Chapter 1: A Meeting in the dark
More than 80 years later
The plan for his journey from Minas Tirith to Rivendell had been a simple one, or so Boromir had assumed when he had departed his city. Through Gondor and across most of Rohan things had been easy enough, he had known the ways and paths leading west and there had been little danger in these parts either. When he had passed through the gap of Rohan he had felt like he was watched for the first time and for many nights since he had felt like there were watchful eyes in the dark, hounding his every step. Crossing the marshes of Dunland had proven dangerous quickly enough with more fights and troubles than he would care to count. He had been glad to leave them behind but after that things got even more complicated for no one in entire Gondor had been able to say where exactly Imladris was. It was the famed hidden elven kingdom of the north, hidden being the problem word. There was no map that gave it’s location exactly, no road leading there and none of all the wise men his father had consulted had been able to shed light on how to find a kingdom the elves had taken great pains to hide.
Boromir’s greatest hope had been Anor. While long gone and diminished he had firmly believed that there had to be still people of this ancient kingdom. Anor’s people had to be much like Gondor’s - they would never give up on their homeland, they’d keep fighting King or no King. But when he finally left the Dunland marshes and came closer to the lands that had been part of Anor all he found was lone lands and wilderness. The beings dwelling in the wilds had quickly proven unfriendly as well. So he had been stuck with the one piece of advice his brother Faramir had been able to give him before he departed: Rivendell, Faramir had said was a valley hidden in the western reaches of the Misty Mountains, close to an ancient road leading towards the western seas.
Thinking of that Boromir stuck to the edge of the mountains hoping to soon reach his destination but his journey drew on, he ventured more and more north and eventually was forced to abandon the hills for the foothills. The only path he found wound at a height through the mountains. Yet, he still hoped to find that road leading into Imladris. Autumn was approaching fast and soon the icy weather would begin. For now it was just the rain - heavy clouds driven by a western gale unleashing their heavy load at the mountain range. Never in his whole life had he encountered such a downpour, let alone days and days of pouring rain. On the third day the narrow winding path go so slippery that Boromir resolved to find a place where he could wait out the worst of the weather. It had seemed a lucky turn of events that he had indeed found a cave in one of the rock sides, large enough to allow shelter for himself and his horse.
Sitting down with his back against the cold stone Boromir dozed off, trying to make the best of a few restful hours. A thunderous noise woke him hours later, he reached to the side but the rock wall itself had vanished. He slipped and fell as the ground revolted and he was tossed into a steep tunnel, tumbling down hard and finally crashing down on a wooden platform.
Figures emerged from the darkness, seeing him and suddenly high pitched shrieks echoing through the tunnels. For one moment he froze in surprise. Orcs! These were orcish voices… but he was hundreds of leagues away from Mordor’s borders? Two small figures rushed in, trying to jump him, more in reflex than anything he kicked the first one off the ledge, grabbing the second to toss it right after.
Boromir used the short moments this gave him to draw his sword. More Orcs, a whole dozen of them, came at him across the ledge. They were smaller than Mordor’s legions but swifter too. Making the best of the moment he advanced on the narrow ledge forcing them to come at him in pairs. They rushed at him armed with daggers and coarse curved swords. Boromir blocked their attacks, his sword a whirling circle of death, stabbing, cutting, slashing through their numbers, corpses falling off the ledge, vanishing into the dark abyss below.
It ended as fast as it had begun the sudden silence deafening to his ears; only the ledge under him creaked. Boromir frowned, what was thing anyway? His eyes had adjusted to the darkness down here. It seemed he was standing on some coarse bridge of wood and ropes spanning a massive chasm. It seemed barely able to support him. Had there been a cave in recently, he wondered. That would explain the vanishing wall earlier and the unstable bridge. Even Orcs - crude monsters that they were - built better than that. Boromir had seen enough of their dens in the Ered Lithui to know. Carefully he followed the bridge towards where it connected with a rocky ledge on a steep cave wall. He had to find a way out of here.
The rock ledge was only marginally better than the rickety bridge before, crumbling and full of cracks it had been repaired with more of those wood bridges many as rotten as the first had been. There were nor markings, no signs, like the Mordor Orcs used to mark their tunnels, only a chaos of ways, where they might lead he could not begin to guess.
He had no idea how lucky he had been not to having been discovered much more quickly again. A shriek, shrill and angry, rose from the dark of yet another tunnel. In the dim light he could see a mass of bodies emerge from the tunnel’s mouth. Fire and Blood, there were so many of them. He turned running the other way, jumping from the bridge onto another ledge and raced on. There were some coming his way, he fought them off, sword cutting through them with grim determination. Rounding another corner he found the bulk of the horde chasing him again.
Boromir ran through the dark, the rickety bridges streaking under his feet, screams of orcs echoing in the tunnels. He did not know how many he had killed, how many were still after him. He had lost his sense of direction not knowing anymore where he was going, if he ever had to begin with. Several Orcs spilled from a side tunnel; he attacked before they could, killing two before having to shake off the others. A blunt blade cut his arm, not the first scratch he had received. He kicked the creature off the ledge, hastening on. His breath was flying hard after hours and hours of running the dark, he was exhausted and when he reached the next bridge he hardly noticed the silence. Yes, it was unusually quiet in this tunnel and the wooden contraption was older than others he had seen down here.
