Chapter 22: Oh few shall part where many meet

Torches blazing into the night lit the darkness that covered the battle field and the camp. The supply caravan had moved closer to the field and made camp on the last ridges above the battlefield. Getting the exhausted, the wounded, and the dying off the battlefield was a work that kept every soldier still standing on their feet even hours after the battle had ended and the task would probably continue long past the sun rose again. The healers had the hardest task of them all, trying to save as many as they could, which meant having to leave all lighter injuries to be tended to by other soldiers.

Faramir sat leaning against the side of a rock, trying to steady his breathing. His chest wound had been quickly bandaged and he had sent Beregond away to aid others in greater need than him. Faramir had felt the wound close nearly the moment the blade yanked free, back then, on the field he had no time to think or even care how it had happened. When he had stepped into Idrakhán's sword to defeat him, Faramir had been ready to die, to lay down his life to save his King. That he would live past that moment seemed impossible, like a dream that he needed to wake from. None of his wounds were especially deep, the worst had healed as he fought. The smith that made me, made me to save my man, from any face of death. The runes on his blade said and he had never thought he'd need to believe they were so… literal. It felt undeserved that he should have lived through so many wounds and injuries, while others lay out on the field, dying. Still, even as he was alive, he was weak, like each time he recovered he was getting weaker and weaker and the pain welling inside him was not from the wounds, or the exhaustion – it was something else, which he had felt during the battle several times. Boromir – he was out there, injured and alone in the darkness. How Faramir knew he could not tell, but he felt it like knives cutting into his own body.

"Careful!" he heard a light voice snap at someone in the camp. Looking up, he saw the girl that had guided his horse to the barge on the river leading a horse that carried two wounded soldiers into camp. She handed the reins over to one of the people in charge of the wounded. Faramir pushed himself up to his feet and approached her. "Brithonin, isn't it?" he asked, recalling Éowyn calling her that.

The young soldier gave a curt nod. "Lord Faramir, shall I find a healer?"

Faramir shook his head, he had no need for a healer, what he needed to hear was something else. "No, I was already seen to. Is there any news of my brother? Any at all?"

The Rohirric girl raised her hands in a gesture of negation, as she looked up at Faramir. "No, no one has found him yet, as far as I heard. Éomer King is missing too; Dernhelm is looking for him deeper in the fields where the cold drake came down. My father…" She did not go on, but straightened her shoulders. Faramir saw how she marshaled her features into a semblance of composure.

So her father had been among the Rohirrim first facing the wrath of the beast, maybe dead, maybe missing. Faramir felt ashamed that he had only cared about his brother; how many brothers, fathers, lovers lay out there dead or dying with their families having to go on? Before he could say something, Brithonin clasped his arm, much as a soldier would. "Do not worry, my Lord, I'll find someone to help with the search."

A new surge of pain nearly brought Faramir to his knees, this time he was not sure it was Boromir's pain he felt, it was somehow different, nearly alien to him. Kíli? Could it be he felt the dwarf as much as his brother? Looking down on his sword arm, he saw the dragon mark having gone darker, like the fire inside was dying. What kind of link, what kind of bond, had been created when the dragon sword broke? He steadied himself, breathing slowly, deeply. If he could feel them, maybe he could share his remaining strength with them.

"If your horse can carry us, it will be what we need." Brithonin approached him again, along with a tall black horse and a familiar Ranger walking beside.

Faramir frowned. "Anarion? What are you doing here?" he asked, his head spinning. He tried to fight off the fresh pain. Boromir was getting worse, like he was slowly slipping away. Was he bleeding out?

"Helping, Captain," the Ranger replied. He tilted his head, his sightless eyes going past Faramir but none of his other senses were impaired. "You are injured, Captain."

"Nothing beyond scratches," Faramir tried to steady his breathing; he could only guess that it was what had given him away.

"It does not look like just scratches, my Lord," Brithonin protested. "I shall go for a healer straight away…"

"No!" Faramir grasped her arm, hindering her leaving. "The pain I feel is not my own, it is my brother's. The sooner I find him; the sooner there will be help for both of us."

Anarion had only heard the echoes of the conversation, heard a hand impact with armor, the steel in Faramir's voice. The man was not to be dissuaded. "Brithonin says Lord Boromir is still out there. Do you know where he was last seen?"

