A distant light 13/?

[valandhir]

With many THANKS to the wonderful harrylee94 (fanfiction. Net /u / 2916221 /) for patient betaing, help and input on this chapter. You gave me so much time and inspiration, my friend. Thanks.

Chapter 11: What follows in shadow

Boromir’s question startled Kili out of the dark thoughts and memories he had been drowning in. Looking at the Gondorian Captain he was glad to be pulled from the memories of the past. “I can and I will.” He rose to his feet and took his pack. “It is one and a half day to the other side and we will have to be careful.”

“I thought we were down here for more than three days already.” Boromir observed, following Kili towards the upper doorway. “And we have not been slow to walk.”

“Were we to stick to the direct way, across the Hall of Wisdom, Hall of Records and right towards the Guard’s gateway we could make it in less than ten hours,” Kili agreed. “but whichever one of you tossed something down the old watcher’s well, woke too many things…” He raised his hand forestalling words from Boromir. Somewhere from deep down they could hear the same tap tap dum dum again. Drums in the deep. “I have heard those drums before,” The dwarf’s voice was grim.

“Would a shorter way not make more sense?” The Gondorian Captain was not easily deterred. “The quicker we get out of here, the less chance they have to get us.”

“We don’t have much of a headstart and they can easily scale steep walls.” Kili replied. “We need to avoid the great halls, in small tunnels and narrow passages they have less of a chance to bring their numbers to bear.”

That made sense to Boromir. A small tunnel could be held against an army of attackers much easier than encirclement would be broken. He followed Kili into the tunnel leading downwards, the others were following behind.

It was a different journey that now began. It was not just that their guide moved through the vast underground city with the ease and familiarity of someone who’d call this place home, the very paths were different. Small tunnels, steep ledges hidden high above walls and doors none of them could have spotted, let alone known the right words for. At Boromir’s questions Kili  would sometimes explain in whispers that they were passing the former pewterer’s stairs, the lantern makers cantlet or the armorer’s well. The first time they had to risk a greater hall, it was one filled with constructions. No less than twelve huge hammers with long arms were hanging from the ceiling.

“What are those?” Boromir asked in a hush as they slipped along the wall of the room.

“First well of Hammers, often called the First Hammer,” Kili peered up. “they used to be driven by water and their main purpose was to hammer sheet metal.”

Again hours later, after passing through smelter’s deeps and the lapidary’s reaches, Aragorn called them to stop. “We need to rest, the Halflings are all but dropping from exhaustion. We do not all possess Boromir’s steely condition.”

The Steward’s son arched an eyebrow. He was as tired as the others but had registered it less while they passed through the most fascinating city and mining operation he had ever seen. He simply had not thought of his exhaustion for hours. “He is right, Kili. I cannot even begin to tell for how many hours we have walked.”

“There is an old watchpost not far from here,” their guide said after a moment’s thought. “we should be safe enough there.”

And indeed it was not far. The watchpost lay above the normal level they walked, only available through a hidden stairwell. While it only consisted of two empty stone rooms, it was enough. There was a kind of window carved into the wall opposite of the entrance which Kili had immediately gone to, gesturing Boromir to follow him over. The tall man joined him, quite glad for the opening, as it made him feel less trapped under the low ceiling. But Kili pointed outside. There was a light, faint but clearly visible coming from somewhere in the darkness, sometimes flaring up stronger for moments. It took Boromir a while to understand that there must be a shaft allowing daylight to fall into a mighty cavern and that sometimes the rays of light were caught and amplified by a crystal under the ceiling.

Again the crystal caught the rays of light and this time a bright beam filled the seemingly endless blackness of the cavern. In the sudden light Boromir saw across a huge domed hall towards a city – a whole city built into the mountain itself; roads, houses and towers, crowned by a palace shaped like a fireblossom growing from stone itself. “The city of Khazad-dum, that your people called Dwarrowdelf,” Kili whispered.

Darkness dropped again taking away the vision of the huge heart of Moria… Dwarrowdelf, but Boromir smiled. He’d never forget what he had just seen.

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When Boromir woke from deep and surprisingly restful sleep he heard Gandalf debate with Kili. “We have shaken them off, thanks to your guidance,” the old wizard just said. “and I suggest we go to the bridge and leave Moria quickly. The longer we tarry the greater the risk they will find us again.”

