Chapter 29: As if the world were mist
The silence of Orthanc was perpetual, like the world itself had ceased to exist beyond the doors of Saruman's study. The wizard's shaking hand still rested on the Palantír, though his strength was waning greatly. The struggle had been longer and harder than he had expected, but now… now his prey was finally within his grasp, drawn to this place, from whence there was no escape safe through the darkest of forbidden rituals. The former Istari smiled, it was a fitting punishment, as fitting as he could think of and now it was time to seal the fate of his victim and defy Gandalf for one last time.
How often had his old friend underestimated him? A lot, Saruman liked to think. But Mithrandir's greatest mistake had always been to underestimate what people would do to accomplish their goals. There were fools and heroes dying for the cause and there were those who died knowing their blood would unleash their final revenge. From the wide sleeve of his robe Saruman pulled the dagger, a black blade he had found in the deeps of this Tower when he had come here so many lifetimes ago. Turning the tip against himself, he sank forward, his exhausted body finally succumbing to the fatigue. And as his blood touched the Palantír and the stone floor at his feet, Orthanc awoke – the darkness whispering in the silence and the writings on the wall moving. The mighty tower finally woke to the call of the night.
TRB
The Temple of the Dark in Minas Morgul was small, an almost unimportant building situated near the destroyed royal gardens of old. Built from the dark granite of the surrounding Mountains of Shadow, it was an almost austere, simple hall, lacking the splendor of the great Temples of the Dark in the East, or the exotic beauty of the temples in the South. To Shakurán the small building often looked like an ill-maintained compromise, grudgingly permitted by the Witch King. While the worship of the Great Lord had been made mandatory in the Easterling Empire since Emperor Jadhur emerged victorious from the ashes of the Great Imperial Succession and took the throne, no such rules applied in Mordor itself.
It was a contradiction he had not understood when he had been sent to serve in the dread city more than two decades ago. The Eye of Barad-Dûr did not care whether or not its soldiers kept the faith in the Great Lord, as long as they were loyal. As the years passed Shakurán had seen many of his comrades who served in the city stop going to the Dark Temple. Serving in Minas Morgul changed any man, Shakurán was well aware of that fact. Navigating the currents between the Nazgûl Lords and playing the deathly politics between them came at a high price. He also knew that the Empire regarded any soldier who had been stationed in Minas Morgul for more than a few years lost, someone the Empire would not welcome back home, because the change ran too deep.
Shakurán was alone as he kneeled in the simple temple hall. Even the Temple Guards and the Guardian of the Dark Fire kept their distance from him. He knew why. They could see the pale patterns carved into his arms and shoulders, the ancient ritual marks of the Soul Sacrifice he was preparing for. The marks had been drawn in the great temple at Cymarkhan. It was as much as the Guardian of the Dark Fire there could have done. It took dedication to slowly open oneself to the night, until the marks would slowly become dark. Once they all were filled with shadowy lines, the preparations would be complete. As such Shakurán understood why he had been chosen for this task, although he still disliked the thought of using such a dishonorable weapon against Minas Tirith. Because the marks would only fill for someone truly dedicated, who kept undergoing the Calling and the Embrace of the Darkness until the Marks would be filled.
He smiled grimly. Who was he fooling here? His own brother had played a hand in that decision, insinuating that Shakurán was unreliable, and when he found no ear in the Witch King's court, he had pulled the strings he had in the command hierarchy at Barad-Dûr. The result were these preparations, and a yet undecided order when to finish the rite. Shakurán looked up to the dark flame, trying to focus; he found performing the Embrace here quite hard. The Temple lacked the presence other temples had, the deep resonating echoes of the night eternal. Or maybe he had felt like that about nearly every temple he had encountered since… since returning from the ruins of Númenor. What he had experienced in the Temple of the Great Lord at the island went beyond anything he had ever felt in any temple on the mainland, and that included the greatest temples of the Empire.
