Disclaimer: All rights go to JRR Tolkien and Peter Jackson, respectively. Anything you don't recognize is mine.
Quick A/N: Sorry about another horrendously late update. Life and alternately writing another Hobbit fic kinda takes its toll. However, I would just like to take a moment and have a prayer circle that we are finally done with the Eastlands after this chapter and can get into the good stuff of why I took the plot in such a crazy direction in the first place. Be prepared, is all I have to say...
Thanks for all the new favorites/follows, and thank you so much for the reviews! The chapters were a little wonky last time and I couldn't tell who had already reviewed and such, but thanks to everyone who did, all the same!
(Also, shoutout to you guys for getting this story past 100,000 views this week. Like, holy shit. Thank you so much for reading my weird thoughts!)
Happy reading!
Chapter Fifty-Five: Heroes Chained in Bone
It was strange, Eleon thought, that after suffering through so much evil and despair, how the world could go back to the way it was, as resilient as a mountain, hardly affected at all even when so many beings that lived within it were changed forever to fit the course of its history.
But, also like a mountain, perhaps the changes were slowly eroding it, the world, weathering and molding it over centuries to turn it into something that seemed so natural, yet so different from how it began.
That was the March of Time, he supposed; a cycle of change, small in scale at first, but having the potential to shake the foundations of the earth itself.
These were the thoughts that plagued him as his horse carried him through the Birchwoods of Nimbrethil, the dappled grey mare keeping a steady pace despite the sinking mud under her hoofs and the pattering rain coming from above, tapping on the leaves around them and offering the only sound in the otherwise silent forest.
It was this silence that Eleon Ashburne sought, a reprieve from the ever-changing world around him and the horrors of a past he saw every time he closed his eyes. The War of Wrath may have ended five years ago, but the nightmares never went away; they would linger until the end of his long days, as he had told the White Lady some moons ago.
"If you see no hope for yourself, no chance to go back to the life you once knew, then why do you stay, Lith-nórui?" He heard the Lady Galadriel say once more, seeing her wise blue eyes boring into his with a wisdom that struck fear into his bones, yet awe, as well, her hair akin with starlight as it shone softly around her fair face.
It had been one meeting, but it was enough to change the way Eleon viewed his world, the world he had suffered so much for.
"No longer will I stay," he had said. "My sister is slain, my own brothers betrayed themselves to their deaths, and my eldest kin sails for the Undying Lands. The Ashburne Line is no more; we are a remnant of the greatness we had been bestowed. There is nothing left for me here, my Lady."
She had frowned then, the stars seeming to dim a bit at the almost crestfallen expression.
"Then you will forget this world? You will leave it all behind because your grief is not easy enough to bear?"
"I will leave it because I have no choice," he nearly growled.
"The Valar gifted your House with the Blood of Heroes," she reminded him firmly. "Your line carries valor and courage beyond any mortal Edain or immortal Eldar that has traversed this earth. If you leave, your line will be broken. This gift shall never be granted to another."
"My line shall endure without me here," he told her softly. "This I have already made sure of."
And that was the last time he had seen her – or anyone else in this world, for that matter. Arda was a tomb to him now, a final resting place that he would never return to. But the Lady had been right; this gift would never be given to another of any race, and he owed it to his kin to see their blood continue to flow through the veins of Middle-earth.
The Line of Heroes of Men would prevail, even if he would not be there to witness it.
Looking up from beneath the hood of his cloak, Eleon saw the tree before him, and he sucked in a sharp breath, recognizing it instantly, as it had looked the same way in his dreams: an eerie, burned husk of an ash tree, surrounded by vivacious birches, and, even though it was raining, he still saw the golden outline of the tree, as if a setting sun was bleeding behind it.
Eleon dismounted from his horse, patting her rump to send her on her way; he would have no more need of horses beyond this point.
Drawing a dagger from his waist (his sword, like his siblings' weapons, he had gifted to Lord Elrond before departing), he approached the tree, making a shallow cut on his palm that allowed his blood to come forth, smearing it on the tree's charred trunk before gazing to the West.
"Manwë Súlimo, Varda Elentári, heruion cemna," he began. "Allow my soul to leave this world, but keep forever the blood of my forefathers, and let it flow evermore into the hearts of the Heroes to come. My time has waned; let my children come forth as champions of your world, and welcome them as the warriors they will become. May their spirits never die."
While he spoke, the simple rain transformed into that of a raging storm, the sky growing darker as thunder rumbled from far away and lightning licked at the tops of the trees. Raising the dagger, Eleon sank the blade into the tree, all the way to the hilt as he began to cut into it a hole that would take him across the universe itself – if the Valar even accepted his offering.
