Epilogue: At the dawn of an age

It was in the hour of dawn, if there was such a thing in the ashen lands of Mordor when Canó noticed a movement beside his brother. Rú had yet to wake from his sleep, though his injuries made it doubtful he would wake any time soon. At first he thought it might have been Fion, but the dwarf was still asleep as well. His hand sinking to the hilt of the sword Canó approached the other side of the small fire where Rú was resting, eyes trained on the surrounding darkness. Again he saw the movement, this time clearer than before.

"You will not need the weapon," A familiar voice said in a whisper.

Whirling around the weapon almost slipped through Canó's fingers when he saw the ghostly form of Aelin, standing close by. "Aelin, how can you be here? Your comrades said you departed after protecting them."

The other elf smiled, even in the form of his fea his eyes could sparkle with amusement. "It was easier for them that way," Aelin replied, "I certainly had not expected other elves to believe it."

So he truly was a fea that had not left Arda, choosing to trap himself in this world, instead of departing. Canó shivered, no loyalty demanded such a choice, no one should feel he was to decide such… it was too much to ask of anyone. "Why… why are you still here?"

Aelin squatted down beside Rú, gently tracing his ghostly hand over the sleeping elf. "He will need healing – you know how he gets when he is wounded and cannot move about, and I dare say his friend is worse off than he likes to admit."

"You staid because… no, Aelin, you should have left, gone wherever we are still permitted to go." Canó tried to reason with the other elf, maybe there was still a chance for him to leave, before his fea permanently manifested here.

"I had expected to leave," Aelin said thoughtfully, "and to find myself in the great darkness, in the company your brothers and many other old comrades, but instead there were two paths for me. One linking me back here and the other leading on to Mandos, the path back stronger than the one ahead."

"What could tie your fea here so strongly?" Canó feverently hoped it was not the oath, no, it could not be, many of their followers had died and departed this world, though Aelin's words gave him hope that the ill-fated oath long ago had not condemned them all to wander the void forever.

"I already told you," Aelin replied, pointing to Rú. "do you remember when Findekanó brought him back to us? He was much worse than this, but also close to death?"

Canó certainly would never forget that day, who that had been there ever could? And then it dawned on him. Maedhros had been dying, not just from the loss of the hand, but all that had been done to him in Thangorodrim finally taking its toll and they had found a way to save him. "The spell," he whispered, "it is that spell that ties you to him. But we all extricated ourselves from that link after her was healed. You did, as did I, Egandîr…" he could have named all seven elves that had linked their fea with Rú to stabilize him.

"I think it was the first time we truly shook up fate," Aelin mused, "I do not think we were meant to do that, to find that way – it might well have been one of the forbidden portals. But it was only the first grain of change it wrought – it still ties us on some level, though we usually do not feel it." He met Canó's gaze. "and it created even greater ripples since. I do not know who of us let that spell come into the hands of mortals – or dwarrow for that matter – but it achieved a lot of good in the end."

Canó shook his head. "And you still know how to distract me with a philosophical debate, Aelin," he said sharply, realizing what the other elf was doing. "and I still wish you were not trapped in this world."

Aelin's form seemed to glow stronger, and Canó could see how Rú slowly relaxed in his sleep, the healing, the strength Aelin was sharing, reaching him. "Only that this world is no trap." Aelin replied. "Though too many of us used to believe that. Born of Light we were and thence we return, our lives are but a journey into the night."

TRB

Dwalin strode up the slope towards their camp, for all wishes to move camps out of Mordor, it had been impossible as long as there were so many severely injured. Though within the next week the camps should move back to Ithilien, if things went as they should, until then he had talk to Kíli.

He found Kíli, Anvari and Boromir sitting together, discussing something in hushed voices, when he approached Kíli gestured him closer. "Dwalin, the way you stride in, there is an issue to take care of." He still was pale from what lay behind him, but the wounds were healing and whatever strain the events had wrought on him, he was healing.

"Yes," Dwalin crossed his arms in front of his chest, "because someone has to talk sense to the Gondorians. I know we did not make much fuss about getting you two out of the Tower – but over at the Gondorian camp they are sure Boromir died. They say his brother had a vision – he saw him die. And when I tried to talk to Veryan he did not believe a word I said and I might not be the best person to ram some sense into their thick skulls." His gaze went from Kíli to Boromir. "Maybe you should talk to them."