He closed his eyes and pictured the mighty dark halls again, the statue of the shadow warrior above the chalices of the black fire, the powerful echo of the night eternal. The words came by themselves as Shakurán's voice rose in the chant of the Calling, as he felt the flames reach for him and the darkness's unfurling might wings around him. It was glorious, exhilarating to feel the dark storm brush him like wings that would carry him to the void itself. And like back then, in the temple on Númenor, he suddenly felt like the great statue was directly looking at him. His mind was severed from his body as the wings of the Night carried his soul up and towards an unknown place. Shakurán did not struggle; his mind spread its wings to fly and follow the call.
TRB
The refuges were cluttering the road in an endless column pouring into Minas Tirith. Kíli knew that the populace was fleeing the Enemy advance, seeking refuge in their fortress city. But it was slow going; many of them were women and children struggling on their way across the Pelennor. In spite of the dangers Minas Tirith had dispatched troops to help them along and fend off whatever Enemy forays were already hounding them. So far the Enemy seemed uninterested in a hasty advance, reinforcing their position in the ruins of Osgiliath. It gave them at least a little time to get the people out of their reach.
Kíli and many of the dwarves had joined the troops going out to aid the fleeing people. In the perpetual grey light, a night never quite ending, they saw better than Menfolk. The crossroads they stood at was five miles from the city gate and here several smaller country roads convened. He heard the crack moments before a particularly old farmer's cart broke down. An old woman and two small children were on that cart along with whatever possessions they had brought along. Kíli strode over. It took only one glance to see that the hind wheel was pushed out of angle, and the cart was hanging half in the dust of the road. Bifur was there nearly the same moment. Kíli grabbed the cart's corner and spanned his arms to pull it up to allow Bifur a look at the problem. "The axle?" he voiced his own guess about why the cart had broken.
"Only the hanging this time," Bifur replied, slipping further under the damaged wagon. "Though this old axle will not last them much longer either."
Kíli saw the questioning looks of the old woman and her grandchildren. Her bewildered eyes made it quite clear that she was not sure what to think of the strangers aiding her, or of the strange tongue they spoke. Like always when talking to Bifur, Kíli had spoken old Khuzdul. He knew that Bifur understood Westron quite well, but he had always spoken the ancient dwarven tongue to the friendly older dwarrow.
"There." Bifur came up from below and pushed the wheel back to the center, where it aligned correctly. "That should do it."
Kíli let the cart down. It stood by itself again. "Thank you, Bifur," he said before turning to the old woman and switching to Westron. "The cart should last you until you can reach the city, but be careful how you load it; the hind axle is unstable."
"Thank you, stranger." The old woman bowed slightly before she lifted the children back on the old cart and continued her trek towards the city with the others.
"These should be the last from the southeastern hamlets." A familiar voice made Kíli turn around to see that Brea had approached him. In full armor, with axes on her back, she was hard to distinguish from any of the male dwarves around her. She had shorn her beard the night before and removed all ornaments from her black hair; like many others of her generation she had taken the news of Thorin's death very hard. Nevertheless she had thrown herself into the new task with all her strength.
"Good work, Brea," Kíli said. Her long experience on the roads of Eriador had proven handy in many situations during the day. "Can you take your group ahead to help those closer by the gate? I will check with Boromir if we need to pick up more stragglers."
Hours after a time that should have been evening, had there not been the perpetual darkness surrounding them, the last of the fleeing people made it through the gate of the city. Kíli came with one of the last groups that he had spotted during the ride back. When he came to the gate he saw Dwalin and Boromir standing on the battlements above the gauntlet. He heard Dwalin's deep voice as he walked up to them. "Can't you send them on to your western provinces, Boromir? They don't really want to be here when the Siege begins, and they are additional mouths to reduce the city's supplies and will be of little use once the fighting begins."
"This is a hardy populace, Dwalin." Boromir stood opposite of the older dwarf, his voice firm as they debated the issue. "And they are well prepared for what awaits them here."