“The bridge is risky, it’s the best known way out, Gandalf,” Kili was standing with his back to the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest. “and if they have archers it’ll be a death walk.”

“There is nothing in this mine that is not a deathtrap. I did not accept your guidance to have us remain here longer than we have to.” The wizard was clearly angered.

“Very well, we will go your way.” There was no doubt that Kili was unhappy with the decision and the way he glared at Gandalf left little doubt there.

“Spare me the stubbornness of your kind,” Gandalf’s temper was sorely tested. “you have all the pride and stubbornness of your Uncle.” Suddenly both became aware that not only Boromir was awake and stopped their discussion.

They set out again, climbing up several long stairwells until finally coming out into a much wider set of stairs leading through a huge chasm. There was fire burning somewhere below, red light shining on the powerful columns supporting the stairs. When they came out of the cover the walls had offered several arrows hissed past them. Legolas reacted swiftest of all, shooting several orcs from their vantage points. “Kili!” he called for the dwarf, who followed his example, focusing on the other side of the hall, where Orcs were hiding on a ledge above them.

Aragorn and Boromir took point, seeing a number of Orcs coming up the stairs at them. Side by side the Ranger and the Captain cut through their attackers. Each step down the long stairs was hard fought for, bodies began to litter the ancient stone steps and black blood ran down the pillars in rivers. Neither man could say how long they had fought when they finally reached the bottom of the long staircase and came through another archway that led into a hall. They ran, hoping to shake off the Orcs still hunting after them.

But when they came into the great hall at the bridge, the whole hall was aflame, fires burning up along the pillars, tongues of flame licking at the walls like they were timbers. A roar rose above the fires and out of the fire’s dancing shadows a pair of wings took flight.

“What is this new devilry?” Boromir did not know how he could still ask, how he could still think, the dread coming from those flames and shadows was worse than anything he had ever known. But his heart refused to stop, nor would his mind or limbs freeze up. Somewhere inside him was something that would not quit, nor give in.

“Durin’s Bane…” Kili’s eyes had widened, all colour drained from his face.

“A Balrog. A demon of the ancient world.” Gandalf suddenly sounded so very tired. “this is a foe beyond any of you. Run!”

What happened next was something none of the companions would ever forget; something that would haunt them for many years to come. The black wings swooped down, blowing them to the side effortlessly as the Balrog landed in front of Gandalf, a fiery blade appearing in its dark claws. Gandalf’s staff glowed in a terrible bright light. “I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Arnor. The dark fire will not avail you, Flame of Udûn!” he shouted raising his sword. Elven steel met the fiery blade and flames shot from the short impact of weapons in all directions. The very ground shook under them. Another pass broke a large chunk off the ceiling, it came crashing down and smashed the bridge, trapping them on the wrong side of the chasm.

Gandalf raised his staff, a ray of sheer light throwing the Balrog back a few steps. The wizard turned his ashen face to the companions. “Run, you fools! Swords are no use here.”

Aragorn reacted swiftest. “Kili – is there another way out of here?” He asked the dwarf, who had just struggled back to his feet after being smashed into one of the pillars.

The dwarf prince was pale, but whatever fear he felt was under control. “Follow me,” he said in a toneless voice.

They had to cross the hall, an undertaking of deadly proportions because the battle of the Balrog and the wizard had just begun and both were not using their power sparingly. On the other side of the hall there was a small flight of stairs leading up the very walls of the hall to a gateway above. They ran up, but just as they reached the top of the stairs they saw the Balrog’s whip grab Gandalf. However, the dark creature had overextended its own reach and both fighters fell into the chasm, the Balrog’s dark wings whirling to break the deadly impact. They both vanished into darkness and the flames died down.

Shrieks echoed from the fresh shadows as Orcs poured out of their holes. The friends raced through the gateway and down another tunnel. It was a horrible flight through the darkness, they barely saw where they were going, Orcs behind them and danger ahead in any step they took. More than an hour they did not know where Kili was leading them until their path led them directly into a dark wall, the Orcs closing in from three sides. “It’s a dead end!” Legolas’ turned to shoot the first Orcs.

