Antarctica-or-bust (rata_toskr) wrote,

Favored Sons

Title: Favored Sons
Fandom: the Hobbit/LotR
Pairings: None
Word Count: 5649
Disclaimer: If I owned the hobbit, I would be rich.
Summary: Fíli and Kíli are reincarnated as Boromir and Faramir.  The dwarves of Erebor claim them as their own.

“Brother! Wait up!”

Halthur turned to see two boys running across the battlements of Minas Tirith, dodging around the courtiers who had gathered to welcome the dwarven party to their land. Dáin had sent Halthur and his companions to negotiate a new trade arrangement between Gondor and the Lonely Mountain and Denethor had greeted their arrival with the utmost in pomp and circumstance.

Privately, Halthur thought that some of the Steward's insistence on formality was meant to make the dwarves forget the empty throne standing at his shoulder, but as long as Denethor was willing to deal fairly, the dwarf didn't much care about his insecurities. A man or dwarf should be judged more by his deeds than by his bloodline and if the Steward didn't know that, he was a fool at heart.


It seemed the younger boy had grown tired of chasing after his brother, stopping in the middle of the courtyard to pant heavily. But as soon as he stopped, the other boy ran over to him, throwing an arm around his brother's shoulders with a grin. It was a joyful smile, far more honest than any that Denethor had given, and several of the courtiers looked over at the pair with smiles of their own. However, now that Halthur could see the boys more clearly, something about them was tugging at his mind.

“Balin, do you know those children?” Halthur asked the dwarf who was standing next to him.

“They're most likely the sons of the Steward,” Balin answered, glancing over absently. “Denethor has two sons. Boromir is the eldest and his heir, while the younger brother is called Faram- by Durin's beard!”

Halthur had never heard Balin sound so surprised and when he looked at his companion, the older dwarf's face was white with shock. He was staring at Denethor's sons as though they were ghosts and Halthur opened his mouth to ask him what was wrong.

However, before he could speak, Balin whispered, “My princes,” and the dwarf realized why those boys looked so familiar.

He had never met Fíli and Kíli before the Battle of Azsâlul'abad but that brief encounter was burned into his memory. The princes of the Sigin-tarâg had stood tall and proud next to their uncle on the field of battle and their courage in his defense lived on in legend to this day. The elder light, the younger dark; two faces creased with fewer frowns than laughter, and Halthur knew exactly what Balin was seeing now. But it could just be coincidence. Physical similarity alone did not prove that Fíli and Kíli had been reborn in Minas Tirith and Halthur had never heard of a warrior returning amongst the race of men.

So the dwarf grabbed Balin's shoulder and urged, “Have caution. We must be sure before we bring this news back to your company. I would not give their mother hope where none exists.”

“Do not worry, my friend. I will not act rashly, though my heart yearns to greet Thorin's sister-sons once more. We shall make certain that Durin's Gift runs true within their blood before telling anyone. However, I would wager my life that Fíli and Kíli now walk this earth again.”


To tell the truth, Boromir didn't know what to think about their dwarven visitors. His father was suspicious of their motives and had urged his sons to caution. But Denethor liked few people and trusted fewer and Boromir did not think these dwarves came to cheat them as his father claimed.

Why would they want to cheat the Steward when open trade routes would be far more valuable than one uneven bargain? And even if they weren't, Boromir’s every instinct said these dwarves were friends instead of enemies. Indeed, the very thought of Erebor filled him with a sense of safety, those grand halls quite clear within his mind. Carved stone and golden statues welcoming all who entered to the dwarves' bright and shining homeland, a kingdom of light beneath the ground.

But Boromir had probably just heard too many stories of Dáin's homeland from his brother since he wasn’t the only one who was eager to see the dwarves arrive. While Faramir was usually more interested in his books and his bow than in court politics, Boromir's little brother had been restless ever since Denethor told them that the group from Erebor was coming and he had talked Boromir's ear off late into the night. He hadn't been that excited since a Mirkwood elf had visited Minas Tirith and when the horns rang out, he dragged Boromir up into the balcony to watch their guests arrive.

“Don't we know him?” Faramir asked when the dwarves' leader bowed to Denethor and introduced himself as Balin, the question nagging at his brother throughout their father's long welcome speech.