Dwalin barked a laugh, a hard, grim laughter devoid of any humor. "Prepared? Do you really believe that, Boromir? This is not Osgiliath where you only had the citadel to hold and a mile of ruins left and right. Nothing… nothing can prepare your people for the horrors of a full siege, for catapults smashing houses and pyrobalistas sending fire over the walls, Drakhár throwing liquid fire barrels, Orcs and monsters storming the walls. Nothing can prepare them for that. Will they still stand when we lose the first wall and they see some of their people captured? Will their resolve hold out when they hear the screams of the captured rise from the Enemy camp? Will they stand when they realize what capture means? The Enemy knows you, and he will know that your people have yet to witness their own children being handed over to the Orcs for their sport."
Kíli could feel Boromir tense and the anger uncoiling inside him. No one liked being told off, and Dwalin certainly had a knack for doing that. "Then we make sure that it does not happen, Dwalin," he said firmly, hoping the old friend would understand the warning. "We keep all populace out of the ring we are fighting in, so they won't be caught up on our retreat. Plan ahead how we get them out of the city and into the Mountains should we lose the fourth ring, because from then on, things will get truly bitter."
"Dwalin has a point, Kíli." Boromir's voice was level, though he still was tense. "The Enemy will pour all the horrors they are capable of against this city. It is what we fought long to prevent…"
How much must he feel that it was a failing on his part now that the war finally reached the walls of the White City? Kíli knew that nothing could have prevented this day from coming, but that made it not any easier on those who had to bear the brunt of the war. He gently clasped Boromir's arm. "And we still are fighting to prevent your people from perishing under the Shadow. What of the road whence we came? Could it be used to send your people to the Western Provinces?"
"Them," Boromir's frown deepened. "They are not very reliable, but maybe this one time the Western Provinces will be of some use. I'll have Faramir send his Rangers to scout the mountain paths for the people and we will send them on immediately, before the Siege can reach us." He turned to gesture Thoroniâr to join them.
The leader of the Tower Guard strode up the stairs to the walls. "Captain?" he asked.
"Send Faramir to me. I need his Rangers to scout the mountain road swiftly." Boromir saw the frown on Thoroniâr's face. It was not much, no more than a small creasing of the brows and a narrowing of the eyes, but he knew the man well enough to read the change of expression. "What is it?"
"Veryan reported to me an hour ago, saying that Lord Faramir vanished from the citadel. He in turn got report from Damrod, when Lord Faramir did not meet with the Rangers this morning." Thoroniâr pointed up to the city. "I have the guard scour every nook and cranny of the city as we speak."
A cold hand brushed against Boromir's back. If the Enemy was smart they'd strike at the one advantage Minas Tirith had in this war: Faramir's gift of foresight. If the Enemy had finally worked out the reason of their successes so far, they would try to kill Faramir. Or catch him. "Search all places in the city large enough for a Drakhár to land on, Thoron, and have a tight lock on the gate. Send Mablung to me, I have need of him."
Kíli turned to Dwalin. "Get Bifur and return to the Undercity, search the place top to bottom. Let me know if you find anything."
Called for by the city guard, Damrod arrived at the same moment. If the Ranger was tense, he hid it well. "My Lord, we did not begin searching immediately when Lord Faramir did not show up, assuming he had been held up by your father…" he began, but Boromir waved it off.
"The city guard will deal with that, Damrod. I need you to take your Rangers and scout the West Road, guide the fleeing people as far as Morningbell's crossing and make sure they stay on their way to the Western Provinces. Then return to the city, by whatever hidden paths you can use."
Damrod's eyes widened slightly. "I was planning on taking a troop of my people back to Ithilien to scout out the Enemy. Once the main host has passed through, we should be able to find out a lot of things from their supply lines. We still have several outposts in Ithilien that might yet stand."
Boromir could see the need for scouting the Enemy lines; they would need such knowledge desperately sooner or later. "Which Ithilien-born rangers do you have who could take that task instead?" he inquired. Faramir would have his hide for preferring Ithilien born and bred Rangers over those from other places, but in Boromir's experience those who had grown up right under the Shadow's wings were the hardiest survivors there were.
