that he saw another way to prevent these visions from coming to pass; in his last act, he tried to kill my brother, before impaling himself on my sword."

What kind of madness, of twisted power would make a father turn on his own son, Aragorn wondered. Now he understood why Boromir had been so reluctant to speak of Denethor at all. He had loved his father – and he had been the instrument Denethor chose for his suicide. Impulsively, Aragorn rose from his chair, walking past the table and towards the Steward's sons. He could not imagine the horror they had suffered at their own father's hands. It was easy to hate a stranger for his haughtiness and cruelty – to see the same traits in a father was beyond terrible. And seeing a father beloved willing to destroy his own children… Aragorn did not want to imagine the pain the Steward's last actions had bestowed upon his sons. "It pains me that I had to force you to speak of this," he said to both of them. "To make you remember what must have been the cruelest thing that may befall any son. And while I fear that all he did is beyond what you would speak, I am content with what I know."

"He did not do anything beyond nearly killing Faramir," Boromir pointed out. "It is Kíli who bore the other marks of this encounter."

"Like the mark you on your hand?" Aragorn asked.

"What mark?" Boromir frowned, puzzled as to what Thorongil was speaking of. He bore no physical marks from the encounter with his father, for none of Denethor's sword strikes had reached him. He raised his sword hand to discover a small red mark near the wrist. He could not recall any injury to the arm but had paid only scant attention when he had washed off the blood some time during the night. Swiftly, he removed the vambrace to free his arm. He felt a tremor running through his skin when, he looked at his own sword arm, now marked by a fiery Dragon wrapping around it up to the elbow.

"You also?" Kíli asked, revealing an identical mark on his arm.

Both of them looked to Faramir, who had watched the revelation, with wide, astonished eyes. "I thought it was only me, a mark from the healing," he told them as he revealed an identical Dragon on his sword arm.

"The healing… it must have been." Boromir could see he and his brother had the inscription in Adûnaic, but Kíli's was in Khuzdul; except for this, the Dragons were identical. "Winterflame broke, it must have left this."

Gandalf rose from his chair and strode across the room to join them. He silently studied the marks with wizened eyes, comparing them and their inscriptions for several minutes. "What spell did you use?" he asked eventually. "What did you carve into that sword?".

"The darkness dies," Kíli said it felt strange to name the spell like this; it sounded incorrect in the tongue of Men, so he added the first line of it in the original tongue.

The old Wizard looked at the three and suddenly he laughed. "In more than an Age no Man, or Elf, or Dwarf has dared to use these words, for the powers they invoke are fierce. And you used it together? Not even the wisest may have foreseen this. The bond that links you is nothing I will claim to understand, but it is not a gift of evil."

"We know, Mithrandir," Faramir said, his voice firm yet respectful. "We know it is a blessing."

TRB

The heavy steps of the Orcs echoed off into the woods, and Anarion let out a slow breath; they had mistaken him for a corpse, one of the many injured soldiers that had been left behind on the western slopes of the mountains. Wearing a Haradrim armor and cloak, the young Ranger had been mistaken for a wounded warrior of the recent battle several times. He had managed to scrounge up a veiled Haradrim helmet to hide his face, and as far as his experiences in these last hours served, he passed muster at a distance as another incapacitated straggler. But he knew that on close inspection, his eyes would give him away. Even before the searing blade had taken his sight forever, he had lacked the dark luster of the Southlander eyes. His eyes were greyish-green and would always betray him as a Man from Northern Gondor.

Certain the Orcs were marching off, he rose from where he had lain between the bushes and moved on. When he had initially escaped the Orc tower, he had been scared to move through the open expanse that he could not see any more. But with each hour of walking, using his hands to find his way by rocks and trees, trusting his ears and senses to guide him, he had found a measure of confidence again. He knew he had been incredibly lucky – at no other time could any Man have dared to take the Morgul Road west, but with the masses of injured soldiers and the general chaos, no one had paid him any heed. Twice he had been forced to defend himself against Orcs believing him to be a weakened Haradrim soldier. He had killed one with the garrote and stabbed the other when he had come too close. Both experiences had been frightening, and inwardly Anarion had thanked Lord Faramir, who had insisted each of his Rangers must be able to fight in utter dark.