Balin looked like Balin, the name less an introduction than a forgotten memory, and Boromir wasn't sure what to make of that. Probably nothing, to be honest. The boy had never been much for self-reflection and he was perfectly happy to believe coincidence. But Faramir was not – Faramir was the one who dreamed of things that were and might have been, his knowledge getting him into trouble more than once – and today Boromir couldn't just ignore his brother's strangeness like he usually did. Not when something in his heart agreed.

So as soon as the ceremony finally ended and everyone filed out of the throne room, Boromir ran into the courtyard with his brother on his heels. He wanted a closer look at the dwarves before Denethor sent them off to the guest quarters; at the dwarves and at the wicked awesome weapons on their backs.

The boy didn't think he'd ever seen an axe as pretty as the one that Balin's companion carried and the old dwarf's sword was a fine piece of steel as well. He could picture the weapon clearly, its length, its heft, the sword as familiar in its own way as Balin was.

However, when the time came to actually approach the dwarf, Boromir found himself hesitating. Balin was a friend, the boy was certain of it, but he didn't know if the old dwarf would feel the same. What if Balin thought the Steward’s sons were crazy? What if the dwarf told Denethor? Their father was always looking for a reason to punish Faramir and his brother would be desolate if Denethor took his books away. So Boromir couldn't decide; while he was curious, yes, he didn't want to do anything that might hurt his brother. Faramir came first.

But then Balin answered the question for him, walking over to the boys with a kind smile that eased Boromir's tension instantly. Even Denethor had never looked at his sons with such fondness and while Boromir didn't recognize the other dwarf with Balin, his face was kind as well.

“Hello, laddie,” the old dwarf said with a bow. “I am Balin, son of Fundin, and I hope this evening sees you well.”

“Thank you, Balin. I am Boromir son of Denethor and this is my younger brother, Faramir,” the boy replied, years of deportment lessons stronger than his curiosity. At least for a few seconds since the next words out of Boromir’s mouth would have been, “So can I see your sword?” if Faramir hadn't interrupted him.

“Isn't Dwalin with you? I would have thought he'd come along.”

The younger boy didn't seem to realize that there was anything strange about his question and his words must have had some truth to them given the surprise in Balin's eyes. However, while Boromir had grown used to apologizing for his brother, the dwarf recovered quickly and he didn't appear to be annoyed by Faramir's knowledge as many often were.

Instead Balin exchanged a weighty glance with his companion before answering the question as though it were not odd at all. “I am afraid Dwalin could not leave Erebor; he is busy with his new wife and his duties as Captain of the Guard.”

“All right. I suppose that's fair. But tell him to visit next time if he can,” Faramir replied with a shrug before turning to Boromir. “Can we go now, brother? You promised to help me pick out a new bow days ago and father doesn't need us now.”

If anything, this was the strangest question yet since Boromir had never seen his brother lose interest in any visitors so quickly. He had asked the Riders of Rohan a thousand questions about their kingdom before Boromir dragged him off to bed and he was still star struck by every elf he saw. But for all his excitement on seeing the dwarves, they had apparently been regulated to familiar in an instant – more than familiar if Faramir was ignoring them so openly.

Speaking of which, Boromir looked at Balin and his companion with a touch of trepidation since his father would be furious if the dwarves took insult now. Making Denethor angry was always dangerous and Faramir was usually better about not being noticed when their father was around.

However, the dwarves were still smiling despite his brother's rudeness and the last of Boromir's worry disappeared when Balin spoke. “Do not worry about us, young Boromir. We are old enough to entertain ourselves. Take your brother to the armory before he collapses from excitement; he must be very fond of archery.”

“He loves it,” the boy replied with a fond glance at Faramir. “I swear he's going to run off and join the rangers as soon as he's of age. Though personally I prefer swords or a nice set of knives myself.”

“A fine choice of weapon, lad, and we could discuss the merits of different blades long into the night. But I think I hear one of my companions calling so I must bid you farewell. Perhaps we shall find the time to speak again.”

“Until then,” Boromir said, nodding his head in farewell before grabbing his brother by the hand. He led Faramir out of the courtyard and it was only much later when thinking back on the conversation that he realized Balin's last words had not been in Westron but in something else instead. The dwarf had spoken another tongue, one that Boromir did not remember learning but understood instinctively.

That was weird – really, really weird – and if Boromir had been different sort of person, he might have lost it then. But Boromir was twelve and much more interested in swords than introspection or the thought of destiny.