"One choice may cost you," Galadriel's voice warned him one last time, and Eleon's cutting faltered for a moment before he continued, as if he could drown out the she-Elf's voice with the sound of iron splintering wood. "You are defining your descendants for centuries to come. Not all their blood will be as pure as yours after this, Lith-nórui. Think of the fates you are subjecting them to."
Eleon ignored her, standing back as suddenly an arc of lightning shot down and illuminated the tree, leaving a glowing mark around the hole he had created, and he knew that the Valar had heard his prayers, however grudgingly, as he walked toward the tree, bracing himself for the new life he would find beyond, as Galadriel's voice rang out once more before he was gone forever.
"Darkness will taint their hearts, and their fates will bring Arda to its knees. You have condemned them to doom."
"This is it?" Alison asked incredulously, as her eyes took in the desolation before her. "These are the Sand Tombs?"
Her first impression was something that quite resembled Stonehenge, yet more depressing and pathetic. Six spires of rock, smooth and marbled from the years of wind and sun and sand, stood in a circle at the top of a dune it had taken Alison and Jonathan most of the morning to climb, illuminated by the early afternoon light that baked the landscape.
Jarkhun lay some distance behind them, only a wink of light amongst the desert from the sun spires, but Alison had half a mind to go back and demand Racor Rakshara if this was some kind of joke, as there was nothing around them that would indicate where the Sand Tombs were, other than these stupid rocks.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Alison asked, turning to Jonathan beside her, who stood hunched and squinted against the bright light, rubbing his forehead, and Alison guessed he was still nursing a hangover after last night. "Maybe you heard Racor wrong—"
"I'm sure," he snapped, holding up a hand to cut off her frustrated questions, and Alison crossed her arms, huffing out an annoyed breath. "His exact words were: 'find the rock spires that face the Western light, and you will find what you seek within them.'"
"What the hell does that mean?" Alison said, looking back to the rocks skeptically. "There's nothing within them except – wow, what do you know – sand."
She emphasized this last part dramatically, and Jonathan sighed, looking as if he were composing himself from wanting to punt her back down the dune.
"You're the one with the Blessing," he said irritably. "You figure it out."
"Well, what about you?" she asked, a thought suddenly occurring to her. "Are you not going to be able to help me, since you don't have the Blessing?"
Jonathan gave her a dry look that made her feel as if she were a stupid child, and she grit her teeth, but said nothing as he replied, "The Blessing is a blood bond. Your blood is tied to Racor's, giving you the power of the Blessing, and, ultimately, me as well, as we are of the same blood."
"Oh," Alison said, for lack of anything better. She should have seen that one coming, she supposed, but considering she tried not to think of her and Jonathan being related in any capacity whatsoever, she wasn't as abashed as she normally would have been.
"So, uh, what do I do, then?" She studied the rocks before them dubiously, though she kept an eye out for anything that would point her in the right direction.
"Maybe you could actually try something instead of standing there gawking at the spires?" He suggested innocently, and Alison shot him a withering look that he ignored.
As much as it irritated her, though, she knew he was right; standing there and doing nothing wasn't going to get them anywhere, and they only had until nightfall to find the Ring.
Hoisting her pack higher upon her shoulders and cringing at the sweat she could feel rolling down her back, she approached the spires cautiously, Jonathan right behind her.
She reached out a hesitant hand, her fingertips brushing the stone, and suddenly it was as if someone had dropped a hazy veil over her eyes.
She blinked and found herself in a vastly disparate place from the desert Eastlands, and she wondered if she was hallucinating before pinching her arm, hard, and cursing when she realized she wasn't.
Instead of the blazing sun and clear blue skies, the air was thick with low-hanging grey clouds and permeating mist, moisture clinging to her skin like a blanket and offering a cooler contrast compared to the sweat she had felt earlier, the temperature at least half of what the heat had been out in the Eastlands. The weather was a gloomy backdrop to the area she was standing in, giving everything a washed out glow and making the place seem downright despairing as she took it all in.
She was standing on a polished, black glass pathway, with a stone plaque before her that spelled out something in runes she couldn't read. Columns lined the pathways, but they supported nothing, only looking like cracked and broken ribs compared to the many statues and tombstones Alison could see scattered throughout the short, neat grass, the memorials still in good shape, even after the number of years they would have been here.
It looked exactly like a graveyard, and Alison couldn't suppress the shudder that went down her spine as she noticed just how haunted this place seemed, the wind rasping around her and the damp chill seeping into her pores, seeming to strike cold deep into her bones as she wrapped her arms around herself subconsciously.