“It isn’t.” Kili put his hands on the wall, whispering words none of them understood and suddenly a glowing door way opened before them. “Hurry! There is no time.” They hastened through the doorway, stumbling out in another tunnel, a tunnel with the faint light of day on its very end. If there was anything to give them strength again, it was the sight of real daylight. They ran up the tunnel and out of the dark gate of Moria.

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The light of midday bathed the vale beyond the gates of Moria, saving the fellowship from the orcs still down in the tunnels underground. They all were tired, exhausted beyond anything but Aragorn would not allow them to rest. “Come nightfall these hill will be swarming with orcs.” He said, a gesture asking Boromir to look out that they did not lose any of the Hobbits. For two hours they hurried on until the valley lay behind them and they saw a forest edge ahead of them. Here, the Ranger stopped, allowing them to catch their breath and to take care of their injuries. It was necessary. None of the Hobbits were able to walk much further.

“Where now?” Kili asked, bandaging up a fresh cut on his arm where an Orc arrow had grazed him.

Aragorn came over to help. “You performed the task Lord Elrond gave you well, Kili.” He said. “We may have suffered a grave loss but you helped us to get out at all.”

The dwarf frowned. “Such praise comes with a hook, does it, Aragorn?” he asked quietly.

“Your task ends here, Kili. You were asked to aid us get over the mountains. From here on it is best that you do not know where we are going or why. Our errand cannot, must not be shared with anyone. You have my thanks for all you did. If you cross the river before nightfall you should be able to shake off the Orcs. They will go after us.”

“Aragorn, we could well use another warrior,” Boromir opposed that decision. “things will get harder the further we come south until we reach Minas Tirith. Another fighter should be a welcome addition.”

The Dunedain cast him a calm, stern glance. “Our destination is not Minas Tirith and with all that has happened, I doubt it would be wise to go anywhere near the city. We will be safer choosing a path through the wilds.”  His tone made clear he would not debate this issue.

Boromir knew an order when he heard one and bit back the impulse to argue. “Kili, a word please.” He said to the dwarf.

They walked a few steps away from the company. “You have to return to your city, do you?” Kili asked. “Gondor can’t spare their Captain indefinitely.”

The Gondorian Captain confirmed that with a curt nod. It had always been clear that he would have to do so. They had assumed it would keep their paths together for most of the journey. “I will bring them as far as I can. But on the borders of Rohan I will have to leave them, if they insist on doing what Aragorn just said.”

“Alone across the plains and the white mountains? That will not be an easy journey, especially with Isengard so close.” Kili pointed out. Their eyes met and Boromir found the help he so greatly needed being offered to him. “Where shall I meet up with you?” Kili simply asked.

Boromir wondered how Kili was able to do that; know what others needed of him and then offer it without a second thought. “There is an ancient lookout close to the Anduin waterfalls…”

“Amon Hen. I know the place of which you speak. I will camp in the ruins of the old overlook.” The dwarf promised. “If you do not show up in a reasonable time, I’ll find you.”

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Aragorn’s eyes where following the dwarf’s figure as he vanished quickly into the shadows of the mountains again. The Ranger was sure Kili could take care of himself. He gave a grateful nod to Boromir, who rejoined them. “Thank you, I hated arguing with him.”

The Steward’s son shrugged. “Sometimes a diversion is preferable to a confrontation.” He looked to the Hobbits. “Are they better?”

“Well enough to move on for a few more hours.” Aragorn replied. “By nightfall we should be safe.”

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Entering the elven kingdom of Lothlorien was very different from arriving in Rivendell, Boromir quickly found out. The elven guard was not quite sure if they wished to welcome strangers or shoot them where they stood, and then there was the city itself… Rivendell for all its elven beauty was something solidly tied to this world. Lothlórien was like a dream, a place of otherworldly grace and ethereal beauty; something that might have existed when the world was younger before the shadow came. They were led to an audience with the Lady of the Golden Woods in her very halls. Boromir had never believed all the tales the riders of Rohan would tell of her, most of them less than friendly, nor did he take Gimli’s statement about the elf-witch quite seriously, yet when Galadriel’s eyes touched his gaze he felt she was looking right inside him, inside his mind.

Again he stood at the crossroads of Ithilien, his army at his back, raising his sword to order them to advance, to storm Minas Morgul, to drive the shadow out of Minas Ithil.