"His men were pushed towards the Black Gate before the Drakes attacked." Faramir closed his eyes, trying to accept the pain, allowing all he sensed to come to his conscious mind. "There is nothing more, pain and darkness… utter darkness."

"Some of the men said your Captain was the one who attacked the enemy General," Brithonin said softly. "That would place him somewhere near the broken gate."

"We'll find him, Captain," Anarion said reassuringly. "We will go at once."

"I should come with you." Faramir forced himself to stand, to deal with the cold creeping through the bond. He had to find them, before it was too late, and he was glad to have help in this.

TRB

Éowyn lifted another injured man onto the cart, gesturing the old warrior holding the reins to go. She did not know how she still managed to move, to not feel the injuries and bruises or how she was still able to stand, , her body battered from fighting Orcs, Olog-hai, and from the mad charge at the Easterling center and her mind weary from the horrors of the battle past them, from blood, screams and the merciless fighting that seemed to be the end of the world. In her heart she wanted to lie down, to close her eyes and cry like she had never cried before, to curl up in a dark spot and wait for the hurt to go away, only… it wouldn't. And she could not collapse; she was needed. Someone had to keep going. Lord Aragorn was with the healers to save those who were worst injured. Her brother was vanished... not yet found on the fields of death. She wanted to scream, to call for her horse and ride to find him, like she had done as a girl of barely ten years when her brother had vanished in a bitter winter storm. She had saddled Plainsfire, he late father's stallion, and had ridden into the storm to find him before the cold and the wolves would finish him off. She had killed her first wolf that night, and they had nearly frozen to death but her uncle had found them in time to bring them home.

Only now her uncle was resting side by side with his loyal warriors, and the black storm that had scoured the world left others depending on her to keep her cool head. She could not go and search for her brother. Not with so many more still out here. She raised her torch, pointing some of her helpers towards a pile of Orc carcasses. "Over there." She went on, her steps heavy and tired. The torn chainmail and bloodied cloak she still wore clinging to her weary frame; she had only set aside the battered helmet. A soft groan drew her attention; it came from under another stinking pile of bodies. "Hold out, I will get you out," she called out to the person trapped under the carcasses as she used a broken spear to remove several dead Orcs but beneath them was the carcass of an Olog-hai and she could not move it. A leg wearing the familiar cuisse had become visible when she had rolled away the last Orc corpse. It was the familiar cuisse of the third éored… Éomer… could it be him? She did not dare think it… could this man, trapped under the body of a dead black troll be her brother. "Only a little longer, I am nearly with you," she called out. Laying the spear aside, she grabbed the stinking body with both hands and put all her strength to rolling the vile beast off the wounded man beneath. But this thing wore plate armor, so heavy her arms could not push it enough. She was about to call for some of the others when two huge tattooed hands grabbed the black troll's body and pushed it away, freeing the injured rider beneath. Fear and relief warred in Éowyn when she realized it was not her brother. "Ingvar." She knelt down beside the brave éored leader. The Olog's blade had nailed the man through the belly and into the blood-murky ground. He was scarcely breathing, his chest heaving painfully and irregularly.

She choked, seeing he still lived. "We need to remove the blade," she whispered, reaching for the hilt of the overlarge troll blade.

Strong hands grasped her wrists, hindering her in actually touching the vile weapon. "He's beyond your help, M'Lady," a gruff voice said as a bald dwarf squatted down beside the wounded man. "there's nothing that can help him now. Let him go home to his fathers gently."

Éowyn knew the dwarf was right; removing the blade would kill the man as surely as leaving it in. Ingvar was near death, he would not see another day rise. Gently she put her hand to his forehead, not knowing if he still could feel her. "You did so very well, Ingvar," she said softly in her own tongue, making her voice sound as warm and gentle as she could manage. "You are a hero." Under her hand she felt the skin go cold, a last breath leaving the body rattling, no new breath came. Hoping against hope her hand still rested on Ingvar's cold forehead, but the proud warrior that had ridden to battle beside her, was dead. No thirty summers old and already dead, her chest tightened, when she saw the familiar face that she had often seen laugh, when he exchanged jokes with her brother, now pale and still. How many more would they find? How many more had thrown themselves against the black flood to never return?

