He watched as the blood spread and seeped into the cracks between the formerly white tiles. Tiny rivers ran between those cracks, meandering their way through the valleys of the tiles. Crimson cracks beneath a white facade. The Iron King watched, for a long breathless moment, enthralled.

Then the spell broke and he sheathed his sword, returning once more to his throne. He did not call for his guards, nor any servants to move the body. The thought did not occur to him. He sat on his pristine white throne and stared at his hands, and the crimson cracks across his palms.

Why do they all betray me?

Why did it always have to end like this? Time after time, no matter how much he tried to reason with them, in the end one after another, they had all betrayed him. Couldn't they see he was doing his best? Why did none of them want peace?

Rebellions, uprisings, conspiracies, he would wipe them all out. He had achieved peace in Gondor, and restored Arnor. The rest of Middle-Earth would fall into line. They had to. It was folly to stand against him, folly to choose war over peace.

Peace must be bought. Even at the highest price.

He had paid that price. Over and over, he had paid it until he had nothing left to give. He was alone, and he had nothing left. But he could not allow his Kingdom to fall into war and suffering again. He would not allow that. He rubbed his neck absently, feeling the bite of the chain there. He had to protect his people.

The dead man still lay on his floor, sightless eyes open and accusing.

"You betrayed me first," he hissed at the dead man, his fingers wrapping around the Ring at his neck. "I kept your secret and this was how you repaid me. Backstabbing and lies all along."

That's right. They were all liars, all traitors.

The pool of blood inched wider, a spreading corruption over the tiles. How easily nobility turned to treachery, he mused. Was there none he could trust?

None but yourself.

The people, he supposed, would have questions about this death. They had loved him dearly, even before the coming of their King. He had been their noble darling, their captain, their most loyal son. How shocked they would be to discover his dark secrets, his uttermost shame. When combined with attempted regicide, the entire lineage would be cast into darkness, a line of traitors whose names would be banned from use.

He needed to act swiftly, once the body was discovered or people would start to doubt, to have too many questions. Though perhaps it might be useful to lure his traitor brother out of hiding again. It would be good to know where the rebellion was hiding, so that he might snuff them out. It was proving to be a thorn in his side.

The Iron King, lost in thought, froze as he reached the bottom steps of his throne once more. The traitor had left the doors to the throne room open when he had so rudely barged in, crying challenge. The Iron King always kept the doors firmly shut when he was upon his throne. He just—

He could not stand the noise.

Singing echoed faintly through the corridors, a rough and broken sort, that might have once been beautiful. The haunting melody reached the Iron King, who flinched, recognising the rising cadence of the words, the soft lilts of a lament older than even the singer.

Elvish!

The Ring burned against his chest and the Iron King pressed his hands against his ears, screwing his eyes shut. Make it stop! He could not take it, let him stop that infernal singing! He had banned that wretched language for a reason.

—Elrond singing soft lullabies when the storms kept him awake; chattering with Erestor in the library, faltering over the ancient Quenyan words in the books; Elladan and Elrohir, laughing, lifting him higher and higher; Glorfindel, mysterious but lighthearted, teaching him poetry older than the Sun; Arwen whispering promises and love, her hand soft upon his cheek—

Aragorn let out a soft wail of despair, caught between memories and the pain, and then his fingers grasped the Ring once more and the spell was broken.

The Iron King straightened up, fury flashing through him as he clutched the Ring like a drowning man. He had only moments to act this time. This time he would not be merciful. They had been warned. He booted aside the corpse as he strode ahead, his entire focus fixed on the dungeons and the torturous singer within.

This time, he would rip his tongue out if he had to. If only so that he might have peace.