Boromir shook his head, the movement highlighting the ash-pale streaks in his hair. "No, Dwalin, they are right in a way. Boromir died back in the Tower, as did the Lord of the Morning. The son of Denethor, the son of Gondor ceased to exist in the fire… what remains is just me."

Dwalin's hands became fists when he realized what Boromir was saying, for a dwarf firmly rooted in clan and kin, the very though was horrible. Being cast out of a clan was bad enough, but being burned away – losing all that linked one to their kin was a nightmare.

"Don't you look at me like that," Boromir's voice gained a sharp edge, usually reserved for healers and other people 'fussing' over him, when he spoke. "it could be much worse. I have done this before."

With a small smile, Kíli reached for his shoulder, interrupting what easily might become a full-flung argument between the warriors. "And you are still my brother, nothing will change that."

Anvari tilted his head. "That requires a name, you know?" he said to Kíli, his blue eyes warming a little. When Boromir cast a questioning glance in his direction Anvari raised his hands slightly. "Being Kíli's brother makes you my Uncle… and I won't stand for you not having a proper dwarven name."

Dwalin turned around, giving them some space, it also helped to stifle a smile. He had known Kíli had considered Boromir a brother – the man had no clue that it had earned him a nephew, and a bit of assorted clan. Durin's House was nothing if not possessive of those they cared about, and that had not changed.

"You are right, Anvari," when Kíli spoke his gaze was still on Boromir. "you are one of us now."

A warmth spread inside Boromir, he might have again lost his ties to his old homeland, he might even feel a distance to his former family that hurt… but he was not alone, he still belonged somewhere. "Does it have to be both names?" he asked, he knew that dwarves had two names, the one that only their family knew, the name Mahal himself would know them by and the name the world called them by.

"You could of course keep Boromir as the name we call you," Anvari had come closer, his hand resting on Boromir's shoulder. "thought I always thought Aesir would fit you better."

Aesir, battle-born, a part of Boromir agreed that it fit, in more than one way, though it would take time to getting used to it, he was not yet sure he could fully let go of the name that belonged with him and his long journey.

Kíli, like so often, understood without the need for words. "You can decide on that, when you feel the time has come," he said. "As for the other…" he shortly looked to his son. "Anvari… what do you see?"

Blue eyes focused intensely on Boromir, and for one moment he felt like Anvari was not seeing him at all, but beyond him, the moment passed as fast as it had come. "A Raven and a Sword," Anvari said frowning, like he was trying to make sense of it. "The same black Raven as on your shoulder."

"A Raven and a Sword…" Kíli's eyes shone when it came to him. "Balér," he said softly, only for Boromir and Anvari to hear.

Balér, the name touched deeply, like something that had always belonged with him. In a way it was close to the meaning of his first name, as close as dwarven tongue could make it be. Faithful Blade would be the direct translation, but the symbol for faith and loyalty amongst dwarves was the Raven, giving the name a second meaning. He felt Kíli's hug from the one side and Anvari's from the other, returning them in much the same manner. In the middle of all this, cut off from his old life and hardly knowing where his new life might lead… he knew he had found his brother again.

TRB

"We better start planning our march," Brea tossed another thorn into the fire, the flames whirled up brightly. Another night had fallen and a larger number of dwarves had assembled at the heart of the camp. Dwalin, Brea, Bifur, Yúrar were only some of them. "we could be in the Ered Luin by Autumn, if we march swiftly." Sitting on a rock she leaned back to look to Kíli. "And I'll be honest – for all that Erebor was wonderful, I miss Eriador, along with haughty Dunedain, superstitious Hill Men, always flustered Hobbits, five ruins with ghost, the occasional Barrow-Wraith and always another surprise around the corner. Wilderland was a bit borning."

There were some chuckled on that comment, but a general sense of agreement. Most of them had been thinking in the same direction now that they knew they were going to live beyond the war. Kíli rose, stepping closer to the fire. "I wish it was that easy, Brea, I wish I could say we go home to Cardemir and start a true re-founding of Belegost. For you are right, to me home will always be that valley under the Blue Mountains." He looked at them, one after the other and his dark eyes became very serious. "I truly wish we could, because you all deserve a rest after the battles we've been through."

"If we cannot go back to Cardemir, you must have your eye on another Mountain," Dwalin said, "and if the rumors are true that Gandalf slew Durin's Bane… Moria?" The last word was just a whisper, but enough to cause most of them to draw closer together. Moria was the old dream of their people.