"All right, so what now?" Alison said, turning around to face Jonathan, before realizing that the Second Hero wasn't standing there. "Jonathan?"
A heap of black clothes to her left caught her eye, and she hurried over to the crumpled figure of Jonathan, who lay sprawled in the grass and groaned when she turned him over, worry piercing her stomach despite who she was dealing with.
"Jonathan, what happened?" she asked, as she studied his sallow skin and heard his labored breathing, his black eyes focusing on her dazedly.
"Tombs…don't like…Darkness," he wheezed, tapping his chest with a shaking finger, and Alison pulled aside his armor and gasped as she saw his Mark pulsing an angry red, seeming to twist and convulse on his skin as she watched in horror.
"Then come on," she said, grabbing him by the armpits and hauling him to where she hoped the barrier between the Tombs and the Eastlands would be. "Wait on the other side."
"Can't," Jonathan rasped, and Alison looked down to him with furrowed brows. "Barrier…binding spell. Can't leave until you…get the Ring."
"Can you shadow-travel?" she asked desperately, wanting to get a move on before something undoubtedly bad happened, but not wanting to leave him alone in this creepy graveyard, either.
He shook his head slowly, looking like a doll as his skull lolled limply.
"Just find the damn Ring," he gasped, and Alison nodded, her eyes landing on a small alcove hidden behind a giant ivory memorial that she dragged him over to.
With some difficulty, she pushed Jonathan into the niche and arranged some vines over it to hide him. By the time she was finished with that, Jonathan had fallen unconscious, and Alison prayed that he wouldn't die while she searched for the Ring, considering he was her only ticket back to Erebor.
Sliding a dagger from the sheath at her waist, Alison stepped back on to the glass pathway and slowly began moving forward, deeper into the graveyard. Mist clung to her figure as she walked, and she tried not to imagine voices whispering around her, though it was hard, every horror movie she had ever watched beginning to play in her head at that moment as she went further into the Tombs.
After about ten minutes of walking, the pathway led to a large, white marble structure standing hauntingly in the center of the Tombs, and Alison was strongly reminded of a mausoleum as Ondolissë gave a faint pulse from where it sat in the pouch against her chest. Taking that as a sign she was getting closer, she gripped the dagger tighter and swallowed heavily before making her way forward.
She approached the polished stone doors, Ondolissë beginning to thrum like a second heartbeat, and Alison hesitatingly pushed open one of the doors, coughing when a storm of dust and cobwebs swarmed at her face.
Waving away the debris, she stepped inside and blinked when she was greeted with utter darkness, the only light streaming in through the door behind her and turning everything eerily white.
She could make out the faint outline of a torch somewhere on the wall closest to her, and she groped around until she found it and pulled it from its sconce, sheathing her dagger as she pulled a piece of flint from her pack and struck it on the floor, trying to create a spark she could dab the tip of the torch into, glad that Glóin had taught her this trick so many months ago.
Finally, she managed to get the torch lit, and the tip roared to life with fire, providing golden light within the mausoleum, but to Alison, the addition of the light made everything that much creepier.
She was facing a wall mural that had long since been destroyed, a fine tapestry shredded and trailing forlornly on the floor, and she tried not to notice the animalistic claw marks that had slashed the fabric, nor what appeared to be dark spots of blood soaked into the material. On either side of the mural, two sets of staircases trailed down into further darkness, leading to somewhere underground, she presumed, as she determined which one would lead where.
Ondolissë gave another twinge, and her left foot nudged forward, pointing her to the staircase on the left.
Alison looked down to her chest in alarm, growling under her breath to the Ring, "Do that again and I'm tossing your shiny ass into the Anduin."
The Ring did not reply, thankfully, and with a shake of her head, Alison proceeded down the staircase, moving slowly and cautiously, retrieving her dagger once more as she descended.
The air began to turn musty and vaguely sweet, like rotting wood, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell, not even wanting to imagine what would be down here to emit such a stench. It was silent, too, the only sounds being her footsteps scuffing on the stone stairs and the faint crackling of the torch, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise the longer she was down there.
Finally, her foot found solid ground instead of another step, and she emerged from the tunnel-like staircase to find herself in a room quite like a cathedral, if cathedrals looked like something out of a gothic horror film.
It was a large, round room, made of ivory stones and milky white marble, though with the layers of dust and decay lying over everything and the lack of light, it had all turned a sickly, rotting yellow. Cobwebs stretched from wall to wall above her, and that was when she noticed the faded plaques etched into the walls all around her, though either they were so worn she couldn't read them, or they were just marked with runes – or both, considering the place she was in.