"Only Anarion and his group," Damrod shrugged. "And I am loath to send him out. He lost half of his archers during that mad retreat from Osgiliath and he is…"
"Young," Boromir knew that argument; it came up more and more frequently as the war had dredged on. He had long since given up on judging any man by age. Skill was what he needed, and Anarion had proven to have plenty of that. "Send Anarion to Ithilien. I trust him to find out what we need to know. Then take your men to help our people on the West Road."
When Damrod left, Boromir leaned against the battlements, closing his eyes for a moment. Up till now there had been things to see to, things to plan that had allowed him to focus. Now that it was gone, the fear for Faramir welled up inside him. Where might he be? What could have happened?
"When was he last seen?" A deep voice spoke up from his side. He had half forgotten that Kíli was still there, his presence a calm in the middle of the chaos. "And where would he go… if he went on his own volition?"
Boromir opened his eyes and met Kíli's gaze. His friend had just thrown a new thought into the search. "I saw him last night. He left while father and I were still talking; he sometimes does that when he wants to research something or has something occupying his mind." Boromir's eyes strayed to the citadel. With the day never having truly dawned, the nightfall was only a darkening of the skies and the white citadel stood like a beacon of light against the darkness, a bright spark flaring from the highest tower. Jerking from his position against the wall Boromir looked sharply at the Tower of Kings, now consciously seeing the light shine from the arched windows so high above the city. The Palantír, he had not even thought about the fact that there was one in the city, albeit he had a healthy respect for them since his confrontation with Saruman's Palantír. "Kíli, come with me." He hastened down the stairs from the battlements and towards the road to the citadel.
Thoroniâr, ever to know him before he said a word, had quickly two horses brought, so they could ride up the long road to the citadel. The hooves thundered over the flagstones of the winding street as the horses carried them through the seven rings and to the very gates of the citadel. The guards made room, recognizing Boromir, allowing them to ride right into the inner yards of the citadel. Beside him Kíli jumped off the horse, quickly assessing the yard for dangers. "You know where he might be?"
"I am almost sure." Boromir led Kíli to the door of the Tower of Kings. How often had he seen his father and brother enter through this gate, to return exhausted, haunted and with knowledge that would allow them to plan ahead in this war? He had lost count of how often. This door had eaten away his father's strength and shaped Faramir into the man he was today. Boromir would have given his life to spare them the burden they bore, for he had seen the price they paid for it. He pushed the door open and hastened up the long flight of stairs. He had been inside the Tower itself only for a few times; it was the realm of his father and brother, a place where he only came by rare invitation. Today he did not hesitate and neither did Kíli; his heavier steps rang out on the stairs behind him.
The door to the tower's top room stood ajar and an eerie blue light fell from the room. Carefully Boromir pushed the door open. In the middle of the room was the stone table with the Palantír, the blue orb shining in a fierce, bright light, while Faramir lay slumped in the stone chair beside it. His hands had lost contact with the seeing stone, but he was unconscious. He did not react when Boromir touched his shoulder. The only result of his action was that his unconscious body slid from the chair and Boromir gently eased his brother to the ground.
Faramir was pale, his skin almost translucent, his eyes were wide open staring at something no one else could see and they were moving now and then. Boromir felt a tremor run through Faramir's body, of strain or pain, he could not tell. "This should not be happening," he said to Kíli, who had squatted down beside them. "He is not touching the stone any longer, but he does not wake."
"His mind is not with us," an older, sharper voice spoke from the door. Denethor stood there, a torch in hand. "His mind is still linked to the stone. That is why the Palantír is still alight."
"How do we bring him back?" Boromir asked, still holding Faramir's lifeless form close, like his physical presence could somehow protect his little brother. "There must be a way to help him."