Every step down the Morgul Road had taken Anarion back to Ithilien and closer to home. Knowing the lay of the land helped him keep a sense of direction, as did the sun that shone warmly on his face during the day. Now, as the evening approached, his best guide was sinking behind the western horizon. Passing a few bushes, his hands found a tree trunk and he stopped. The trunk was wide enough for him not to be able to put his arms around it – a huge tree with a deeply entrenched, patterned bark. Gently, Anarion traced his hands over the tree skin, feeling the rough surface and inhaling the familiar fresh smell; an Ithilien Elm no doubt. He could feel moss and bearded lichens on one side; they smoothened the rough surface. The main weather side in Ithilien was generally southwest; from whence the rain came and that was the side where the moss grew. Checking it on the next tree, he found the traces of soft, clingy moss on the same side and it helped him to gain direction again.

He kept a direction that was roughly west, usually walking ducked between bushes and underbrush, using a spear he had found on a dead Man to feel the ground before him. Often enough, a sharp pain rose inside his chest while he went but he ignored it, he pressed his hand against his chest and forced himself to breathe slowly and steadily until the fit was over. The pain form the cuts and bruises on his abdomen and legs, and all the other traces from the Orc's "sport", he tried to not identify in his own mind. Those were injuries, all just injuries, no matter how he had received them. He did not allow himself to think back, to what had transpired during his captivity. He was free, and freedom was all that mattered. Having to search his way with his hands, and by the noises and smells of the land, Anarion felt that he moved slowly, having no real way to measure his progress, and thus he was surprised when he heard the hollow roar of the Anduin ahead of him. Had he truly reached the river?

Listening to the sounds of the evening, he crept closer, his hands finding grass, and then the sand of the riverbank. It was true: he had come back to the River. The last warm rays of the sun he had felt on his face had been an hour ago – or more, he did not entirely trust his sense of time, but he knew it had to be night by now. Hoping the dark would provide additional cover as he left the protection of the tree-line and bushes, Anarion made his way down to the rushing waters, the rapid icy river greeting him with the familiar smells of water, earth, and home. Kneeling down by the water, Anarion put his hands into the stream, the cool touch of the flood like something long forgotten. He cleaned his hands best that he could before drinking a few gulps of the icy water. He was not sure when he had last drunk something other than the foul brew down in the dungeons.

Relieved though he was, he knew he must not linger long. The Riverbank was a dangerous and exposed area and he had no way to tell where exactly he was. Somewhere north of Osgiliath, he ventured to guess; the River calmed considerably south of the city. He'd have to risk the swim across; there was no way around that.

A noise made him freeze. The first thing he heard was something heavy moving, hooves and a huffing sound. A horse. Staying totally still, Anarion listened into the night around him. A rider? A patrol? Had he been spotted?

The movement came closer; and he could hear the splashing of heavy hooves in the water, and steel horseshoes clunk on the riverstones, come closer along with the deep huffing of the animal. The horse was actually coming at him from across the river. Amen Ford? Could it be that he was at Amen Ford? It was one of the few places where horses could get across now that the bridge was destroyed. He heard the huff right above him – the horse must be standing close but there was no voice, no attack, nor any other indication of a rider.

Slowly Anarion rose. "Seems you too escaped the battle," he said softly, reaching out to find the horse's neck with his hand, and it tolerated his touch. He had to strain his arm to reach the neck fully and his shoulder and chest protested against the sudden movement. The horse was taller than any horse he had ever encountered. The horse's thick coat was coarse under his fingers and coated with dirt and blood. Tracing his hand along its back, he found the saddle. When he touched the leather of the saddle the animal huffed again. "I guess I know what you want, poor friend," The horse was probably thirsty, but with the tight girth would be unable to drink without pain.,. It took him a moment to find the buckles to loosen; the saddle was a heavy one meant for an armored rider, and he took it off entirely. The horse was tired, sweat and dried blood caking its flanks. When he had removed the saddle, the horse whined softly. Trying to comfort the huge beast, Anarion stroked the clean-lined head, his hands coming in contact with the bridle; it was made from steel and cut deep into the horse's sensitive mouth. He could smell the coppery whiff of fresh blood. He frowned. Even the Haradrim, cruel bastards that they were, did not do this; they loved their horses nearly as much as the Rohirrim did. Removing the bridle was easier than the saddle, and while Anarion knew his prolonged stay on the riverbank was increasingly dangerous, he refused to let another being suffer needlessly. By its very presence, the horse had told him where he was at the river – it deserved as much consideration in return. Once the bridle was removed, the horse began to drink greedily. Anarion smiled and stroked the powerful flank. "That's better, is it not?" he said softly.