Before her was what really drew her attention, however, and she swept her torch in front of her to see a large, marble and stone tomb, perhaps the only thing that didn't look completely decrepit in this place. Beyond it was what looked like an altar, and as she went deeper into the room, she realized there was a basin beneath it, smelling an awful lot like oil, and she had a sudden idea.
She approached the altar and the basin and dipped her torch into the foul-smelling liquid, the basin immediately shooting up flames that illuminated the room to its full capacity.
It looked no better in broader light than it had when she just had her torch, but she could see behind the altar now what appeared to be a sort of picture hewn into the stone wall.
A man stared down at her from the carved depiction, his eyes glaring and his lips curled back in a snarl, his thin face shrouded with a curtain of long hair. He was very tall and lean in the carving, dressed in fine armor, but what got Alison the most was seeing the two carven hearts the man held in each of his hands, and she now equated him to something feral as she looked back to his curled lips and cruel eyes.
It was only a picture, she knew, but Alison couldn't shake the feeling that she knew who this man was. She had a thought, however, and as she turned slowly to face the tomb, she suddenly realized that this had to be Ivan Ashburne, and before her were his remains.
Ignoring the sensation that the picture's eyes were following her, she descended back to the tomb and placed a light hand on the top, her dagger in the other in case any curse or trap would be triggered if she made a wrong move.
Nothing happened when she touched the tomb, fortunately, and she next traced her fingers over the carved runes in the top of it, not recognizing the writing, but her suspicions that this was Ivan's tomb were confirmed when she saw the crest beneath the runes, the burnt ash tree illuminated by the sun, for it was the same crest that decorated her and Jonathan's armor.
Replacing her dagger once more, she braced both of her hands on the tomb's heavy lid and looked down to the crest, grimacing.
"Sorry about this, man," she said to the tomb, before starting to push on the top.
There was a terrible sound of stone scraping against stone, but Alison kept pushing, not having time to dawdle if she wanted this Ring before nightfall. After several agonizing minutes of pushing and shoving, the top finally shifted enough to where she could see inside of the tomb, though the sight did not please her in the slightest.
It was a skeleton, of course, dressed in ragged, desiccated armor, brown and hollow and grinning up at her, and Alison gagged as the smell of it hit her, something she could only describe as dead.
Covering her mouth with her sleeve as her eyes watered, she glanced down to the skeleton's hands where they lay crossed over the hilt of an ancient sword, but her gaze was drawn inexorably to the gleaming silver ring upon its right middle finger, still bright and unblemished despite however long it had been sitting in this dark tomb.
She felt Ondolissë twitch excitedly against her chest, and with a deep breath, Alison gently wiggled the Ring from the corpse's finger, ignoring the sickening creaks and cracks of its bone, before finally pulling it off with a gentle tug.
"Well, that wasn't too bad—" Alison began to mutter, putting the Ring into the pouch with Ondolissë, when suddenly something latched onto her wrist, and she turned back to see the corpse sitting up in its tomb, one hand still clutched on its sword and the other clinging on to her wrist.
Alison screamed, the sound echoing around the room painfully, and she wrenched her hand from its grasp, stumbling back and reaching for her swords as the corpse sunk slowly back into its tomb, seemingly too lazy to get out and attack her.
She stopped in confusion, her heart hammering, wondering why it hadn't attacked her, until a sudden burning sensation started to flare up her wrist from where the corpse had grabbed her.
She yanked up her sleeve and watched in horror as her skin seemed to burn right above her glove, and she cried out as the pain mounted, feeling as if someone had poured acid on her skin.
Her vision began to go black and fuzzy, and she fell to her knees, grasping her wrist as the floor rushed up to meet her, and she knew no more.
THWACK.
Kíli watched the arrow quiver in the chest of the target practice dummy with a detached sort of satisfaction, notching another into his bow and launching it before the first one had even stopped trembling.
With every shot, he imagined the projectile sinking into Jonathan Ashburne: his chest, his stomach, his eyes – wherever. He didn't care, so long as each shot cost him the most amount of pain and a slow death.
He reached back for another arrow but found the quiver empty, and he sighed in frustration, twirling the Mannish bow in his hands as men and elves practiced around him in quiet concentration.
It wasn't like his Dwarven bow, the one that was taken by the Wood-elves ages ago, but it was sufficient enough to where he could use it, despite its larger size and tauter string. At this point, he didn't care if he was given a stick and a piece of yarn; as long as something was in his hands resembling a bow, the shouting inside of his head could stop long enough for him to concentrate on something other than the rage and guilt simmering beneath his skin.
Setting the bow aside, he approached the straw dummy and reached for one of the buried arrows before stopping, gazing at the target ponderingly.