Denethor approached them, sitting down heavily in the stone chair. Never had Boromir seen his father so tired, so exhausted. "His mind is walking the spirit world, or is trapped there, Boromir. And for all my knowledge, I never had the gift to walk those paths. I could support your brother, anchor him when he used the stone, lend him strength, but I never had the gift of the sight, to touch the spirit world in that way. And now… Now he is beyond my reach."
"The spirit world… like the Grey?" Boromir's eyes went from his father to Kíli, who had risen and studied the Palantír with keen eyes. What he could see there was beyond Boromir. But at the question the dwarf turned to him.
"The elves claim that the Grey, as we dwarves call it, is akin to the Eälar ambar, the land beyond the physical form, which might indicate that what you call the spirit world is quite the same," he replied, his eyes going forth and back between Faramir and the Palantír. "And as far as I know artifacts, I can tell that there is a… mesh between him and the Palantír as of now. Delving into the Grey and tapping into the stone itself might present a way to bring him back…"
"Can we do it?" Boromir asked, relieved that Kíli knew his way around artifacts and maybe could see a path to help Faramir. Once there was a path it could be followed, if one only truly set one's mind to it.
"It is nothing you should ask of anyone," Denethor said, his voice harsh. "I will assume our guest is an arcane smith – as the talent runs in his blood – to truly tap into the artifact, but by doing so he would risk his life, his soul to reach Faramir, not speaking of the dangers he'd encounter inside that world. And you, my son, lack any training to even try."
"I'll do it." Kíli looked up at Denethor, his gaze calm and steady. "It can be done, dangerous though it might be. Boromir, the risk is that you will be pulled along with me. You have the gift – we both know that – and you shared a vision with me before… and you found me in the Grey."
"Then we go together. Maybe thus we have a chance." Boromir was not afraid of trying. He had walked the Grey to find Kíli and he would do it again to find his brother.
Denethor's eyes surveyed them both sharply, as the old man sat up straight. "It is a great risk you both will take," he said, his voice softening. "But… if it brings Faramir back…" For a moment Denethor's stern façade gave room to a different expression as he looked at his youngest son.
The expression in Denethor's eyes reminded Kíli of his brother, of the day Fíli had learned that Anvari had been poisoned, the day when Wulfregar had been lost in the peak… The worry, the heart-wrenching fear for their children was something the fathers of all races shared, it seemed. "It can be done," he said firmly. "And we will need your help too. For we both will not be able to act in this world while our minds walk the Grey."
"No one will harm you here," Denethor said. "And no one except my family ever comes to this Tower. I would tell a returning King to wait if I knew your lives were hanging in the balance."
Kíli shook his head. "You might be our help to get back," he said. "I will close my fist, once we begin. When you see my hand open fully, drop your torch right onto my palm."
"Kíli…" Boromir knew that Kíli hated brands. He had retained some healthy dislike of them from the events in Goblin Town.
"It will jerk me back, Boromir." Kíli met his gaze, dark eyes asking him to trust him on this. "Our lives might depend on it."
They remained kneeling beside Faramir, with Boromir still holding onto his brother. He saw Kíli close his eyes to focus, to go inside and calm his mind. Boromir could feel the calm, solid and firm like a slab of rock, reach him too. He accepted it, let it reach him, and he tried to relax his mind just as he had on that day in Lothlórien. And around them the world faded.
TRB
They stood in a dark hallway, black walls surrounding them like the Shadow itself given form. It was cold, a heavy silence stretched over the hall, like a blanket stifling all feelings. Boromir looked around; there was a hallway behind them and one before them. Kíli was with him, though his appearance was slightly different here, like a change Boromir could not yet try to understand. Older and edgier, but the same dwarrow all the same.
"Where are we?" Kíli's voice was a soft whisper in the silence of these halls. He raised his hand to touch the wall of the tower, but it melted away from his fingers.
Boromir shook his head, he had no idea all the same. A scream ripped through the silence, a pained, tormented scream coming from somewhere above them. Faramir! Boromir knew with absolute certainty that it was his brother he had heard. Without thinking he chose his path, heading along the hall, or was the hall melting before him? He did not know, but there was a set of stairs leading upwards.