"That is part of it," Kíli's gaze went from Dwalin to the others. "when I crossed the Mountains last autumn, I found a dying dwarrow who had escaped the deeps. It was Dori and in dying he told me that there is no free stronghold left inside the Misty Mountains. The Ironfists, the Stiffbeards, the Blacklocks and the Stonefoots – they all fell to the Orcs during the last years. When we crossed Moria I saw the captives – hundreds, if not thousands of dwarrow under the whip of the Orcs."

He paused for a moment, letting the digest his words. "And it goes beyond Moria, from the Black Mountain in the South to Carn Dûm itself up North, the Orcs have taken to enslave and brutalize our brethren. We have sat by long enough. From the day we lost Mt. Gundabad we hoped, for alliances, for a stroke of luck, for others to help us until we lost the entire Misty Mountains. And it ends here – no one will do it, unless we do it ourselves. And I plan on going back to free our brethren, to begin at the fallen city of the Black Mountain and not stop until there is no dwarf in the hands of the Orcs anymore. It is time freed our people."

"And we are with you," Dwalin had spoken, beside him stood Brea, Bifur and Yúrar joined them, until they all stood. This was more than the legend of a fallen kingdom, more than the dream of Moria, and for all the strife there had been between their people, they'd not leave them to the Orcs.

TRB

Aragorn saw the change in Kíli when they met, it was not the paler complexion, echo of past exhaustion, but it was something else, like a stronger, more determined part of the dwarf had stepped into the foreground. He had perceived such a side to Kíli at times, when the dwarf had been under pressure and decisively taken the lead of a situation. In the deeps of Moria it had been most pronouncedly, maybe he was only getting used to seeing that side to Kíli. "I had hoped to talk to you," he said, "for no matter how many visions and other portents announce it, seeing that you live tells me that Boromir… that he did not perish." He understood that Boromir might not wish to return, that he might choose to go a different path, especially with the dark reputation he had gained amongst his own people, but he wanted to know that his friend was alright.

"The Lord of the Morning died in the Tower, and so did Boromir of Gondor," Kíli replied, "the man who returned… let me just say, he is the same who gave you that sword long ago." His eyes pointed to the short sword Aragorn still wore beside Andúril.

The words were a relief for Aragorn, knowing that Boromir was alive, that he would be alright was good. He recalled the warrior he had met so long ago and who had been absolutely at home amongst a troop of wandering dwarves. Maybe Boromir had finally come home – where is soul belonged. "I am glad to hear that, Kíli, though he leaves me with quite a problem on my hands." He raised his head slightly, his chin pointing towards the plateau where the Easterlings were camped.

"This is why I asked to see you," Kíli's gaze had followed his gesture. "for I can hardly imagine that Gondor is ready to accept such a number of Easterlings – let alone so many who served Mordor for such a long time."

Aragorn sighed. "Gondor is not ready for that, they have enough troubles with the people from Erech already, but… I doubt I would be ready to accept the Easterlings as well, even as I know that we need peace, that we have to find peace amongst ourselves or we will not need a Dark Lord to be the reason for the next wars." Men needed to heal, to recover from the wounds the Shadow had dealt them and Aragorn knew that in time he would find it in himself to talk peace with the Empire, which was something other than having to deal with several legions worth of surviving Easterling dark warriors.

"Would you permit for them to choose another path – provided they are willing to get themselves into yet another war?" Kíli asked him, he well understood the troubles Aragorn was faced with. He was a healer and a wise man who would bring peace to the world of men in the long run, but Gondor would hardly accept a King who forgave the Easterlings. Not yet.

Surprised Aragorn turned to the dwarf, he had not expected the question. "You would offer them another way? Why?... One of theirs killed Thorin."

"Shakurán's son killed Thorin," Kíli's voice was almost even as he said it, "and from what I saw in that vision he fought bravely, honorably…" Shaking his head, Kíli looked up. "It is not the point, if I am going to free the Ironfists and the Stiffbeards I will be helping tribes who at least once handed my brother and I over to the Orcs – and I will not hold it against them anymore. It has to end – if we continue with hate and vengeance, we do not need Melkor returning from the gate of night to destroy this world."