She forced the lump in her throat down, impatiently wiping the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. A huge hand gently clasped her arm. "Let it out, lass; he'd not think it a shame that you cried for him."

Éowyn could hear the gentle concern beneath the rumbling voice but she straightened up, forcing herself to stand. "I can't," she said. "others need me still."

The dwarf had risen too, he was a tattooed, scar-faced warrior whose wild exterior well hid his kind eyes. "I know, lass; you are a daughter of kings, you have to take care of your people. They need your strength to continue. And if the tears came, they'd never stop." His words echoed an understanding for her, for why she could not allow herself to cry.

"How do you know?" Éowyn was surprised to see so much understanding in the stranger; usually at this point she'd get a comment about women on battlefields. But he had just said what was in her heart and with a voice so understanding that she suddenly felt like she was a little girl again, speaking to her father so long ago.

"T'was what a dwarven princess told me the very same thing when she searched the blood field by the gates of Moria for her father, grandfather, brothers… husband…"

"And did she find them?" It was a mercy to think of something else if only for a moment; to think that others had come through horrors like this and went on regardless.

"Her eldest brother made it; the others sleep on the shores of Mirrormere." The dwarf looked up at her. "I've a few of my men with me, let us help you."

Together they went to find more survivors on the field. Eventually they reached the devastated grounds the drake had left. No horse would come close to this spot; they shied away from the ashen grounds and the stench. Éowyn looked around, desperately, bodies as far as she could see in the light of her torch. Had anyone at all survived? Could anyone have made it through this horrible attack? Her boots were covered in a pale ash that also was swirling in the air. "What is this?"

"This cold drake still had the winter fire," the dwarf replied grimly. "The other only could puff out smoke, but this one… had the cold fire; bad fate for all who faced it." Suddenly he stilled, listening intently into the darkness. "There." He pointed left. "Survivors."

Éowyn followed him across the grounds littered with bodies, gingerly stepping across a ring of ash; there were stones everywhere, stones that looked like smashed beings, like stone men of legend. "Over here, lass!" the dwarf called out, clearing away several stone pieces of another stone man creature. A familiar figure lay beside another broad trace of ash on the ground.

"Éomer." She hurried over, kneeling down beside her brother. Éomer lay half turned on his side, like he had tried to curl up in pain. He was still breathing, and while his wounds had clotted over, blood was weeping from the cracks in the crusts whenever he moved. Taking stock of his numerous wounds, Éowyn breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that none seemed immediately deathly, but he was cold, so cold. "What is happening to him?" She could not see a wound that would explain his going cold so quickly.

The dwarf had squatted down on the other side, holding his torch above his pale face, checking his eyes. "He has the Shadows own luck, that one," he said with an affectionate grumble. "He came close to the winter fire, but someone must have pushed him out of the way. He was touched only a little… and that can be helped. Bofur! Get back to camp and tell Beris and Brea I want a kettle of boiling blood cooking by the time we bring this one to camp!" he barked.

"Winter flame?" Éowyn recalled the songs that told of the ancient battles against dragons. "The cold dragon's fire that will paralyze him and eat his soul?"

"Aye, lassie," the dwarf confirmed. "but he was lucky, the touch was fleeting, his eyes are still alive. We'll help him before it can spread too far. Don't worry, this is not the first warrior who fought those beasties that my people see."

Hooves startled her; indeed, she saw two horses approach that did not shy away from the dead drake's body, a lucky turn of events. She rose and waved them close. One was Brithonin, back in Aeledher's saddle, while she saw Faramir and another man on the back of a black Mearas. The black horse did not shy from the dragon corpse, while Brithonin had trouble making Aeledher step right beside the dead body. "I am glad you have reached us," Éowyn said. "my brother was wounded and we need to bring him back to camp quickly."

Faramir looked at Éowyn, her brother, and Dwalin, and the cold he felt was not coming through the bond. Another man close to death, and the darkness, the cold drawing closer even; how could he give his own brother priority over the lives of others? His thoughts must have been open on his face, for Brithonin turned to him. "Aeledher's could carry us both quickly, my Lord. While Anarion and you could go on and search for your brother."