Following the stairs up and further up they reached the top of the Tower. Only now Boromir recognized Orthanc, the dark Tower of Saruman. The Palantír… What kind of trap had been hidden inside the stone? When he looked up he saw his brother. Faramir's form was suspended midair, held in place by bands of fire, chaining him to the very jags of Orthanc, his body withering in pain… Or was it something else tormenting him?
Their surroundings melted and suddenly they were not at the top of the tower anymore, but deep below it, and Faramir was still there, suspended over a pit of fire, chalices of black flame lining the walls. Another figure emerged from the Shadows, a warrior in dark armor, looking around confused. "Boromir! What in the name of the Night Eternal are you doing here?"
Boromir's eyes widened as he recognized Shakurán. The Easterling should not be here. Or was he even here at all? "I could ask you the same," he growled, his eyes going back to Faramir. "And what you are doing to my brother?"
"Your brother?" Genuine surprise reflected in Shakurán's voice as he looked around, like he was only now seeing this place as it was. Then a grim expression settled on his face. "I see what you mean. This won't be easy."
There was it again, the sincerity Boromir had experienced in Shakurán before. By now he was sure he knew when the Easterling was honest and when he was playing games. And this certainly was not a game to him. "So it is not your doing?"
Shakurán cast him a glare. "It is a vision and for all the years of fighting you, I doubt I'd welcome you to my dreams," he said dryly. "Look around you Boromir. What does this place remind you of?"
"Orthanc?" Boromir suggested, his eyes going back to Faramir, whose body had stilled in the moment, like the torment had eased at least for a little while.
"Blessed ignorance!" Shakurán spat, pointing at the dark chalices at the wall. "Did you already forget the temple on Númenor?" He raised his hands and some of the black flames seemed to almost bend in his direction.
The black Temple of Númenor… Now that Shakurán said it, Boromir saw it too. The darkness, the walls written in a writing not quite legible, the deep, echoing silence... the dread. Had Orthanc always been a dark place, even corrupting a wizard in the end? Was this too a black sanctuary? "We need to free Faramir," he said, focusing back on the task. "If you know how to help with that…"
"I should be able to cross the pit of flame and free him," Shakurán replied. "It is a trial I have not yet undergone, but one I often wished to be allowed for."
There was a cold hand brushing against Boromir. Saving Faramir would mean another step down that dark path Shakurán was following. There had been times in the past when Boromir almost believed that the Easterling wanted a way out, but had none. Now he'd even push further into the dark. He looked for Kíli. Maybe his friend knew another solution for the flames, but Kíli was not there. "Where is Kíli?"
"Your dwarf ally? I never saw him in here. Maybe his mind is caught by something else," Shakurán replied, looking around. "It might even be that this place does not allow one of his kind to enter."
It was a decision that Boromir never wished to have to make. Faramir was here, Kíli somewhere else, both in danger. "Get Faramir," he told Shakurán. "If you truly have a way across the pit. I will find Kíli after." He had to make the reasonable decision, do what was possible first, then go for what was hard and hopefully the impossible would be the result.
Shakurán approached the pit. The Easterling did not try to evade the flames licking up from the deep, nor the steel spikes that rose from the pit at irregular intervals. He simply walked on them, never flinching, never hesitating, never fearing. Boromir could sense the darkness amass around Shakurán like a cloak, like a mantle of strength, the blessing of a power that would only bless those who could look at it fearlessly. He did not know how long he had watched, how long Shakurán's endless path across the pit was. But eventually he did reach Faramir and cut him loose. Once freed of the chains, Faramir stood shakily, but Light he stood and was aware. Boromir reached for him and suddenly they both stood on the outer side of the pit, with Shakurán still at the center. The Easterling turned to them. "The next time we meet, you better kill me swiftly, Gondorian," he said, before raising his hands to the flames.