So the boy's unease was forgotten as soon as he had a good night's sleep and woke to a bright summer's day shining down on him. Whatever strangeness there was about the dwarves of Erebor, it did not appear to be malicious and Boromir could not believe that Balin meant any harm.

Indeed, the dwarf talked to the boys several more times before the negotiations finished and all he did was tell them stories of the past. Balin wove the tale of Durin the Deathless and his many resurrections before telling them the story of Thorin Oakenshield's grand quest for Erebor. And while these tale were laced with questions, he did not ask them for details of Gondor's trade or any other secrets that might worry Denethor.

“What color do you think a burglar's door should be?” Balin wondered as he set the stage for the company’s first meeting. And then later: “How could Thorin become so lost in Hobbiton?”

The dwarf looked at Boromir expectantly after every question, though he could hardly do more than guess at his replies. Green simply seemed like the proper color for the entrance to a hobbit hole and Thorin Oakenshield must have been awful with directions in order to be several hours late to the start of his own quest. If the boy could sometimes picture Balin's tales as though he'd been there, this just proved the old dwarf’s talent, his words so vivid that Boromir could sometimes see Thorin's company in his dreams.

Faramir dreamed of dwarves as well and it was he who guessed the most unlikely details, the younger boy convinced that Bilbo Baggins owned a russet waistcoat and Beorn's house was full of bees. However, Balin didn't seem to mind these flights of fancy, his smile growing brighter whenever Faramir spoke up. Brighter and yet almost stricken as though he were on the edge of tears.

Still, both boys enjoyed the stories and Boromir would never refuse his brother anything that made him happy so he just ignored the oddness and let the tales go on.

Indeed, he considered Balin and his companions to be friends in fact as well as feeling by the time the dwarves were ready to depart and both he and Faramir were very sad to see them go. However, the dagger that Balin presented to Boromir on the eve of his departure helped to soothe his sorrow since it was the most beautiful weapon that he had ever seen. The dwarf said it had once belonged to a prince of Erebor but it fit in the boy's hand as though forged for him alone.

Early the next morning, the dwarves of Erebor set out from Minas Tirith, leaving the sons of the Steward nothing but fond memories and a dagger to show that they'd been there.

Boromir thought about the dwarves once or twice over the next few months, whenever something reminded him of one of Balin's tales. But soon he didn't have time to think of anything but Gondor because when the summer ended, Denethor decided to begin grooming his heir properly. His father ordered Boromir to join him whenever the court of Minas Tirith was in session and while he hated to be separated from his brother, the boy was determined to lead their people well. So he listened carefully to his father’s judgments and he found that Denethor’s lessons on ruling came to him easily.

However, while his father taught sternness over mercy Boromir wanted to inspire those he ruled instead of cowing them to obedience. The boy knew deep in his bones that a ruler should be kind as well as forceful, offering punishment only in the measure that a crime deserved, and some of his father’s rants on justice left him cold inside. The Steward was supposed to serve his people not the other way around and to forget that was to invite darkness into lands where light should dwell.

But for the most part Boromir loved his studies; he loved riding out to see his people and listening to their concerns. He loved knowing that he and his father were making their lives better, easing their troubles and ensuring that they could live in peace throughout their days.

Indeed, the only task that Boromir hated was searching through the library for old maps and treaties, studying the judgments of past kings and stewards for advice. Finding out which king had built Osgilliath or brought the northern reaches into Gondor was just plain boring and he'd always learned best by working things out for himself. Of course, someone still had to do the research but Boromir managed to pawn most of that work onto his brother soon enough.

Faramir loved the library as much as his brother couldn't stand it; the younger boy found their kingdom’s history as fascinating as any epic tale. He talked about it with such enthusiasm that Boromir couldn't help but listen and eventually he decided that the library might not be as awful as he’d thought.

Because those books gave the sons of the Steward common ground now that they were spending so much less time together, Faramir explaining his discoveries to Boromir each evening once they’d retired to their room. The boys discussed the successes and failures of kings long past, bouncing ideas off each other late into the night. These conversations were as much for their own comfort as for the lessons that they learned and indeed, they needed this solace from their father's watching eyes. For the higher that Denethor's elder son rose in his estimation, the lower his younger seemed to fall.

Nothing that Faramir did was ever good enough for their father and the library became one of the few places that the younger boy could hide. The other was the archery range, Faramir's love of books and bows continuing to grow by equal bounds.