"You are searching for your brother, Faramir?" Éowyn stepped closer to the horse, her hand gently patting the black horse's side. "Before the fire erupted I saw him battle the Nazgul over there…" She pointed into the darkness at the black gate. "Go and find him; we'll get other horses."

"No." Faramir shook his head, his mind made up. "Take your young friend's offer and let her help you bring your brother back to camp. He deserves the same consideration that I give my brother."

Brithonin dismounted and handed Dwalin the reins of Aeledher while Faramir told Anarion on where they needed to go, quickly departing into the night towards the region Éowyn had indicated.

They lifted Éomer on the horse's back; he could not hold himself up there, so Brithonin mounted behind him, holding the wounded man's slumping body against her chest. The dwarf handed Éowyn the reins. "Get them back to camp, lass. Your brother needs you now."

"I can't, there's more wounded out here." Éowyn knew her duties, even as it tore shreds into her soul to not care for her brother. They had looked out for each other ever since the day their parents had been taken from them, and they had watched over each other when Wormtongue manifested his vile rule over Meduseld. To this day they had always weathered storms together, been there when the other needed them and given each other strength and warmth. Now she had to abandon her brother, because her duty was not ended.

"Leave that to an old dwarf, lass. I'll make sure we find all the survivors on this side of the field. Now go – your brother needs you." While his voice was gruff, his words were kind.

"What is your name?" she asked, her hand closing around the reins more firmly to guide the horse across the dark field.

"Dwalin. When you get to camp, find Brea – she'll have the draught for your brother."

TRB

Anarion dismounted the horse when Faramir told him that the chasm began ahead of them. Using his spear to check the grounds before him, he quickly gained some feeling for the area he stood in. There was a gust of air coming from below – the wind was hitting the walls of the chasm and spiraling upwards, in a way he could feel where the chasm was just by the touch of the cool air on his face. . He heard the familiar hiss as Faramir lit a torch. "The smell is lighter here…" he said, allowing his senses to understand his surroundings. "There must be fewer corpses here."

Faramir understood what Anarion sensed, how he relied on all he had been trained to as a Ranger to work past his blinded eyes. Parts of the ground were broken and shattered; the Black Gate had collapsed and added its rubble to the destruction. They were standing on the very brink of the desolation. "There are some dead left of us, let's begin there," he said, the sense of pain receding and strengthening now and then. Like waves washing against him, the cold seemed closer too and it did not feel as alien any more. Maybe it was coming from Boromir after all? And while the pain was still intense, he had an easier time standing. He had the sense that they were close, though.

The Fell Beast's body was surrounded by corpses; many of the soldiers had been ripped to shreds by the creature. Among them, Faramir saw many familiar faces, soldiers he had fought beside for long years, men whose families he knew back in Minas Tirith, some who even might have been friends. But foremostly he found one warrior, lying on a whole heap of slain foes, his cold hand still closed around the hilt of his shattered blade. Veryan of Dol Amroth, who had been slain by the Nazgul, had gone down fighting like he always had: to the last he had stood, blade still in hand, he had not run or retreated, but faced the fell enemy heads on. His still face still mirroring grim determination. Gently Faramir closed the dead man's eyes, even in dead Veryan knew no peace, and even now he still appeared every inch the warrior he had been in life. Faramir hung his head, another friend fallen, another friend departed forever. He wanted to shed tears for his friend, for his cousin, for the warrior that had grown up beside him, who had been sent to the city of stone, far away from the sea to be trained up with Denethor's sons. But no tears would come; only a distant sadness lodged into Faramir's soul, like even from afar Veryan would remind him that mourning was a wasted emotion.

"There's someone behind us," Anarion said softly. "someone is breathing, and moving just slightly."

Faramir listened and after a moment he heard the same over the wind. "Careful, behind you is the chasm." He said, moving closer, holding the torch over the ledge. His heart nearly jumped when he saw his brother lying on one of the broken ledges beneath them, he lay unmoving and if it was not for the fain breathing Faramir could hear too, he would have assumed him dead. For the body lay like he had fallen, rolled over stone and then stopped, halfway on the side, legs drawn in protectively, maybe Boromir had felt his fall and tried to not break all bones?