If it was Jonathan Ashburne he was dealing with, the Second Hero needed something more than a body pumped full of arrows before he was satisfied.
With a sudden roar, Kíli ripped his sword from its scabbard and swung it with a quick movement of his wrist, slicing the blade through the dummy's neck and watching its head fall to the ground with a cold vindictiveness, despite the thing being made of nothing but straw and cloth, and wasn't actually the Second Hero.
Kíli's leg gave a sudden twitch, his old Morgul wound flaring with phantom pain, and he grit his teeth, hobbling over to a low stone bench as he reached for the water pitcher, ignoring the many pairs of eyes now upon him after his sudden outburst.
"If last I recall, I believe Thranduil had sanctioned this level off for archers only," an amused voice said from beside him, and he looked up from his lap to see Tauriel standing above him, a faint smile curling her lips, though her jade green eyes held a glimmer of concern.
"I'll be on my way, then," Kíli grumbled, not in the mood to talk as he stood and sheathed his sword, turning to walk away before Tauriel's voice held him back.
"You know, you are not the only one to grieve over Alison's loss," she said calmly, fixing him with her old stare as he clenched his fists, Alison's name sending a needle of pain through his chest.
"She was loved by all," she continued. "And we must have hope that she will return to us."
"What do you know of love?" Kíli nearly spat, feeling a flicker of remorse for his tone as Tauriel only raised a cool brow.
"I had a family whom I once loved," she replied, holding Kíli's gaze steadily as she spoke. "I love my people. I love the Woodland Realm. I love the stars."
She shot him a wry grin at this, and Kíli looked away uncomfortably, already sorry that he had snapped at the she-Elf.
"Well," he said, clearing his throat. "I'm sorry, then, but I should get going. Thorin may need my help with something."
"Your uncle is in a meeting with Thranduil, Bard, and Mithrandir," she said, halting him in his tracks once again, and he grit his teeth, turning to face her once more.
She fixed him with her scrutinizing eyes and studied him like all elves enjoyed to do, analyzing him from the inside out, it seemed, and picking apart the thoughts that troubled him most.
It was infuriating.
"I do not wish for you to brood alone, either," she continued, when he said nothing. "Come; practice with me."
She held up her own bow, but Kíli shook his head stiffly.
"I've already practiced enough today," he told her.
"Then you can stand there and watch me," she said, a hint of exasperation now lacing her normally cool tone. "But forgive me for my efforts, Kíli; I only wished for you not to isolate yourself once more and dwell on the thoughts that are slowly corroding you from the inside out."
Her tone became hard near the end, and Kíli stared at her blankly, dark brown holding rich green.
He suddenly realized that Tauriel wasn't giving him much choice in the matter, and he stifled a sigh, gesturing to the she-Elf.
"Very well," he conceded. "Lead on."
Tauriel smirked faintly and whisked away into the training grounds, and Kíli reckoned the Captain of the Guard was quite used to getting her away after seeing that smug look as he followed after her grudgingly.
She led him to a far corner of the archery range, where not many soldiers were around to eavesdrop or bother them, and Kíli stood back as Tauriel aligned herself with the target, her body straight and proud as her red hair rippled down her back from her movements.
Without even batting an eye, the she-Elf began to shoot in rapid succession, the action proving for her as simple as breathing, it seemed. Despite his rotten mood, Kíli couldn't help but watch in fascination, her fingers nimble and swift, moving with a grace that still astounded him, even after seeing her and Legolas in action before.
Very soon, her quiver was empty, and she turned to face him with a small smirk. Realizing his mouth was hanging open, he quickly shut it, giving her a brief nod of acquiescence.
"Not bad," he told her jokingly, and she shook her red head.
"'Not bad,' coming from the dwarf who has had centuries less practice than an elf," she remarked sarcastically, and Kíli grinned, following her as she went to retrieve her arrows.
"And how many centuries have you been practicing, O Elf-maiden?" He asked, chuckling when she made a face at the nickname.
"Quite a few," she admitted, pulling the arrows out of the dummy – all, he noticed, having found a solid mark in its chest. "I have been Thranduil's captain for over six hundred years, but lived in the Woodland Realm for about four hundred before that. Five hundred prior was when I was born."
Kíli quickly added up the numbers in his head and let out a low whistle.
"Quite a few," he agreed, and Tauriel chuckled.
"Indeed," she said. It was quiet between them for a few minutes as Tauriel replaced her arrows in her quiver, but when she was done with that she spoke up again.