Soon Faramir was the finest young archer in all of Gondor and Boromir was counted just as deadly with sword or dagger now. Indeed their skill was far beyond what their years and experience should grant them, their trainers whispering that the sons of the Steward had been born with weapons in their hands. However, the soldiers of Minas Tirith were never jealous of the young men's good fortune because neither boy ever put on the sort of airs that their father did.

Boromir and Faramir were not afraid to dirty their hands with effort, working alongside those that they would rule someday. They were as polite to the city's bakers as to its noblemen and their people loved them for their grace.

So the sons of the Steward lived and learned and forgot their odd reactions to the dwarves of Erebor. Balin's stories had been just that, stories, and if the dwarf's dagger still held pride of place on Boromir's belt, that was due to its quality alone. Even Faramir's dreams were not as fey as they had been, Boromir's little brother murmuring of women in his sleep instead of orcs and dragons, such thoughts only natural for a boy his age.

But then the dwarves returned and five years of forgetting disappeared in the blink of an eye.

- - -

This time Boromir and Faramir were standing with their father when the dwarves of Erebor arrived, though Faramir knew that he had only been included because of his brother's pleading not because Denethor actually wanted him around. The Steward never wanted to see his younger child; it was Boromir who shared in his brother's triumphs and soothed the hurts their father caused.

However, today Faramir was feeling almost cheerful because he had always loved learning about other kingdoms and this was Gondor's biggest day of trade. Delegations from the kingdom's far flung outposts had arrived with this year’s tribute and a group from Rohan had brought gifts of friendship from their lands for Denethor. But it was the next party that made Faramir stand up straighter: dwarves from the Lonely Mountain come to trade again.

While goods traveled freely between Erebor and Minas Tirith, no one in these parts had seen a dwarf for years. It was Gondor's traders who brought back jewels and weapons and even Faramir barely remembered the last dwarven delegation anymore.

He did remember that Balin had told the most amazing stories, tales so real that his listeners felt as though they had lived them by the time that he was done. Faramir would love to hear those tales again now that he was older; he wanted to write them down so that future generations could share the wonder that he'd felt.

But when the leaders of the dwarven group stepped forward, it was not Balin who caught the archer's eye. For while Faramir thought that a number of the dwarves looked familiar, it was the dwarrowdam standing at the party's head who nearly brought him to his knees.

That is what my mother looked like, the archer thought with utter certainty, though he had never been able to remember her face the way his brother could. It didn't matter that she was said to be as blond as Boromir and taller than their father; he knew in his bones that this dwarrowdam was his mother's double and Faramir stepped off the dais without a second thought.

“What are you doing?” Boromir hissed behind him. But Faramir ignored his brother, all of his attention focused on the dwarven Lady who was holding out her hand.

“Hello, my son. It is so very good to see you,” she said with a brilliant smile and while the language was not Westron, Faramir understood her perfectly.

“I know you. How do I know you?” the archer asked.

“It is Durin’s Gift; the second chance that Mahal grants his most beloved children when they die too soon. You were my sons, you and your brother, but you were slain in the Battle of Azsâlul'abad and I thought you lost to me. I should have known that Mahal would listen to my pleas. You remember me because I was your mother and while some new lives do not remember those they knew before so clearly, you always were sensitive to the magic of this world.”

Her words raised as many questions as they answered but before Faramir could ask anything more, someone shoved him to the side. It was Denethor, the Steward pushing his son out of the way so that he could glare down at the dwarrowdam.

“What did you do to my son?” Denethor demanded, the archer warmed by this protectiveness for one brief moment before his father ruined it. “Faramir is useless enough already; do not addle his mind further with your spells.”

“I cast no spell, Steward,” the dwarrowdam replied. “I merely told young Faramir the truth. He and his brother are mine as much as yours and while I do not plan to take them from you, you should think twice before trying to keep a mother from her sons.”

“Faramir, what is she talking about?” Boromir asked, drawing the archer's attention away from the increasingly heated argument. “Why would that dwarrowdam have any claim to match our father’s and since when do you speak dwarvish anyway?”

“You mean you didn't understand her?” Faramir asked, looking up at his brother in surprise. Boromir must have understood the dwarrowdam – Dís, an inner voice supplied. “How could you not understand her? We are her sons reborn.”