The horse moved, heavy hooves scratching and clonking along the stones and mud of the riverbank. Anarion he stepped back to avoid being pushed over; he could only guess that the animal was turned around, maybe to run away, maybe to get to another spot of water. Maybe it was hungry and wanted to get to the grass and bushes upshore. Taking another careful step back, Anarion was sure he was out of range for the horse but instead, he felt a nudge against his shoulder The soft mouth of the horse, gently nudged him, rubbing against his neck. He felt the soft fur and rougher mane touch the sore skin of his neck. "You wouldn't mind carrying me for a few miles, I guess," he said softly.

Careful to keep one hand on the horse's back he moved to the huge animal's side and squatted down, to run his hands along the horse's legs. Comparing the height of the horse's leg to his own squatted form, reinforced the impression of a huge steed. He checked the legs for injuries thoroughly, finding none. It seemed a miracle the horse had suffered no cuts or gashes to its extremities over the course of battle. Checking the hooves for stones and injury proved trickier, as it took several tries to make the horse lift its hooves. His fingers found heavy stamped horseshoes, which like the saddle indicated an armored rider.

Standing again, he gently petted the horse, feeling it again nudge him. It may be a way to go faster but being unable to see where he went made the prospect of riding frightening at the same time. He would not be able to control direction like he was when walking, nor could he anticipate dangers. On the other hand – he knew this land. If this was Amen Ford, it would take a nearly straight line west to bring him back to the city. And he could anticipate the speed of the horse better than his own walking. He'd have to recheck his direction every other hour, he decided. Walking past the huge animal, he got to the side and traced his hands over the blank horseback. It was warm, muscles flexing under his touch, but the entire coat was caked together with dried sweat. Every muscle in Anarion's battered body protested when he stretched his arms and mounted the tall steed. "We need to go west, to Minas Tirith." He wondered what commands the horse might know, aside from the directions a rider gave with his legs. Nudging the horse to turn around towards the river, a thought came to him. If the horse came from the black lands, it would be used to another tongue. "Tarzâk, Ital-Gurd," he repeated the same words in the dark language. A shrill neigh echoed through the cool night air as the horse turned fully to the river and crossed the ford with him. On the western riverbank, the horse climbed the hillside quickly and began to race.

TRB

It was that same evening that Faramir returned to the Citadel, glad for a long day to be over. Many things had to be done, and Boromir had kept his brother busy enough with getting Minas Tirith back into fighting shape. When he ascended the stairs to the upper courtyard, he spotted two small figures looking around. Halflings – they looked much like Frodo and Sam had; only that one of them wore a leather armor of Rohirric making and the other an Elven cloak. "What brings two Perian to the citadel?" Faramir asked them.

The one in the leather armor looked up to him, and then bowed slightly. "We were told that Lord Boromir would be found up at the Citadel."

"And the guard forgot to mention that the Citadel is a wee bit larger than a house," the other chimed in.

"You must be the other two Perian who travelled with him from Imladris," Faramir guessed, recalling what Frodo had said about his companions. He had claimed two of them had been his kin. "Follow me, I will bring you to him."

"You must be his brother he spoke of so often," the one in the leather armor observed. "You look an awful lot like him."

"He told you of us?" the other one in the Elven cloak piped up. Faramir had to assume that he was the younger one, for the other nudged him slightly and whispered a sharp "Pippin!" to him.

The gesture had such a great-brotherly feeling to it, it made Faramir smile." Not in that many words, except that he feared you perished during the Orc raid on Amon Hen when you were separated. He will be glad to see you alive."

This elicited a smile from both of them. "We feared for him too," Pippin said. "When Strider met us again, he said Boromir had been killed by the Orcs. It seemed unjust that after protecting us so much he should die like that."

"Did he? Protect you, I mean?" Faramir recalled many things Boromir had told him about these two – their mischievousness, the night they had put some itchroot into Gandalf's pipe-weed, how they had even been able to handle a boat, stories that had made Faramir laugh or smile.

"He did," Merry spoke up. "He taught us how to use our swords and he helped us. In the snows on Caradhras he carried us, and reminded the others that we couldn't go on. 'It will be the death of the Halflings, Gandalf,' he said."

Pippin nodded fiercely. "Little ones, that's what he called us. In Moria he helped us climb across chasms and jumped with both of us when we couldn't. He took our night watches so often; he sometimes was so exhausted…"

The honest enthusiasm in their voices made Faramir smile; this was the Boromir he knew best. Not the grim Captain, the leader in a merciless war, but the protector, the Man who would risk his life to rip a child from the Orcs' clutches during a night raid across the Anduin; the Man who would take the time to search for some vanished villagers near the crossings of Paros; the older brother who had taught him the sword and protected him best that he could.