Blinking hard, the Gondorian fought against the vision that would intrude on his mind, the sweet promise of defeating the shadow, the hope he must not believe. He tried to cast down his eyes, avoid Galadriel’s piercing gaze but he found he could not.

Once again he was fighting under the silvery lamps of Moria, side by side with Kili and Dwalin, the Orcs on the run…

“Strange your dreams are, Boromir of Gondor.” The lady’s voice whispered in his mind. “Beware of them, for some may lead you astray.”

He tried to shut out the voice, tried not to hear her words of hope, of not giving up. What did she know of the fading hopes of men? He could not trust any whispers wandering his mind. When she finally took mercy on him and looked away he felt like he’d been interrogated for hours.

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“I will not sleep peacefully in this place,” Boromir walked away from the others. Why had he even tried to speak of his fears, of his hopes to Aragorn? Had the Ranger any idea how much Gondor’s hold on the borders was slipping, how desperate the last decades had been? Gondor had known no peace and little respite for most of Boromir’s life and Thorongil did not even see how much hope he could have given the war-besieged nation. Pained, he thought of his father, the old man in the white city. Denethor’s rule was failing. It had been for years, and Boromir had felt the hopes and responsibilities of his people on his shoulders from a very young age. Sometimes he wished that the man who held a claim to that throne would actually take up the mantle and share the crushing weight. Frustrated Boromir lay down under a tree away from the others. He was tired in mind and body, yet he dreaded sleep because the dreams would come again. No sooner had he settled down that sleep crept up on him, drawing him into the dark webs of dreams.

A whirling wind swept ashes over the pass road, flames rose to the skies, lighting the darkest night in their bright fire. Minas Morgul was burning, the dark walls broken apart by a terrible bright flame. Boromir stood atop the high pass, arms crossed in front of his chest. He did not mourn the burning of Minas Ithil’s desecrated remains, the fire would cleanse it all away. A new citadel would be built here, a white citadel, with towering walls and watchful towers, a fortress that no enemy would raze again.

Hasty steps approached him, he did not turn around. Gone were the days when he had to fear assassins at his back, there was no man in this army that would not die for him and deem it an honor. “My captain,” It was Veryan of Dol Amroth, once the youngest son of their house, then a banished man and now one of Boromir’s most trusted officers. He had dropped to one knee, waiting to be acknowledged.

The Captain turned around, gesturing him to rise. Veryan was injured, blood marring the swan knight’s armor. “How stands the vanguard?” Boromir asked.

“We have secured the plains of Udûn and the gates,” Veryan reported. “half the legions have made it across the pass and into the positions we secured. By tomorrow we shall be ready to advance.”

“Only by tomorrow?” The Captain’s voice sunk dangerously low. “I had expected more, especially of you.”

Veryan paled slightly, his blue eyes cast down avoiding Boromir’s gaze. “It was my failing, Captain. I insisted on a slower passage through the pass to keep the troops from exhausting too quickly.”

“See that you have them ready to storm the tower by morning.” The Captain growled. “I do not wish to wait any longer.”

The Swan knight bowed deeply and turned to leave. Boromir went after him, his armored hand reaching for Veryan’s shoulder. “Have that wound looked at first, Veryan.” he said in gentler tones. “I can’t have you die on me.”

On the armored hand, resting on the Swan Knight’s shoulder the ring burned brightly…

Boromir woke shaking, more exhausted than he had been before. The moon still shone low through the branches. He could not have slept more than two hours. Rising he found a well, drinking a few sips of the cool water. Those dreams… how could he resist them? Could he stop to believe in any hope to not allow the enemy to use his hopes against him? How could a man give up all that made him go on every day? He sat down beside the well, leaning his back against the stone basin. He felt watched, haunted, even here within these well-guarded borders. He took the axe, placing it over his knees, like he did on travels. It may offend the elves, but it would make him feel better. Sleep came again on soft feet, carrying him away into dreams.

“That’ll send them all running home to Gundabad mount,” Dwalin laughed uproariously. The old warrior was more than pleased with the outcome of the recent battle. Fighting their way through the halls and caverns had been a tough task, but the Orcs were leaderless and whatever they could mount as a resistance was not enough to deter the dwarves. The bare-headed warrior grinned up at him. “You aren't half bad. We'll make a dwarf of you yet!”

