Author's Note: No one has pointed it out, but I'll go ahead and admit to it now: I did in fact swap a couple things around. I decided that Balin telling the story about Thorin's history with Azog should come a little bit later. It's a pivotal moment for Bilbo—and now Boromir—because they learn another reason this quest is so important for Thorin: he tried to retake one of the Dwarf kingdoms before, and they failed. There's a lot more at stake than just his throne.

Chapter 9

A gentle rise lead up to a bare, rocky patch of ground, which butted up against a low wall of stone. Thorin selected this spot for their campsite, and Boromir noted—as he was sure Thorin did—its defensible position as well as the shelter from the cool evening wind.

After a delicious meal prepared by Bombur—one that would have rivaled even Sam's cooking—the others settled into their places. A few drifted off to sleep, but most of the others either talked quietly among themselves or stared into the fire, lost in their thoughts.

Boromir changed the bandages on Menion's knees, pleased that they appeared to be beginning to heal already. As he finished wrapping the new bandages, Bilbo silently crept over to the ponies, drawing an apple from his pocket.

"Good girl!" he whispered. "Here's a good girl. It's our little secret, Myrtle. You must tell no one, sh-shh." Boromir smiled in amusement. It certainly hadn't taken Bilbo long to warm up to the creature.

A high-pitched shrieking drifted to them on the wind. Boromir's head snapped up, his hand moving to his sword. Bilbo instantly scuttled nearer to him, all but hiding behind the big Man.

"What was that?" he said softly, quaking in fear.

Boromir hesitated before answering honestly, "I believe…it was Orcs."

"Orcs?!" Bilbo practically yelped, though he had the good sense to keep his voice down. However, the others by the fire managed to catch his exclamation, including Fíli and Kíli.

"Throat-cutters," Fíli said, shrugging his shoulders matter-of-factly. "There'll be dozens of them out there. The Lone-lands are crawling with them."

Kíli leaned in, his face grave. "They strike in the wee small hours when everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet, no screams—just lots of blood."

Bilbo's face went pale as he stared back out toward the horizon, half-expecting to see an entire army of Orcs heading right for them. Boromir put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, turning around to glare at the young Dwarves, who were starting to snicker.

"You think that's funny?" The deep growl cut through the air like a knife as Thorin stepped away from his post at the edge of camp. His nephews quailed under his glower. "You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke."

Kíli could barely meet his uncle's eyes. "W-we didn't mean anything by it," he stammered softly.

Thorin sneered. "No, you didn't," he muttered. "You know nothing of the world." With that, he stalked off to the cliff's edge, his piercing gaze scanning their surroundings.

Bilbo, Fíli, and Kíli stared after Thorin, perplexed. It was an expression Boromir knew all too well: a young greenhorn who was beginning to realize this wouldn't be quite what he imagined. He had never had the luxury of blissful ignorance; even as a boy, Boromir had known the horrors the soldiers and Rangers of Gondor faced. He had tried in vain to shelter Faramir, for a time; but in the end, his little brother was forced to learn the harsh reality of life beyond the safe walls of their city.

"Don't mind him, laddie," Balin said, approaching the youngsters with a sad smile of understanding…and memory. "Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs."

Boromir sat with his back to the natural rock wall, sensing that something important was coming. He was right.

"After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient Dwarf kingdom of Moria." He tried to mask his reaction to that name but was only partially successful. The very mention of it filled Boromir with a dread he had felt only a few times before. It brought with it memories: fighting in desperation, the fear of being overwhelmed, searing heat and oppressive shadow, the ground shaking beneath his feet, and Gandalf…Gandalf was falling…he could not reach him…

"…Azog the Defiler." Boromir shook himself out of his black reverie, forcing himself to listen instead to this account of Moria, not the ill-fated journey the Fellowship had taken through it. "The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin." Balin took a shaky breath. "He began…by beheading the king."

So, that was it, Boromir mused. He remembered when Ecthelion died and how devastated he had been. But to lose your grandfather in such a manner…

Balin continued, seeming lost in the story. "Thrain, Thorin's father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing; taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. …We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us." To Boromir's amazement, a small smile graced his face. "That is when I saw him: the young Dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc."

Boromir listened raptly as Balin wove the tale of how Thorin not only held his own against Azog, he dealt him a grievous wound and rallied the survivors to a seemingly impossible victory. It was a tale fit for songs.

Almost as if sensing his train of thought, Balin closed his eyes and said, "But there was no feast nor song that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived." Boromir noticed then that the others were listening as well, even those that had previously been asleep. "And I thought to myself then: There is one who I could follow. There is one…I could call king."

Boromir understood, for the first time, why these few Dwarves alone out of all of Thorin's people had chosen to join him. Their bonds had been forged long ago, in a fire so hot they would never be broken.

Thorin turned to face them, regarding them with an expression that spoke volumes of not only his burden, but also his immense gratitude and love for every Dwarf present. This Company was his family.

Boromir stood and walked off, feeling a sudden desire to be alone. Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes as he thought of his last moments in his own time: pledging his loyalty to Aragorn. How he wished Aragorn stood before him now! Boromir longed to embrace him, to truly apologize for his harsh words at the Council, to stand at his side with Aragorn as his king.

He realized then that he loved Aragorn as dearly as his own brother. Not for the first—nor indeed the last, he was sure—Boromir cursed the Ring that had clouded his mind. It had prevented him from seeing Aragorn's true fears, from seeing that what Aragorn truly needed to convince him to accept his destiny was not anger and despair…it was friendship. The Ranger had been lonely for so long; it was high time that changed.

"When I come back, and I will," he murmured to the night air, "I will go with you to the White City. I will stand beside you, my brother, and together, we will defend Middle Earth until all are safe…or until we have drawn our last breaths. I swear, Aragorn…the lords of Gondor will return."

(Okay I'm not entirely satisfied with that last paragraph, but I can't think of anything better. If I do in the future, I may come back and edit this chapter.)