"Still – it is more than anyone should ask of you," Aragorn remembered how long the death of his own father, a father he had never known, had affected him. His search for his father had led him into the trap in Moria. How much more did Kíli feel the pain of the loss of his family?

"Fate does not ask if you like what it puts on your shoulders, but it demands you bear it proudly," Kíli's words sounded like he was quoting someone, even as Aragorn could not place the words with any famous legend. Before he could ask Kíli had straightened up, whatever sadness there had been in his expression gone. "Two of my best friends believe in them, Aragorn – they believe there is more to the Easterlings than just the worst of dark minions and having seen Shakurán and his men during the battles, I have to agree. Maybe it is time we tried to show them the way out of the darkness – to bring them back to the free peoples of Middle Earth. Thorin once said that there was enough room in Erebor for all who would call the Mountain home, and this goes thrice for the Misty Mountains, they have room for all who are willing to help free them."

Aragorn tried to imagine what Kíli might envision for the future, but he could not quite see it, maybe it was not a vision easily shared. "If they are willing to follow you, I will be glad to see them go. And I hope…" he wanted to say he hoped Kíli would never come to regret that choice, but those words were haughty. "I hope you find that home your people are still dreaming of."

The three Easterlings who had been escorted to them, had listened quietly what Kíli had to say, if there was any nervousness amongst them, it did not show. When Kíli was finished, Shakurán exchanged a glance with Scyrane and Jircanór, wondering what they were thinking. Jircanor leaned back slightly, holding Kíli's gaze. "It is a generous offer, Prince Kíli, especially if you truly are willing to allow our families to join us," he said, speaking Westron for a change. "but why? Do not tell me it is about peace, or other noble reason – there has to be a practical reason for all this."

To Shakurán's surprise he saw Kíli unriled, he seemed unfazed by the directness. "You want a practical reason, Jircanór? There is one – numbers. The world of men is frayed from an age of strife, ask your comrade Shakurán what Eriador is like these days, and you might know what Wilderland looks like on a good day. This is supposed to become the age of Men – but if we do not do something about it, it will end up being the age of the Orcs. And I doubt you'd welcome that."

Jircanor accepted the words with a nod, and then looked to Scyrane. "What do you think?" Shakurán wondered why the older warrior wanted Scyrane's opinion but an odd kind of respect had grown between the former adversaries.

"I think that we always prided ourselves that we brought civilization," Scyrane said slowly, "we pride ourselves that we tamed the East, that we founded an Empire that endured the storms of two ages. Let the Empire endure, or the Emperor be Eternal –," Scyrane shrugged, "there is a vast land overrun by Orcs and worse, and for my part I am willing to join those who are going to bring some civilization back to that land."

"Well said," Jircanor agreed, "I am with you on that. Shakurán, you have been saying little."

Shakurán was relieved to see they were open to the offer, though he was still surprised Kíli would go out of his way to aid them. "An old friend chose to join the reclaiming of the greatest kingdom of Middle Earth," he said, thinking of Boromir and that he slowly began to understand why the Gondorian had struck up such a friendship with the dwarrow. It was a link to legend, and which Númenoran was immune to such? "And I would go with him, no matter where that leads me. I'd be glad if you were to choose the same path."

"The Lord of the Morning is alive?" Scyrane asked, his voice a little shaky with surprise.

"He is the brother of the dwarf lord you'll follow," Shakurán told him dryly. "so you better believe you will have to deal with his crazy battle plans regularly from now on." And he was sure that when these tidings reached the Empire, Jariel would let the families of the soldiers leave, glad that the Lord of the Morning was fighting a war in far-off lands and not coming after him.

TRB

The camps were packing up, ready to leave the land of Ash behind forever. The chaos was greater than usual and Kíli was grateful Dwalin had a firm hand on the entire trek. The old warmaster was unfazed by planning Drakhár and other beasts into the transport as well as horses and carts. Kíli thought of Asutri and of the news a Raven had brought from the North, his nephew was a bit exasperated Kíli would not return to the Mountain, but Erebor was in good hands with Asutri and Thorin would be happy to know that the heirs he had chosen would be the new bloodline of Erebor. Kíli was happy for that, Asutri loved Erebor, it was his home, while neither Kíli nor Anvari would ever call Erebor home. Their home lay elsewhere something beyond those heaven-assailing Mountains from whence their people had come long ago.

