Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making. It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age. Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read. This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.

Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series. And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day. I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it. Don't ever change.

Revolution and Retribution

Chapter Three: Spellbound

He was cold.

He had been cold since he had fallen at Amon Hen, but something had held him here in the chill. He neither felt, truly, nor saw, nor tasted, heard, or touched. But he was aware.

Aware enough to know that this was not as it should be. He should have passed into the company of his ancestors long since. After all, he was dead… yet he remained in this lifeless limbo.

He 'felt' sometime pulling at him, and 'turned' to follow the tug. All was black in this place, but he still had a sense of direction, though he could not see. He longed for a last glimpse of his brother, but it was not to be.

He followed the sensation to its conclusion, but something else replaced it almost instantly.

Pain. He heard a voice crying out, screaming at the horrible agonies it was enduring, and barely recognized it as his own. How could he be screaming when he was dead? How could he feel pain when dead? What was happening to him? Was this his punishment, then, for trying to gain the Ring from Frodo? Had Sauron triumphed in the end? Was that why all was darkness?

Chanting began to make itself heard somewhere above his head. His head? He shouldn't be able to feel his head! He was a disembodied spirit!

"Come to me, now, Boromir! Open your eyes, see what I have wrought! See how you live, hale and whole! See who has brought you back from the abyss!" Then the chanting continued, in a language Boromir had never heard, nor, truth to tell, did he ever wish to hear again.

His eyes opened of their own accord and he shivered convulsively. Isengard!

Many changes had been made since the last time he had beheld it, but it was still unmistakable to his gaze. As was Saruman, older and more withered than before, but still exuding an aura of power as he had always done.

Boromir tried to look about him, but his body would not yet obey his commands. His lips formed words, but no sound emerged.

"Yes, I see you understand," Saruman crooned as he laid one withered hand against Boromir's pale cheek. "I have beaten back Death for you, my Lord Boromir, and you shall serve me as payment."

Something snapped into place inside his head and suddenly Boromir was able to move. Still he had no control over his voice, though, and so was unable to tell the wizard exactly what he could do with his demand for service! Never would he betray his people! The Orcs that had come upon them at Amon Hen had been wearing the White hand of Saruman, that much he knew. They had been doing his bidding, which labeled him a threat to Gondor. Never would he serve this foul creature from the depths!

He threw himself to his feet, automatically reaching out to strangle the wizard, but found that his hand stopped some inches short of the target and would go no further. He cursed long and loudly in his mind.

"You see? You cannot harm me, Man of the West. You will do my will." Saruman took a step backward with a small crooked smile. "Grima!" he called, and Wormtongue slithered into view. "Take him and outfit him in my livery. Then, bring him to the Tower, that I may show him his beloved White City."

Grima nodded and scurried to do his master's bidding. "Come, now, Boromir, you mustn't keep him waiting," he hissed as he led the way into the armory. Boromir still could not speak, but nodded to show he understood, though inwardly he was seething. No more would he wear the livery of Orthanc than he would wear that of Mordor itself! His loyalties would always lie with Gondor!

They climbed the steps to the Tower shortly after, and Boromir gasped at the changes wrought outside the great Tower of Orthanc. No more did the trees surround and protect Isengard. Now, it was a seething pit of mud and ash.

Much had been flooded, it was obvious, but the damage was being repaired. It was slow going, but the Orcs that crawled and scurried through the muck seemed to have things moving along.

Boromir nearly flinched at the sight of the massive Uruk-hai. Those creatures it had been, one in particular, that had stolen away his little ones, indeed, his very life! He could not abide the thought of being forced to work alongside them.

"Come, Boromir, come to my side," Saruman purred as he indicated a glowing pool in front of him. "Come, and we will see what has transpired in your beloved City."

The glow faded as he stepped nearer, and then the clear water revealed the city of Minas Tirith, though not at all the way Boromir remembered it. Bodies lay everywhere, left to rot where they had fallen. The Citadel itself was unharmed, but all the rest of the City was in ruins. He would have cried out at the massacre had he voice to do so. Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought that he had failed, utterly. His City had fallen.

Aragorn. Aragorn had sworn to him that the White City would not fall.

He had lied.

In that moment, Boromir's grief knew no bounds. With his voice finally rediscovered, he gave a great cry of grief and horror, falling to his knees. Aragorn had either failed, or…

…or he had taken the Ring for himself and set himself up as Sauron's replacement. Boromir knew how quickly, how subtly the Ring could take hold of one's mind. If it had taken Aragorn…

He turned wet eyes to Saruman, firmly pulling his emotions into tight control. "How do I know what you show me is truth," he finally managed to grind out. "You have deceived many before me. I must know."

Saruman merely nodded toward the scene in the water. It had changed again, now showing the bodies of the Royal Family in their final places. The only one missing was Aragorn. "The rebels slew his family and would have slain him as well, had he not fled," he explained patiently. His voice, Boromir remembered his voice was dangerous, but he could discern no falsehood in the words. "He has been a harsh, cruel ruler, and the people of Minas Tirith rose against him. He has lost all that gave him meaning, but he must still be stopped. If he remains free, he shall raise an army and return." The scene switched again, showing Faramir imprisoned with… was that Eowyn of Rohan? It must surely be… and being 'questioned' most vigorously about his King's whereabouts.

Faramir. Faramir held true to his loyalty to the King, saying nothing, fighting to keep his pain inside. Faramir would not be fooled so easily. Saruman must be lying! But this would have to be handled carefully. If the wizard even suspected that Boromir was not firmly under his sway, there would be the devil to pay, and all his work would go for naught.

Saruman put a comforting hand on Boromir's shoulder, and he had to fight back the urge to throw it from him. Instead, he let the tears flow once more. "What must I do?" he choked out. He must be free to work his way to his King and find the truth! And the only way he would leave Isengard, he was certain, was to either swear allegiance to the wizard or to die again. And having regained his life, by whatever means, he was not going to throw it away again! He would find the truth!

TBC