Boromir tried to support Faramir, not knowing if this was even possible in this place, if anything of this was real or if all the world had faded to mist. "We need to find Kíli. Can you hang on, Fari?" he asked him, as the room, the black sanctuary suddenly melted behind them and through swirling mists they found themselves in an unfamiliar landscape.
"I can hold out, brother." Faramir's voice was hoarse, shaken, but he stood and his eyes were clear. "It was too great a risk you took to find me." He looked around, taking in the landscape: a barren hillside, hard rocks shaping a valley with a lake.
"If we are not willing to take risks to find our friends, what kind of friends are we?" Boromir replied, looking around, now slowly recognizing the landscape. "Azanulbizar, Dimril Dale," he said softly recognizing the place now. "Some part of Kíli must still be tied to this grim valley."
"Then we better find him," Faramir said, his eyes searching the grounds and the sight again guiding him towards the lake down in the vale. It was a simple mountain lake, trapped between the huge grey rocks that formed the feet of the Misty Mountains. Even while the skies were dim, the water of the lake shone brightly, like a dark mirror.
When Boromir came close to the lake a feeling of dread, of immediate danger settled upon him. Something was not right. Kíli was here, and yet he was not, trapped in a way they could not see. The lake… The waters of Kheled-zaram were said to show visions. Had Kíli tried to look to find his way? When Boromir's eyes strayed over the surface water he saw shadows in the reflection, like people moving under the water.
Suddenly the picture became clearer and he saw a battlefield: corpses piling everywhere. The mountain valley under the high peak of Erebor had become a field of death, black and red. Red with blood and black with corpses, Orcs and Wargs, Dwarves, Elves and Men all claimed by the same grim reaper. Snow fell unfettered by pain and loss, uncaring for those who had thrown themselves into the Orcs advance before they could smash whatever people remained on this side of Mirkwood. On a high hill, Raven Hill, lay more corpses than anywhere else. Atop the piles were three that Boromir recognized: Fíli and Kíli, both lying in their own blood, and with them Thorin, barely alive. The dying King reached out, trying to grasp their cold hands, his grip failing. He only fleetingly touched Kíli's hand. "I wish at least one of you… could have lived…"
"Fili and Kili had fallen defending him with shield and body, for he was their mother's elder brother."
Boromir did not know to whom the voice belonged, to what scribe recording the events, and he had no wish to know. It was not real and it wouldnever be real, no matter if someone, some master of fate or some almighty wizard thought this was the path. He focused deeply on the bond, reaching for Kíli, calling out for him from wherever he might be now. And he felt the answer. Mahal knew from where, but suddenly the familiar presence of Kíli was with him again, the Mithril chain linking their fate pulling them together anew. For a moment he could see Kíli standing alone on the other side of the lake, surrounded by echoes, or where they ghosts? But the vision waned and the next moment Kíli was with them, a deeply focused expression in his eyes.
The next moment a fiery pain jerked through them, like a piece of coal burning into their hands and the world around them again faded to mists, before they were thrust back into their bodies, waking from the dream at the top of the Tower of Kings.
TRB
Miles to the East Shakurán rose from his vision at the dark temple. He did not need to look down at his arms to know the patterns carved into his skin were almost completely filled with black. He could feel the dark energy seeping slowly through the patterns, ready to be unleashed, ready to transform his soul into a sacrifice that would bring horror and fear to the hearts of his Enemies. He slowly rose. There was no stiffness, nor exhaustion he could feel. He was fresh, strong and ready to face battle. He thought of what had happened in the vision and he wondered if Boromir had understood what he had said. Without paying any further heed to the Guardian of the Dark Flame who stared at him in obvious confusion if not envy, Shakurán walked from the temple and out into the dread city. The armies to cross the river were amassing, Osgiliath was already taken. Their time had come.
Author's Note
This chapter comes again with big hugs and thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who put lots of work into this chapter. Thanks, my friend, you rock! *hugs* Don't forget to check out her profile, as she is writing nice stories as well!