“That is crazy, little brother, perhaps the maddest thing you've ever said. We are men not dwarrows and she can't possibly be right.”

“Why not? You know the dreams I used to have: dreams of dragon fire and orc-strewn battlefields. What if they were not dreams but memories? Tell me, brother. Tell me that those dwarves do not look familiar; tell me that Dís does not look familiar and I will never speak of this again.”

Faramir knew that he had won when his brother refused to meet his gaze, scowling down at the floor before sighing heavily.

“Fine. If this is madness then we share it, though that does not make it true,” Boromir finally admitted. “You never could do things the easy way, could you Faramir? Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk down our father before he starts a war with Erebor.”

Indeed Dís and Denethor looked close to blows already and it was never a good sign when the Steward turned that particular shade of red. But Boromir had always been able to make the stubbornest souls see reason and he waded into the fray without fear. Faramir watched as his brother defused the situation, their father listening to Boromir as he would never have listened to his younger son's advice.

“You cannot simply throw these dwarves from Minas Tirith,” Boromir said once Denethor had finally stopped his shouting. “And while I have never put much store in reincarnation, I do not believe that Lady Dís is lying now. We share a connection that I would beg your leave to understand more fully, for my sake if not for Faramir's.”

“The dwarves of Erebor may stay until their business is concluded and not a second more,” the Steward decreed. “But if you must speak with this dwarrowdam, then I will not stop you. Just do not forget where you belong.”

“Do not worry about that; we are sons of Gondor through and through,” Boromir promised, bowing deeply to Denethor before turning and offering the dwarrowdam his arm. “My lady, shall we move this discussion somewhere more private?”

“Of course,” she agreed with a disdainful glance at the watching courtiers and then holding out her hand to Faramir. Only then did Dís allow Boromir to lead her from the throne room, a scion of Gondor on each arm.

Several members of the dwarven delegation broke off to follow them while the rest began to make their case to Denethor, a negotiation that was bound to last for days. Which meant that Boromir would have plenty of time to test the veracity of Dís' claim and if she was lying to his brother, there would be hell to pay.

- - -

Boromir led the dwarrowdam and her companions to the Queen's Garden – the space long out of use after his mother's passing and protected from any prying eyes. There he settled on a bench next to his brother and got straight to the pint.

“What proof do you have of what you claim?” Boromir asked. He knew that Faramir believed her but he could not let his brother sway him, not until he knew his heart was safe.

However, while some of the other dwarrows grumbled, Dís took the rudeness of his request in stride.

“Can you not feel the connection?” she said in answer. “Your heart should remember what your mind has forgotten; you told Lord Denethor much the same.”

“My father would never have allowed this conversation if only Faramir had wished it,” he explained brusquely, the internal dealings of his family no business of these dwarves. “And whatever familiarity I may feel does not make me a copy of your son.”

“Of course you are not a copy, child. A soul is shaped by the world around it just as steel is molded by a hammer and no second life is exactly like the first. But your differences do not mean that I am lying and if you required proof, I will tell you of my sons.

“Their names were Fíli and Kíli and they were the great lights of my life. Fíli was the elder and looked out for his brother, his patience needed to handle Kíli's escapades. He was blond and fair and truly skilled with bladed weapons, a skill Balin has told me that you share. My elder son never cared much for books and lessons but that did not mean he wasn't clever, he simply preferred to work out problems for himself. Indeed Fíli was well loved amongst our people despite his moments of ill temper, that child much too stubborn for his own good sometimes.

“I am afraid such stubbornness runs deep in our bloodline for my younger son was much the same. Stubborn and reckless with the knowledge that his older brother would always be there at his side. But Kíli was not content to wait for rescue; he was a skilled warrior in his own right and he gave as good as he got in any fight. His preferred weapon was the bow and arrow and when his uncle gave him his first quiver, I thought that he would never cease his smiling.

“Unlike his elder brother, Kíli loved books as much as he loved archery, though you would not know it at first glance. Books and tales and ancient stories; my youngest was endlessly curious about the larger world. Kíli wanted to see distant lands instead of only read about them and I could not deny either of my sons when their uncle decided to reclaim Erebor. Perhaps I should rejoice that their quest succeeded and their names will be remembered by our kin forevermore. But I have missed my children dearly in the years that they've been gone.”

It took Boromir a moment to find his voice for the grief in Dís' words stole his breath away. His heart ached with a formless longing but he was not ready to believe that she spoke truth that easily.