TRB

Dwalin quickly organized his people to scour the field for more survivors. This was one of the last parts not searched yet. On the parts of the field already searched, a pattern usually emerged – orc corpses here and clear spots elsewhere. This corner of the field though was still like it had been: a dark mess of bodies, enemy and foe still clung into their deadly embrace. He also sent Bofur and a surviving Gondorian to take care of the search on the other fringes of the field, often injured people were overlooked at the very fringes of covered ground. They found several injured Rohirrim, among them Haleth and Erkenbrand of Westfold, who were brought back to the camp immediately, but there were few who still lived. The Rohirrim had been torn apart by the cold dragon's attack. He then went back to the fiery circle where they had found Éomer, a restless feeling telling him to take another look. Only on the third try did he find him. Kíli was sitting with his back against the dead dragon, a number of smashed stone creatures all around him. It did not take Dwalin a second guess to know that Kíli had been touched by the cold drake's fire, his skin was all pale and his wounds were closed over by a silvery hued scrapping. And the unnatural stillness in him, was another sign – those touched by the fire stopped feeling anything quickly and became still "Dwalin," Kíli whispered, his voice strained as he raised his chin, to look at Dwalin.

Kneeling down beside the injured dwarf, Dwalin saw that the cold fire had sealed at least a dozen other major injuries, an ironic prolonging of a life that would otherwise bleed away. Kíli's movements were slow and forced; he was already losing control of his body. Dwalin reached for Kíli's face to at once check his eyes. He nearly did not dare do it, scared of what he might find. All too vividly he remembered the pyres of Azanulbizar where King Thrór had been put to rest, and even more he recalled the lonely grave by the pines outside of Erebor. Dwalin did fear neither darkness nor death but the thought of yet having to burry another King was one that truly scared him.

Kíli moved his head, tilting it enough for their eyes to meet his eyes were still black and alive, the cold fire had not run its full course. It was no real relief for Dwalin, he knew all too well that Winter Fire was a slow death, that would soon enough follow. "How bad is it?" the bald warrior asked.

"Not so bad... cold mostly. No pain, not even from the other wounds. If that's the way to go then it is easy," Kíli replied slowly. "Can't feel much, though."

"The Winter fire, t'was you who pushed those horse men out of the way, was it?" Dwalin grumbled, he did not need an answer, he knew already. The question had been resigned, and a little amazed all the same. While he was long familiar with Kíli's fearlessness, with his tendency to always protect others, no matter what, it astounded him still that Kíli could face the things their people spoke of in whispers and be so calm about it. It was not a death wish, but a way to care about others that left Dwalin always feeling overprotective of Kíli. "Listen, Kíli, I'll bring you back to camp but you have to promise me that you stay with me, right? Stay awake." He slipped one arm under Kíli's shoulder, the other under his knees and lifted the younger dwarf up.

"I am not that young a dwarfling anymore, Dwalin." Kíli's voice was still a whisper but he kept awake as promised. "Even back on that other battlefield, you could hardly carry me."

"How would you know?" Dwalin grumbled, remembering the Battle of the Five Armies. "I carried you then and you haven't been putting on that much muscle since."

Kíli leaned his head against Dwalin's shoulder, much like he had done almost eighty years ago, when Dwalin had carried him off that hill outside Erebor. Back then he had been half dead, wishing he was dead, and too exhausted for even tears or suicide. Like then, now again, Dwalin was the rock that still stood, that one piece of family that had never gone away, never been killed or turned against them. And for this one moment Kíli allowed the leader, the warrior to slip away and be that much younger dwarf again, leaning into the protection of his mentor, his honorary Uncle. "I remember, Dwalin. I was awake when you carried me... I heard you talk," he said softly. "I knew you were there, trying to save me. You barely could carry me."

Dwalin shivered. He vividly recalled that day but he had never been aware that Kíli had been coherent at that time. He had kept talking to the badly wounded young dwarf to somehow let him know he was not alone. "I was injured," he grumbled, "and you wore that plate armor from the Erebor armory. That flimsy chain mail you use now could be of Elvish make, light as it is."

"It's not flimsy, just practical." Kíli closed his eyes. "How is it, Dwalin, that you are always there when our strength runs out? You were there for Thorin, for me… always; we'd all be long dead without you."