Soft steps approached, turning around he saw Russandol who had joined him. The elf was at his feet for less than two days, and he would allow now one to treat him as weak, so Kíli bit back any comment. "Your people will be marching too?" he asked, "we should have the same way until Eregion." And Maedhros might want to hear about the captive of Ost-in-Edhil, Kíli planned on not wasting time to free Celebrimbor.

"That we do," Rú watched the trek form down in the valley. "and I hear you are going to free your people and retake the Misty Mountains?"

"Aye, I have enough of a King of Moria named Bolg, and of his Malevolence ruling the passroads… it is time we did something about it." Kíli knew he did not need to explain, Rú would understand.

The red haired elf turned his attention fully to him. "When we met in the deeps of Mount Gundabad you said something about alliances that never came around to help your people fend off the Orcs." He observed and Kíli wondered why he would bring up the topic.

"I think I said that there was only one alliance with the elves that ever truly worked for us," Kíli replied, remembering the discussion in the bowels of the Orc infested mountain. "Though I don't know why you bring it up again."

"Because that alliance is still there, if you want it," Rú's keen eyes held Kíli's gaze. "your people stood by me through the worst war of my life, and I will stand by your people to free your homeland."

Kíli's eyes widened, he could hardly believe what he heard. Rú had been a friend, a mentor and always a legend… but to hear him offer help like this. "You once said you had found peace," he said, wondering. "and that…"

"And that I foolishly believed it would all end soon?" Rú interrupted him. "I did. I truly believed this would be the end, a final duty, a final battle against the Shadow. Now we are here and it seems another age in Arda is our fate. If it is to mean anything at all, we should grasp this chance we were given – and that means doing more than sitting by the sea and await the end of days."

Grasping the proffered hand in a warrior's clasp Kíli sealed the alliance, he could not express what hope it filled him with. Maybe this was supposed to be the age of men, maybe they were meant to fade away and pale into myth someday, but until then they'd create a legend that would survive.

TRB

From the pass of Morannon Boromir could see the river sparkle under the warm spring sun, somewhere beyond lay Minas Tirith, awaiting her King to return. She was in good hands now and he felt no ties to her any longer. It was strange, he had never felt the distance to this land so strongly. He remembered beginning his journey, still carrying that lingering grudge with him, it was long gone, along with many doubts. A part of him knew he had never been meant to return to the White City and it was good that way.

Familiar steps caught up to him, Kíli was leading his horse across the pass, stopping beside him. "Need more time?" he asked, understanding in his voice.

Boromir looked down to Ithilien, remembering the wars fought there, battles and death, the Shadow had finally lifted and peace would come to the silent graves under the whispering trees. "No, there are no goodbyes I have to say," he said, mounting his horse.

Together they rode down the Morannon pass and to the top of the long caravan on their North. Far away, against the crisp skies of late spring rose a mighty chain of mountains, dark peaks capped with ice, and though they were thousands of leagues away still, Boromir's heart sang with their sight – he was going home.

Come take a seat and I will recite you a tale

Of bold adventure spanning both sides of the veil

I knew a champion, we travelled far and wide

We saw so many wonders roving side by side.

(Miracle of Sound: Age of the Dragon)

Finis

Author's Note

And now we come to the end of our long journey. Honestly, when I started this story arc, I had never imagined it would be so long, let alone so complicated. I want to thank all of you who have written to me, shared thoughts, ideas and critique. You encouraged me to go on and it was fun to read your speculations and suggestions. YOU ALL ROCK!

The incredible ScribeofRed has taken it upon herself to start a major editing of the entire arc with me – and while it will take some time to complete that project (should I mention that the story grows longer in the edit?) I would welcome any comments and critique you might have. However – I will not adjust "Durin's Bane" to the new movie coming out. From Carrock on it is my AU entirely.

Many readers have asked for sidestories, the tale of the three swords, the "Memoirs of a Dwarven Mercenary", the story of Moria retaken, or of Kíli the Wanderer… I really will need to see what inspiration comes to mind, I plan on a few more outtakes, because there are some stories to tell. (I would love to tell the entire story of Rú, Canó and actually what happened in Sirion, but I'd need re-read the Silmarillion twice to avoid timeline mistakes.). While it will feel strange to not having a chapter ahead of me each day, it might need some time before I decide on my next writing project.

Special thanks to LadyDunla and Harrlee94 who put up with my writing speed, continuous weird mistakes and crazy ideas. Thank you and *hugs*

Valandhir