He saw that part of the old wood contraption was broken, or had been shattered a long time ago, maybe it had been left alone ever since? Carefully Boromir stepped on the failing construction, it creaked loudly but still carried him. He began to walk, each step shaking the ancient crossing. When he was halfway across he heard shouts and angry yells from behind. A few Orcs had come out on a higher ledge, shaking their swords at him and hurling stones in his direction. Boromir ducked moving on with more haste, disregarding the feeble bridge beneath his feet.
That proved to be a grave mistake, only a few running steps out the ancient wood broke under his step, the whole bridge collapsing. He fell into darkness, desperately trying to somehow slow the deathly fall. His hands managed to grab the rocks on another ledge, shark stones cutting into his palms, he barely managed to hang on.
A spear flew from the darkness, shattering on the stones beside him, again Boromir tried to pull himself up but another spear missing him only by a hair’s breath made him nearly fall again. A sharp hiss sounded from the ledge above, the typical whistle of arrows. Somewhere behind him Orcs shrieked as their bodies dropped into the darkness.
“That will teach the bastard,” a voice grumbled in a strangely accented speech. A figure appeared above him, in the dark he could not see much more than a head and a shadow but he felt a strong hand grabbing his arm, supporting his fleeting hold. “Grab my shoulder, I’ll pull you up.”
Boromir did not waste time, he used what strength he had left to grab the stranger’s shoulder and was pulled up by surprising strong arms. Few men would have so easily been able to lift him like that. Not a moment later he was on stable ground. “That’s better,” the stranger said, grabbing his things. With a soft hiss a torch was lit.
Boromir blinked into the light of the flame. His helper was strange, standing he did not even reach to Boromir’s shoulder. His hair was long and fell freely around his shoulders… was he really wearing some braids like a maiden? A few grey streaks mingled with the dark locks - strange, his face did not reflect the age of someone already greying even as it was set in a few deeper, pleasant lines. The short cropped beard was barely a shadow. He wore chainmail and a leather coat, both well worn. Something about him seemed off to Boromir but it took him a moment to realize that this was most likely not a man at all but a dwarf. He had never seen one before except in pictures and drawings in Faramir’s books. “You are a dwarf,” the words were out before he could stop them.
The stranger bowed slightly. “Kili, at your service.” He said. “and you better be happy that is not an orc.”
There was something in his grim humor that actually made Boromir grin. “We shouldn’t wait for them either.”
Kili took the lead as they headed into the dark again. His torch gave a minimal light allowing Boromir to see where they were going. He had the distinct impression that Kili knew his way around these tunnels. Dwarves were said to be at home under the great mountains of the west after all. The notion was strongly reinforced when their path began to lead upwards and a fresh breeze of air touched them. They passed through a narrow gap and suddenly they stood outside again. It was dark, night had fallen but the rain had passed.
In the end Boromir did not know how long they had run, when the sun rose it finally ended. He was tired, stumbling with exhaustion. They had reached a wide vale of woods and rocks, some grassy patches in between were yellow with the dying grass of summer.
Kili exhaled sharply. “Lets find a place to hide and rest.”
“Are you sure we got far enough away from them? Boromir asked in spite of his exhaustion. “There may be more orcs nearby.”
“Show me the place in the lone lands where they aren’t close…” Kili growled. “I still know some hideouts that they haven’t found yet… daylight will be a much better protection against them.”
The hideout proved to be a tall, pillarlike rock with a den deep enough to hide a small fire on top. How Kili managed to light the timbers to burn was another matter entirely. “Where did they capture you?” he asked.
“They didn’t. I hid from the storm in a cave.” Boromir explained. “I don’t know what exactly happened.”
There was something akin to grim amusement shining in Kili’s eyes. “The very same happened to some of my kin once and got us landed right under Gundalbad mount. Most caves in these parts are dangerous.” Dark eyes surveyed Boromir across the fire. “What brings a son of Gondor so deep into the lone lands?”
There was that word again - the lone lands. A term that made Boromir shiver. Was that all that was left of Anor and her glory? Even of her memory? A land overrun by orcs, given up upon by everyone? “I am on my way to Rivendell. Denethor, Steward of Gondor has send me there. I kept to the mountains hoping to find it.”
“If the elves call a place the hidden valley it’s hard to find,” Kili observed dryly. “and the path leading from the mountains into Rivendell is even harder to find than the Bruinen ford.”
“You know where it is?” Boromir asked, his hopes getting up.
“Aye, I came through there years ago with my kind.” Kili deftly fished an old iron pot from the fire. “You are far off your road, Boromir of Gondor, you have strayed far to the north but I will help you to get to Imladris if you’ll have me.”
Boromir’s eyes perked up. “I never told you my name.” he said, suddenly tense again.
“No - but that sword you wear was actually commissioned by Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor for his eldest son. It has been wielded by the Steward’s eldest son ever since. I know for Ecthelion had one of my kin make it.”
Boromir’s hand fell to the hilt of the familiar blade. He knew what Kili had said was true - Ecthelion had had a blacksmith from foreign lands make the sword because the man’s work had been unsurpassed. Had that stranger maybe not been a man at all but a dwarf? It was well possible, if Kili’s looks were any indication what his kin was like. “I’ll be grateful for what help you will give,” Boromir eventually replied. He was injured, exhausted and had been hunted through the strangest of orc dens… but the prospect of finally being on the right track was all he needed to recover quickly.