"Don't you fall asleep on me, Kíli," Dwalin gently shook him, trying to keep his attention. "I've seen two Kings fallen and buried in my lifetime, and I've sworn when they bury the next, they'll have to bury me too. I won't let another of your House down while I still draw breath."

"Dwalin." Kíli tried to raised his hand, or gain Dwalin's attention, but he could not really move anymore. His body would not obey him. Even raising his head seemed to take too much energy. He closed his eyes, just remaining where he was, feeling the cold shoulder guard of Dwalin against his cheek. "You never let us down… never." The words came out in a soft whisper before the darkness took him.

TRB

Faramir reached the bottom of the ledge, carefully balancing on the narrow rocks. Boromir lay unmoving, but he also was still breathing, which was a good sign. He knelt down beside him and checked for injuries, there were several but none were lethal or vicious, Boromir had made it through better than Faramir, actually, but there was something dark about him, like a pained echo Faramir felt time and again. Like a searing pain, a tear going right through his chest, his body detached from the feeling but his soul cringing. However it receded the longer he was with Boromir, as though his presence was pushing away whatever shadow was trying to keep Boromir from ever waking again. Reaching for Boromir's hair, he tilted his head slightly to check for injuries on the side resting against the stone. Upon his touch, Boromir stirred, grasping for his sword, still lying beside him. It must have just slipped his grip when he landed here.

"Calm down, you are safe," Faramir said. "Or as safe as it gets."

Boromir groaned and tried to sit up, holding his head. "What's the situation?" he asked tiredly.

Faramir shook his head. It was so like his brother to ask for a report at once, going back from wounded soldier to Captain in the blink of an eye. He had seen it before, seen Boromir push aside pain and loss and focus back on the battle, on the war. The war… always the war. And then suddenly Faramir realized that this was the last time, it was over now, and they finally, finally would find peace. The sheer joy of the thought felt like wings sprawling inside his chest. "The battle was won, Barad-Dûr has fallen… and we are still finding wounded on the field. We'll have to get you back to camp. What about your injuries?"

"Nothing serious, just scratches." Boromir steadied himself on one hand, sitting up fully. "But a cold… icy and painful."

Now that Boromir spoke of it, Faramir felt it too, the cold was still there. It had drowned out some other feelings, maybe the pain too, but it still grew, like it was slowly creeping up on them. "You feel it too; I thought it came from you." he said. "I felt a pain from you, like something… something ripping through you."

Their eyes met and in the flickering light of the torch, Faramir perceived a glance full of haunting and pain. "When the Ring went… Fari, I do not know how you did it but without you and Kíli… the dark would have taken me." Boromir embraced his brother, drawing him close. "I'd have been lost; the dark was calling for me."

Wordlessly the brother held each other, grateful they had survived, glad the other lived. Eventually Boromir was steady enough to climb back up with Faramir, and with the first rays of a grey dawn they made their way back to camp.

TRB

The stench from the cauldron was awful and Éowyn struggled to not choke on it. She certainly was not squeamish but she did not want to know what kind of vile draught needed blood as an ingredient. Nevertheless, the treatment of rubbing the stinking stuff into her brother's skin already showed good effect: he had gotten warmer and was breathing more normally. Éomer was barely coherent, though, trying to push the jar and the hands away forcefully when they tried to give him some of the draught. "We'll need to get at least one jar of that into him," Brea told her, the black-haired dwarf holding down Éomer's sword hand while Éowyn was trying to make him take the potion. "and he doesn't want to drink."

"Even awake I doubt he'd take this vile brew." Éowyn gently ran her hand through her brother's hair, trying to calm him. "He can be very stubborn."

"Then you'll need to see him married very wisely, if he's a stubborn one." Brea handed her a spoon, so she could try to get some sips of the brew into him.

"Are you volunteering?" Éowyn grinned at Brea, finding that somehow the ability to smile had survived in her.

The dwarf woman laughed. "Me? No. Do not take it as an insult, but he is not even the slightest bit attractive. No beard, skinny and tall…" Their eyes met and both women found themselves chuckling.