"I may be old in your eyes, Kíli, but I was not yet born by the time of the War of the Last Alliance," she said, and he met her eyes with some trepidation, wondering where she was going with this. "Thus, I never knew of Jonathan Ashburne when he had first been summoned to Arda.
"But I know that Alison is tenfold the Hero he ever was, and I believe she can overcome him in the end. Do not lose hope, Kíli."
"Why does everyone keep saying that?" he hissed, taking a step back from her, and Tauriel's brows contracted questioningly. "'Don't lose hope,' 'believe that she will return' – I have never lost hope in Alison, and I know how much of a Hero she is. I'm not giving up on her, but Jonathan—"
He swallowed, hard, before continuing.
"Jonathan knows exactly how to break her," he whispered. "He's a lying, manipulative, murderous weasel, and he knows how to make Alison do what he wants. That's how he managed to get her to come with him. And if he has that kind of hold over her—"
His voice broke, and he put a hand to his mouth, rubbing the stubble under his fingers as he blinked rapidly, reminding himself to breathe normally.
After regaining his composure, he glanced up at Tauriel, and found her staring at him with an odd expression on her face.
"What?" He snapped, when she continued to stare.
"Do you truly believe Dol Guldur would offer some clue as to where to find Alison?" she asked abruptly, and he blinked, shocked.
"I do," he said slowly. "But what…"
He trailed off as the she-Elf gave him a significant look.
"No way," he said, his eyes widening and a grin starting to creep over his face. "You wouldn't seriously…"
"Unfortunately, I cannot go with you," she said, lowering her voice as a pair of men walked by, guffawing loudly. "I am already on probation from Thranduil, and he would banish me if he found out I had disobeyed him and left my post again. But I can acquire you an Elven horse and some supplies, and I can help you sneak past the guards tonight, as I will be on rotation and I know their stations. The rest will have to be up to you, I'm afraid."
"What about Thorin, and Fíli?" he asked, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "They will know where I've gone for sure."
"I will try my best to persuade them from coming after you," she said. "But if you do not return within nine days I will lead a party myself to find you. If luck is on your side, then you will reach the Hill of Sorcery within a week, and then we will cross paths on your way back. But that is only if good fortune permits."
"I'll do it," he said immediately. "I can't sit here, on the brink of war, not knowing what happened to her. I have to find out."
He met Tauriel's eyes at this, and the she-Elf smiled, her normally stern features softening.
"Then you will leave tonight?" she asked, and Kíli nodded.
"Tonight."
When Alison came to, it was to find herself face down in dirt, the earthy smell clogging her nostrils and tiny pebbles scraping her face when she lifted her head to see where she was at.
She was no longer in the tomb of Ivan Ashburne (yet she couldn't tell whether that was a good or bad thing so far), but rather, she was lying in the middle of what appeared to be a dirt road, and when she stood up, it was to see that the path in front of her branched off in two different directions, the horizons distinctly blurry, and she realized then with grim amusement that she was at a crossroads.
She glanced down to her wrist, drawing back her sleeve to see that the acidic burns from the corpse's touch had vanished, and she touched the skin carefully, only half-surprised when there was no pain at all.
So a dream, then, she thought to herself. Or a vision. Something like that.
"How clever," a high, elegant voice said suddenly, and when Alison blinked, there was suddenly someone standing before her, a tall, lean man in armor who stood guard at the crossroads as he stared her down with cold eyes.
"I was afraid I was going to have to walk you through the whole 'am I hallucinating?' spiel, and to be frank, I was not looking forward to that," the man continued, and Alison raised a brow, crossing her arms as he rolled his hazel eyes dramatically.
"Ivan Ashburne," she said without preamble, and the man appraised her with a slight grin, though it didn't look friendly at all.
"How could you tell, little warrior?" he asked, and Alison grit her teeth at the name.
"Because apparently being an asshole runs in the family," she deadpanned, and Ivan chuckled, sweeping his dark bangs out of his eyes.
"Well, at least it's good to see our line enduring, I suppose," he said, studying her with his intense gaze. "Especially our attractive looks, thankfully; you're as lovely as a spring flower, my dear."
"Um, thanks," Alison said awkwardly, before waving a hand around them. "So, what's all this for? Last I knew, your freaking corpse shot me up with some weird poison thing, and now I'm here. Why?"
He gestured to her neck. "Open your pouch."
Alison did as he said, scooping out Ondolissë and the Ring she had just obtained from his tomb, and Ivan pointed to the new Ring.
"What you so rudely took from my tomb there is the Lesser Ring Eressë," he informed her, and Alison looked down to the silver ring in silence. "In Common, it is often called the Ring of Solitude, or the Ring of Silence."
"So, what exactly does it do?" she asked.