"Merry, Pippin!" Faramir and the Hobbits had arrived at the now empty guard room and Boromir who had been studying a map, spotted the two Hobbits the very moment the door opened. The two rushed towards him and he squatted down, greeting them with a hug. A bright smile on his face. "You are alive! Pippin… is it possible that you have grown?"

Both Hobbits laughed. "That is a long story, Boromir. So much has happened since Amon Hen."

"Then you'll have to tell me, my friends," Boromir replied. "It is evening; the City will need her rest as much as anyone. A good time to tell your story.."

Half an hour later, the two Halflings sat by the fireplace, happily munching away on some apples. "The Orcs dragged us away when you saved Strider," Merry was the one to launch into their tale, "and carried us off. Uglúk, their leader, had orders to bring us to Isengard, but some others of the group came from the mountains and Grishnákh was from the East… They argued a lot." He colorfully described how the Orcs had interacted in their two day crossing of Rohan.

"And then the Riders attacked," Pippin drew in his legs until they rested on the rim of the chair, that was too large for him as he continued the tale. "It was fearsome, all those riders coming out of the dark to strike down the Orcs. We tried to flee into the woods and… I made it." He looked embarrassed.

"What happened?" Boromir asked, seeing Pippin curl up on himself, like he was trying to block out the memories.

"I made into the forest, believing Merry right behind me, but all that had followed me was Grishnákh. I did not even notice that Merry was gone until Treebeard stomped Grishnákh."

"What happened to Merry?"

"Uglúk had seen me crawl away and yanked me back," Merry raised his hand with the half-eaten apple to demonstrate how the Uruk-Hai had grabbed him. "I was scared; he held me up by the throat with one hand and drew his blade with other to gut me. But one of the riders saw us and dismounted; he attacked Uglúk fiercely. A lot like you, as a matter of fact. Had I not seen you fight, I'd have been as scared of him as I was of Uglúk." Merry smiled at the memory, like he could not understand it now, like it was something childish of the past. "He killed Uglúk, cutting him down with the blade. But more Orcs came at us and he said 'Behind me, little one; they won't get you.' I do not know how long the fighting lasted. I picked up an Orc knife and tried to defend myself, not that I was much use. But I was never so grateful for the lessons you gave us."

"Who was it that saved you?" Boromir could see that Merry's eyes had gone past him, to the wall – staring into the emptiness.

"I only leaned that the next morning, not that his name would have meant much to me. Éomer had been the first to realize the Orcs carried captives and he came to save me, the moment he saw what Ugluk was doing. But… we couldn't find Pippin. We… I thought he had been killed." Merry shivered, remembering the dark hour he had believed his friend perished during the nightly raid. "Éomer… he understood at once; he knew how it felt. And he said that he and his Men were banished, exiles, but that if I wanted to avenge my friend I could come with them."

"Banished? How did that come about?"

"Theoden King, the ruler of Rohan, had fallen under Saruman's spell, and banished his nephew," Merry said. "Éomer would still fight for his people, and try to strike at the Hordes of Isengard as hard as he could. And I went with him. During our first night raid on an Uruk-camp I was scared…" Merry had set the apple on the table, where Pippin had snagged it, without Merry noticing. "but I think I put all that you taught me to good use." Merry looked directly at Boromir, his eyes warming. "By the end of that night I was glad you had insisted to teach me."

He shuffled about in the chair a little, sitting more on the edge." The third night after, we saw the Uruks attack the Westfold, burning villages, slaughtering people… Boromir, it was horrible. They killed all that could not get away. The éored intervened and allowed the villagers to flee but there were so many Orcs coming…" Merry kneaded his fingers into each other, to hide that his hands were shaking. "We had to go with the villagers fleeing to Meduseld. Banished or not, Éomer would not leave his people unprotected and thus we escorted them safely to the Golden Hall, where we met Strider, Gandalf and the others. Only he"—he glanced at Pippin—"was not there. But Gandalf said he was safe."

"I was safe with Treebeard and the Ents… I didn't get myself mixed up in a battle." Pippin pointed out.

"I did not get myself mixed up," Merry said fiercely. "I volunteered and Éomer accepted me." He looked back to Boromir. "They mustered everyone to defend Helm's Deep: old Men, lads and lasses… everyone who could use a sword or bow." The Hobbit exhaled sharply and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Boromir, I don't think I can talk about that night yet… It was the scariest thing I ever saw, and strangely I would not have wanted to be elsewhere. I had to see this through, you know?"

In the other warrior's solemn nod, Merry saw understanding and he nudged Pippin to tell of his adventures among the Ents.