Boromir laughed. “I’d prefer to not be cut in half, Dwalin.” He sheathed his sword and followed the dwarven war-leader through the freshly cleansed halls. “Where are we going?”

“The city proper,” Dwalin explained. “no one has been in there since Khazad-dum fell. Only Durin’s blood may open these gates. Moria is more than just mines and a maze of workshops.”

“Dwarrowdelf,” Boromir preferred the human name to the elven word Moria. Moria would always remind him of dark things, but Dwarrowdelf… Dwarrowdelf was something else entirely. “I recall when I saw that place from afar, only for a moment reflected in the light of a broken crystal lamp.”

“Aye, he mentioned that once,” Dwalin replied. They walked through halls where lamps had been relit or torches replaced them for the time being.

On the grand circular hall domed by a ceiling so high it was hardly visible in the firelights, dwarven troops were still cleaning away Orc corpses, later the population would follow the warriors in their advance and clean away the filth and rubbish the goblins had left behind.  Boromir could well imagine what Brea, daughter of Briga, the acting speaker of the populace would say. It would most likely involve water, sand and scrubbing until the Orc stench was gone.

“Dwalin, Boromir,” Kili who had spoken with the aforementioned dwarf lady, turned and walked up to them. “I feared we had another Orc pocket on our hands when you did not come.”

“They ran like rabbits,” Dwalin grinned. “I had to find our Gondorian friend here first.” He gave Boromir an affectionate slap on the back.

The three of them walked up to the huge stone wall north of the hall. When he stood before the seemingly empty wall, Kili turned around to them. “We’re here, Lad,” Dwalin’s voice held a wealth of warmth. After the long way he had gone with Kili's family this moment meant much to him. With Dwalin and Boromir at his side Kili spoke the secret words to open the forgotten gates of Dwarrowdelf.

“Boromir, Boromir, wake up!” A voice from afar called him back to the waking world. Tiredly the Gondorian blinked, seeing it was Aragorn who had woken him. “Thorongil… what happened? Attack?” He pushed himself up, forcing the sleep back to wake up fully.

If the Ranger was irritated by Boromir’s use of that name, he did not show it. “No, there is no danger here. Merry found you, you were restless in your sleep, speaking of Dwarrowdelf.” The Dunedain’s gaze softened. “We all have bad dreams of that place, Boromir. But Gandalf would not wish for us to break down in mourning.”

“Neither hopes nor dreams attend a wounded animal,” The Captain did not know why he had quoted one of his best friends at home. He should not have quoted Veryan, not after these dreams. He quickly tried to push away these thoughts. “Aragorn, has there ever been another attempt to retake Moria?” He asked. “One other than Balin’s I mean?”

The Ranger sat down on the grass beside Boromir, thinking. “King Thror tried to reclaim Moria,” he said after a moment, telling the tale of Thror, the pale orc and Thorin Oakenshield, like it was remembered in Rivendell.

“Has Kili any connection to that battle?” The Gondorian asked eventually.

“Kili? No. He must have been but a child at the time. His Uncle, Thorin Oakenshield was there of course, and King Thror would have been his great-grandfather. I believe Kili’s father, Dari, fell in that battle, fighting by Thorin’s side.” Aragorn looked at his comrade; he could tell that the tale of bravery, of great deeds in war, appealed to the captain, whose own life had been dominated by war. Many soldiers were like that. “Meeting Kili impressed you, did it?”

“He is an impressive fighter,” Boromir answered. “I have rarely seen someone with the stubbornness and the courage to even charge at a Nazgul, knowing he has no chance and still trying to protect his friends. I had not thought he was of a high dwarven house, but now that I do, I think I should have seen it, he has this air about him…”

“You should have seen his Uncle,” Strider relaxed, he actually smiled. “I was a mere boy when Thorin Oakenshield and his companions came to Rivendell. During the night I snuck out to see them. I had never seen dwarves before. Thorin was impressive, cold, aloof and like one of the old dwarven kings of legend. A warrior. Kili and his brother were with him, they were young too, barely adults by dwarven reckoning.”

Settling back against the stone basin Boromir listened to Aragorn telling him of the past, glad to allow his mind to be distracted from dark memories and restless dreams.