"It gives the bearer solitude in their mind," he said, gesturing around them. "And some other minor things, of course, but since that Ring is bonded to me and me only, then I'm afraid you can't access those special features."
"What do you mean, it's bonded to you only?" she demanded. "Can't I just whip a glove off and put it on and boom – suddenly it's bonded to me?"
"Oh, my," Ivan said, in faux sympathy. "You never learned all your lore, did you, my dear?"
"Guess not," she replied stonily, as her mind worked to process this information. "But I'm assuming that once a Ring is bonded to you, it can't be used by another?"
"I never said it couldn't be used by another," he said, raising his brows. "But, yes, if the Ring is not bonded to the bearer, then the full extent of its powers can't be used."
"But some can," she finished darkly, clenching her fists.
"Ah," Ivan said knowingly, meeting her eyes as he stared at her coolly. "You were hoping Jonathan's plan would amount to folly, weren't you?"
"Wouldn't you?" she snapped, not even bothering to ask him how he knew of Jonathan's plan in the first place. "He's trying to destroy this world! Sauron and the orcs I couldn't care less about, but he wants everything gone. The Valar, the Free Peoples who live here – he wants our line diminished. He wants to end the Ashburne legacy with me, and he thinks he can get his way if he uses these Rings to rip down the veil between our two worlds, inevitably corrupting them or destroying them either way. Would you want that to happen?"
When he said nothing, Alison went on, the all too familiar sensation of rage pulsing against her ribs like roaring waves once again.
"You stayed here in Middle-earth," she said imploringly. "Obviously you found something in this world worth staying for. Would you like to see it destroyed, and whatever it is you remained for be taken with it?"
Ivan looked away uncomfortably, clearing his throat multiple times.
"I'm afraid I cannot answer those questions," he said impassively, and Alison shook her head, biting her lip as tears threatened to fall. "All I'm here for is to offer you guidance before you make a decision."
"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice scratchy, yet she had a sinking feeling she knew what was coming.
"Your choice between staying here in Middle-earth, or crossing the veil back to the mortal world," he said, and she openly sighed, frankly quite tired of this reminder being shoved in her face every couple of months.
"Whatever speech you have prepared for me, save it," she grumbled, holding up a hand and interrupting him. "I know what my choices are, but I still have a quest to get through before we reach that point. So, thanks, but no thanks."
"You still have to weigh your options evenly, Alison," he said, watching her carefully. "Perhaps you're still too fresh here in this world, but Middle-earth is not all it seems."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" she said.
"While we Heroes have been granted extended life here, it is not all its chalked up to be," he replied ominously. "Something happens to us Heroes here when we choose to live in this world versus the mortal one. I don't know how to explain it…but it corrupts us. Mortality and magic…they were never supposed to mix. We are both mortal and magical, but our mortality gets…damaged here. Like it turns against us, almost."
"That makes no sense," Alison said flatly, figuring Ivan was spouting crap just to scare her. "The Valar bring us here to help them, why would their world kill us in the process?"
But Jonathan's voice suddenly whispered in her ear, "Pawns…dispensable little Heroes…we are nothing to them…"
She shut his voice down quickly, though she couldn't stop the shiver that ran down her spine at the thought that maybe Jonathan held an inkling of the truth after all…
"Still," Ivan said, shrugging his shoulders. "You must make one choice or another after all of this is over."
He tilted his head left and right, indicating the crossroads behind him, and Alison nodded.
"I understand," she said quietly, before clearing her throat. "Now, can I get back to my actual self and get the hell out of the Sand Tombs before that Blessing wears off?"
Ivan winced at that, and Alison fixed him with a glare as she said, "Please don't tell me it wore off in the time that I was here with you."
"All right, I won't tell you," he said, and she groaned. "Some advice, though, for when you wake up: run."
"Got it," Alison said, shooting him the "OK" symbol with her fingers as she turned away, silently willing herself to wake up.
"Oh, and Alison?" She turned back to see Ivan still standing there, staring at her intently before he suddenly grinned viciously. "When Jonathan's plan is done, one way or another…cut that son of a bitch's head off and feed it to the crows."
Alison said nothing, only shooting the Third Hero a wry smirk before darkness was pulled over her eyes.
She blinked and found herself back in the Tombs, her wrist injury faded but still stinging as she became aware of the floor beneath her shaking, the walls vibrating so much dust was cascading from the ceiling along with broken pieces of stone.
Cursing under her breath, Alison shot to her feet, checking to make sure the Rings were still in the pouch before sprinting for the staircase, screaming when something erupted from the stones beneath her and tried to latch on to her ankle before she kicked it off.