The tent-flap was pushed aside and the broad shouldered frame of a dwarf walked in. He carried a second dwarf in his arms, curled up against him like a child. The way Dwalin held the wounded dwarf bespoke a wealth of care and worry. "Brea, we need the draught right away. Kíli…" He gently shook the sleepy dwarf again. "you need to keep awake, please." He said softly.

Éowyn left her brother at the dwarf woman's tender mercies and fetched a whole jar of the stinking concoction. "There, Dwalin," she said. "Will it help him?" She had seen her brother's state when they arrived here, but the dwarf Dwalin had carried in looked worse, pale, unmoving and not even able to fight off the saving concoction.

Going down to his knees, Dwalin gently set Kíli down on the floor of the tent, still allowing him to half-sit and rest against him. "I hope so, lass, by rights he should be dead, the fire touched him hours ago." He nudged Kíli to swallow the draught, though each single gulp came slow, painfully slow.

Kíli swallowed the brew and made a face. "That tastes worse than the stuff you gave me against the red fever when I was a dwarfling." He whispered, his voice barely there.

The huge warrior gently ruffled Kíli's dark mane. "Back then at least I could bribe you with stories so you would drink your medicine," he said fondly. "Now… another jar; we need to get life back into you, or the cold fire will first paralyze and then kill you."

TRB

Aragorn was exhausted, not just in body, but also his soul was weary when his eyes gazed across the part of the camp that was now healer's. Wounded warriors, dying soldiers and dead bodies carried away was all he could see. How many had died? He did not dare to think of a number, of a term put to the thousands he had led to their deaths before the Black Gate. No number could ever contain the lives, the hopes, the bright lights extinguished. Closing his eyes he pushed the thoughts away, a healer was not permitted to grieve, his foster-father had instilled that rule into him. A healer had to serve those who still lived and leave the mourning to those who could do nothing to help. When the battle had ended Gandalf had summoned him to the place where the Eagles had landed, carrying Frodo and Sam. Both were thin, wounded and exhausted, having gone through a brutal journey inside Mordor, but both lived beyond the shadow of doubt. After that he had helped with treating the severely wounded. Any healer, no matter their years – or lack of years – of experience was needed with the flood of injured pouring in from the fields. He knew the toll of the battle was high and every life that could be saved was a small victory.

"No, just leave him to die in peace," he heard one of the others say. "He's lost so much blood, and these wounds… he won't make it. Give him some peace."

Going outside the tent to see which hopeless case it was this time, Aragorn was startled to see Thoroniâr, lying on the ground where he had been put down. Vicious wounds covered his body, he was pale from loss of blood, but he was still breathing. "Get hot water and clean bandages," he told one of the helpers, who hurried to obey his orders. Squatting down beside the soldier, Aragorn took stock of the wounds. Most of them were long cuts along the torso, but luckily no broken ribs or punctured lung.

When he began to clean the wounds and put scalding athelas poultices on them, the wounded Alaris was yanked from the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness, his body going rigid and his steady breathing becoming a groan as his eyes fluttered open. "The battle…"

It was hardly more than a whisper but Aragorn's sharp Ranger ears picked it up. He shuddered; did these sons of Gondor ever stop thinking of their dread task and begin to take care of themselves? "The battle is done," he said soothingly, Thoroniâr needed to rest, to allow himself to be treated. "And now lie still; I can't give you something against the pain, not yet."

"We're on retreat?" Thoroniâr focused on the pain, it restored his own sense for his body. If the battle was over, and it had been a hopeless battle to begin with, they had to be on retreat. A King should not waste time to take care of injured soldiers, not if they were on a fast-paced move across the hills of Ithilien.

The sheer stubbornness reminded Aragorn vividly of Boromir. The Lord Captain of Gondor had shaped an entire army like that, an army of lions that would fight until their last breath. And while the reality of it made the healer in Aragorn shudder, he knew what a gift such an army was. Stopping his ministrations for a moment, he took the Alaris' hand with his, drawing the full attention of the injured soldier. "We won. I'd have been dead without you and Faramir," he said, forestalling the man's attempt to speak. "And I have need of you, Alaris. You will survive, do you understand? You will fight for your life and you will survive, that's an order." He would need a Captain of his Guard and Thoroniâr was exactly the material for that.