“I am sorry about your sons but superficial similarities do not make us dwarves reborn,” Boromir said, cutting off his brother's protest with a sharp motion of his hand. Faramir had always been too trusting and this could still be an elaborate con, every word designed to tug at their sympathies. “Our loyalty is to Gondor and our father's house.”

Yet these words just made the dwarrowdam smile wider and her companions traded glances back and forth as though Boromir's suspicion only proved their point.

“Do not fear, my children,” Dís responded. “We do not wish to take anything that is not freely given and I would never ask you to break the oaths you swore. I only wish to see you grow and prosper as my sons did not have the chance to do before. However, if you must have proof that you can touch, I can give you these.”

The dwarrowdam held out her hand, Boromir's eyes catching on a glint of silver in her palm. But before he could figure out what she was holding, Faramir moved past him and picked up her offering.

“I remember these,” the archer said, raising two silver hair clasps to the light. He looked as though he had found a long-forgotten treasure and when he turned to Boromir, he did not have the heart to deny his brother one more time.

So he accepted the second hair clasp from Faramir and he did not shut his mind away from the whispers that it raised. There was an echo here, an echo of a smile and a fond farewell at parting, the ghost of a mother's kiss upon his brow. Yet he did not remember these clasps, not the way his brother did.

“If you truly recognize them, that is proof enough for me,” Boromir said, letting go of this battle for his brother's sake. Faramir deserved a parent who cared about him and even if Dís was only seeing the ghosts of her fallen children, that was more than Denethor had ever done where his youngest was concerned. The sons of the Steward had learned to take kindness when they found it and while the dwarves of Erebor might well be mad, there was nothing but kindness in their eyes.

Indeed, the moment that Boromir spoke, the dwarves rushed forward as though his words had been the signal that they were waiting for. Dís pulled Faramir into a hug while her companions patted Boromir on the shoulder, introducing themselves with names that rang like bells within his chest.

Dwalin, Balin, Nori, Dori, Glóin, Bofur, and Bombur, nearly everyone had made the journey, and while Boromir was not ready to declare these dwarrows family, he could not keep the smile off his face.


The dwarves remained in Minas Tirith for nearly a month before Denethor finally managed to finalize a new trade agreement and remove their claim to his hospitality. Indeed, Dís’ companions dragged their feet as much as possible throughout the negotiations and their Lady used the time that she was given well.

The dwarrowdam spent many hours with Boromir and Faramir and sometimes she thought her heart would burst from the joy and grief of it. The sons of the Steward were so like her fallen children, even if Boromir still did not wish to admit it, and most of the differences could be attributed to Denethor's uneven hand.

The Steward's mistreatment of his younger son made Dís' blood burn with fury, only the need for peace between their kingdoms keeping her weapon in its sheath. Instead the dwarrowdam did what she could with words to shield Faramir from his father's anger and it was this protectiveness that finally thawed his brother's heart.

“Faramir needs more friends within these halls,” Boromir confided to her one afternoon after Denethor had gone ballistic over a damaged treatise, only her intervention saving Faramir from serious injury until his brother talked their father down. “He smiles more now than he has in a long while and I'd tell him to go with you if it wouldn't break his heart. So if you are playing some long game that I cannot see, do not hurt my brother at the end of it. If you hurt Faramir, I will destroy you whether you be mad, foolish, or truly the mother of my heart.”

Boromir meant every word; he guarded Faramir as fiercely as Fíli had protected Kíli's happiness and Dís had to look down to hide the moisture in her eyes. Her sons had always been brothers, loyal to each other first and foremost, and she did not have words to explain what it meant to know this had not changed in their new life.

So the dwarrowdam simply laid one hand on Boromir's shoulder and promised, “You need fear no harm from the dwarves of Erebor. I swear that you and your brother will never lack for allies as long as any of the Sigin-tarâg still walk this earth. Call and we will answer. Weep and we will hold you. Bleed and we will destroy your enemies. For you are sons of Durin in soul if not in flesh and sons of Durin never stand alone.”

This vow was as true as any that Dís had ever spoken and it was one she meant to keep. The dwarves of Erebor would guard Denethor’s sons against all evil and when Mahal finally claimed them, Boromir and Faramir would be remembered as the princes that they were.


Tags: Dís, angst, fic, gen, lotr, minor pov, the hobbit
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