She was thrown into the walls several times as she raced up the steps, each hit knocking the breath out of her and slowing her down as she tried to escape the mausoleum. She tried not to imagine a horde of zombies desperately trying to kill her once she reached the top step, but luck was on her side as she made it to the top without any reanimated corpses hungry for her brains.
Reaching the old doors to the outside, she threw them open and shrieked when she collided with something solid, before a hand steadied her and she realized it was Jonathan she had run into.
"I thought you were passed out?" She said in lieu of a greeting, not even objecting when the Second Hero grabbed her elbow and dragged her away from the quaking mausoleum, though as she saw the rumbling tombstones beyond it, stretching towards the barrier, she knew they were not in the clear yet.
"Well, if someone hadn't waited until the Blessing wore off to get the bloody damn Ring, then maybe I wouldn't have to be conscious to witness us getting our limbs ripped off by whatever is awakening within these Tombs," he snarled as they dashed for the barrier. "And if you didn't even get the Ring—"
"I got it," she snapped back, leaping over a crack that had appeared on the pathway they were running on. "Let's just focus on getting out of here alive now, okay?"
He grunted in acknowledgement, and soon the barrier was in front of them, only scant feet away.
Suddenly, the ground heaved from beneath their feet, and Alison cried out as she was thrown into the air, Jonathan yelling out a curse from beside her.
They crashed back to the ground as there was a sound like ice crackling over stone behind them, and Alison whirled to see dozens of wraith-like figures trailing over to them as they sat on the ground, winded from their fall.
"Holy shit," she found herself saying. "Are those dementors?"
"Who bloody cares?" Jonathan shouted from behind her, hauling her to her feet and forcing her to run to the barrier as the wraiths floated closer. "Get the hell out!"
With a gasp, Alison was dragged back through the barrier, she and Jonathan tumbling out onto hot sand once more as they reentered the Eastlands, leaving the Sand Tombs behind.
Alison scrambled as far away from the rock spires as she could, stumbling to her feet as Jonathan followed her movements, his face extremely white in the glaring light of the sun.
"Well," he said, after swallowing a handful of times and recomposing himself. "That was terrifying."
Alison nodded in agreement, still too breathless to form a coherent sentence as he turned to her.
"The Ring?" He said expectantly, and she reached into the pouch for it hesitatingly, bringing it out but keeping it in her fingers as he looked closely at it, his expression hungry.
"This is Eressë," she said, when she could breathe again, but it seemed like he didn't hear her, too fascinated with studying the thing instead.
"Two down, three more to go," he said covetously, and Alison squirmed, deciding it was time to put the Ring away and bring out Ondolissë to find the next one's location.
"There are only five?" she said, breaking Jonathan out of his trance as he blinked and looked back to her.
"Indeed," he said. "Yours, Ivan's, Michael's, Elaine's, and Nadia's."
Alison nodded, removing her glove as Jonathan stared at a distant point over her shoulder and began to recite something under his breath.
"Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in halls of stone,
Nine for mortal men, doomed to die,
Five for Heroes chained in bone,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne,
In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie."
"I think you missed a verse," Alison said, trying not to focus too much on the "Heroes chained in bone" part.
Jonathan gave her a dry look.
"It was intended," he said, and she held up her hands in defense.
"All right, Master of Poetry," she said. "You want to find these other Rings or not?"
He bowed mockingly to her, waving her on, and she rolled her eyes, jamming Ondolissë on her finger and closing her eyes, seeing their next destination as her heart sank, nausea threatening to overcome her when the images shaped in her mind.
"Well?" Jonathan said when she removed the Ring. "Where to next?"
Alison bit her lip, a landscape of rolling green hills and gentle skies painting itself across her eyelids as she finally nodded.
"There's two of them," she said, and he raised his brows in shock and interest. "And…"
She hesitated once more, almost afraid to say the words out loud, as if their goodness would be tainted by her sharing them with Jonathan. But she had to say it.
"They're in the Shire."
Author's Note
And thus, Eleon Ashburne sets in motion bad things for the Heroes, Kili and Tauriel ready themselves for a plan to find Alison, and Alison gets even more warnings of all that is to come...
Apologies if anything seemed too cliche in this chapter, also. And of course, if I messed up on any grammar or spelling mistakes, please don't hesitate to point it out.
Thank you for reading this very late chapter, and as always, reviews are more precious than mithril; please don't hesitate to leave a comment or feedback!
Next chapter we have a Jonathan POV in the Shire, a Bilbo POV with the introduction of a very important song, and a Thorin POV that will tie up some loose ends.
Thanks again, lovelies! Until next chapter...