"Aye, my liege…" The man drifted out of full consciousness again, but Aragorn knew his order had been heard, Thoroniâr would live.

TRB

Sunrise was upon the camp as the brothers slowly walked up the hillside of the camp. Boromir was supporting Faramir, but moving became harder for him too, as the cold was creeping deeper and deeper into his bones. Neither of them was well, and what he sensed of Kíli was weakening. Never before had Boromir been aware how much he had felt Kíli's presence in his mind, the stalwart echo of a powerful will, like the ancient rocks of the Misty Mountains, strong yet comforting. But that presence was drifting away from them, slipping into the darkness.

Swiftly surveying the camp around them, he called out for the first dwarf he recognized. "Bofur, where is Kíli?"

The bearded dwarf stopped his hasty stride, a great sadness in his eyes. "Over there, fifth tent to the right. You… you may just be in time to say goodbye." He said hanging his head.

Dying? Could it be that Kíli was dying of his wounds? Boromir only felt the cold, no direct pain, but maybe Kíli was gone too far already. Hastening their stride, the brothers approached the tent, that Bofur had pointed them to.

They found Éowyn, Éomer, Dwalin, and Kíli there. Kíli was lying in a leaden sleep, like death itself was creeping closer to him. Dwalin sat beside him, his mighty shoulders slumped in defeat, speaking softly to the fading dwarf in the tongue of his own people.

Approaching Kíli Boromir felt a cold brush at him, like a breath of ice drawing Kíli slowly under, like an icy echo of something that would kill him. The icy chill seemed to kreep into Boromir's bones as well, and he gritted his teeth. This was a death he could not accept. Kíli had come that long road to Gondor, because they had become friends, he had fought for a land that he had not connection to, because they were friends, and he had stood by Boromir during the terrible battle for Boromir's own soul. That he should die at the end of the journey was nothing Boromir would accept. He went closer, kneeling down beside the wounded dwarf and grasped his sword hand. "You can't give up now, Kíli… remember? Never give up until you absolutely have to?" he said, not even knowing if the dwarf could hear him.

He could not feel anything but the cold, the great sleep drawing closer, but Boromir did not let go. Kíli had helped him against the Shadow, reached him, even when the Ring was grasping his soul… it should be possible to do the same in reverse. Boromir had never been a spiritual man, he had never cared for the ancient lore of his people and he had no time to learn… yet he had to try. Closing his eyes he focused on the echo he could sense of Kíli, if there was a strength inside them that could yet save Kíli he would find it.

Faramir had followed him, putting his hand above Boromir's. His presence joined with the two others, drawing close together made it easier to bear the cold. And suddenly he felt it – a bright light, a radiant warmth emanating from Boromir and sinking into his very skin, like his body was thawing after a night out on the ice. He looked down on his arm and found the dragon mark brightly aglow in flame. Warmth seemed to spread through them like the surge of a great fire, a flame yet unquenched. The warm tingled in their skin, spreading through their muscles, driving the tired slowness away.

Kíli heaved a deep breath, his body shaking as the cold fire finally left him. Boromir could feel how the cold flame withdrewn and Kíli was returned to them, slipping into a healthy, healing sleep. He lived, he would stay and not yet return to that great smith from whence his people had come in the elder days. He too could feel the dragon mark burn on his arm, bright as flame.

Awed, Dwalin watched, almost not trusting his own eyes with what he saw. "The gift of brothers…" he said.

"You know what this means?" Faramir asked, his eyes indicating the identical marks on their arms. He had long deciphered the Adûnaic inscription but had not been able to divine anything useful beyond that.

"It is an ancient legend among my people – among Durin's Folk mostly – the legend tells of Durin the Deathless, who lived a life long past normal dwarven lifespans. The legend claims that he shared a bond with his chosen brother, and as long as one lived, the other survived. Eventually his chosen brother was murdered and Durin I died, yet several times in his bloodline there would be a son born so similar to him in appearance and life that they would be crowned under his name. They say it will happen once more, before our time in this world ends." Dwalin looked at the marks. "However it happened, this spell bonded you as brothers, intertwining your lives and fates. There is no closer bond. You keep each other alive, yet the death of one of you will call all three of you to the halls of Mahal."