The night is near, but I don't fear it.


Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR.

Note: Thanks to my beta Hybris who is as amazing as she is fabulous. Seriously she puts up with my random binges in different fandoms. Great friend, great writer and great beta.


Prologue: Crumbling


The sounds of steel meeting steel echoed in the torn-up courtyard as a cloaked figure made their way through scorched sidestreets. Not much remained of the once-proud capital beyond ruined walls, crumbling towers, and broken streets of stone. Leather gloved hands knocked lightly on a side door, aware of the guards watching them from the various roofs of the city.

Waiting to be let in, they heard the distant, tired cheers of the soldiers as more provisions were being delivered to them from Minas Tirith. Lord Denethor had come to personally congratulate his son for recapturing East Osgiliath and pushing back the enemy. It was a much needed, hard-earned victory that had rekindled a dim sense of hope for their people.

The door swung open, jolting them out of their musings as a tired, weathered face stared at them. Grim, sorrow-filled eyes burned into their back as they were escorted to the Captain's quarters. They carefully stepped over broken steps as the wind blew through the cracks and small holes in the walls. The sounds of celebration were dim and muted, much like the faint roar of the sea, as the silence within the building seemed to swallow any happiness whole.

Pausing as their guide suddenly stopped, they stared as the Captain stepped out of the door, seeming to be one part shocked and two parts resigned to see them there. The floor creaked ominously under his weight, considering the state of the building, as he closed the door behind him.

"Father shouldn't have brought you here. It's still too dangerous." His words had them huffing in disbelief. When the Steward told you to do something, it wasn't something anyone could refuse or quibble about.

"I know my duty. The Steward has asked for my assistance in uncovering more about the Enemy." Faramir stared disapprovingly as he blocked the entrance with his body. A part of them couldn't help but think his protectiveness was far too late; the rest took note of how exhausted he looked.

"I am to stay for the day, then return to Minas Tirith, as it is too dangerous for me to remain here any longer." Perhaps this could appease the man and let them do their job. The sooner it was done, the sooner they could leave.

Their eyes glanced around the ripped apart hallway. Faint traces of grand and beautiful tapestries covered the walls, still lingering long after the items were gone. The torn walls spilled washed out, gray daylight into the building, revealing the patches of walls that were so much lighter in colour. Weapons and waterjugs littered the floor, a worn whetstone and small rations of food, carefully protected from rats, hung from what remained of the ceiling.

Gentle hands gently grasped theirs as Faramir stared at them beseechingly. What a contrast he made a gentle and caring face in front of them, with a torn wall behind him revealing the black smoke of extinguished pyres from the burning dead. So many lost in reclaiming this crumbling memory of a long-gone past.

"I don't want you touching that stuff. It is vile, full of evil and darkness. You are too young-" A bitter laugh escaped their lips as the Captain paused to watch them in growing sadness.

"I am years past my majority. In fact, many could claim I am too old." Ruefully looking at them, they pulled their hands away, stepping back from his kind regard. He was far too late to try and shield them from the horrors of the world. Memories of screams and violent hands killing them over and over flashed behind their eyes as they stared dispassionately at the tired man. So many deaths they had relived, so many ways they had felt themselves be betrayed and violated by people who were no longer there to be punished.

'What is one more horror in the scheme of things?' They thought, sensing even from here a malicious taint, flickering from behind that door.

"Lothíriel, please. I am begging you. You are no warrior hardened from battle, you don't need to face this. You shouldn't have to face this." Staring at his pleading face, a small part of Lothíriel wished that was possible. That she would not have to see and experience any more horror. But this wasn't about her, and she had a duty to her Steward. Ever since her family gave her to Denethor, she lost any hope of being spared from the evils of the world.

The silence grew between them as she heard a clamour rising from outside.

"-hat do you mean Lothíriel is here?!" A deep voice echoed up the stairs as footsteps raced toward them. Faramir's face relaxed as he glanced with anticipation at the stairs behind her. Harsh breathing filled the space as she felt the man stop behind her, his gaze piercing her back with its intensity. Closing her eyes, she refused to turn around to face him; now that Boromir was here, the Steward was on his way as well.

"Boromir! I didn't come to ask your permission! Do not be difficult. She has a duty to perform!" Lothíriel refused to flinch at the sound of his angered voice. Turning her gaze to the closed door, she began to wonder how long it had stood there. Who had made it? What had the people in these walls suffered when the great plague destroyed everyone stuck inside? If she touched these walls would she feel their anguish? Hear their screams?

Boromir's voice grew louder as he continued to argue with Denethor, while Faramir continued to block the door. Her heart ached as she recalled her brothers doing something similar when she was young. There was a closed-door back then too. Something they didn't want her to see. Something she wasn't allowed to watch,

"For pity's sake, she is family! And a young girl who has never trained to be a soldier and face the worst of this damned war. You ask too much from her."

"She has a skill that can be useful to us! And it is precisely because she is family that she must do this. We have a duty to guard and watch over our people. Our line has sacrificed so much throughout the years, both men and women. You will understand when you are Steward; sometimes we have to ask terrible things from even our family to protect our home." Taking the Steward's little speech as her cue to get to work, Lothíriel walked toward Faramir, invading his space as she reached behind him to push against the door.

"Cousin...you have to move." Hesitating for a moment, Faramir turned his head away as he slid out of her space and allowed her to walk into the Captain's quarters. The room was only moderately better than the rest of the building. A makeshift table had been scraped together from bricks and pieces of wood, with a small cot in the corner for rest. Light streamed into the room from the small, intact window, framed by two large and worn curtains.

There on the table lay a short blade, simple in design, rusting and old. Pausing just before it, she could feel the wretchedness of its aura leaching into the air. It was thick and lingering, a miasma that threatened to choke anyone foolish enough to come near.

"This isn't right." Faramir whispered, coming to stand next to her as they both stared at the thing. Harsh whispering could be heard from outside the doorway, as Denethor and Boromir continued to bicker.

"No, it's not." she agreed, huffing at the small look of surprise from his face. It's not as if she did this for pleasure. It had been a very long time since she had done anything to do with her gift for pleasure. "But it is an evil that must be done. For the greater good." Taking a deep breath, she centred herself as she pulled off one of her leather gloves. Clenching and unclenching her hands, Lothíriel slowly reached toward the blade, trying to hide the tremors from her hand. Faramir grasped her hand, just as it was about to touch it, giving her a pained look as he silently shook his head.

"Faramir, let go."

"No. This is not necessary. I already know what is happening, so you don't need to touch that blade." Searching his eyes for a hint of a lie, Lothíriel wondered what kind of dream he must have had to say that so boldly.

"What did you dream about?" While he lacked control over it, a frustrating aspect that had earned him the title of "useless" from his father, her cousin had his own gift from their bloodline.

"Something worse is arising." Looking at her intensely Faramir was cut off from explaining anymore as Denethor burst in, looking annoyed at his son for stopping her from touching the blade.

"Well? What are you waiting for, girl? Get on with it." The man ignored Boromir's concerns as he stalked closer to the duo.

"Father, this is a Morgul-Knife, carried by the Nazgul. Who knows what curse lays on the thing?" Faramir continued to plead, his grip tightening on her hand as he tried to pull her hand away.

"A Nazgul weapon? This is too dangerous. We don't know the level of harm it can inflict on her should she touch it!" Boromir jumped in, both brothers teaming up against Denethor as he scoffed and waved away their concerns, his gaze set on Lothíriel.

Turning her gaze back on to the blade, she wondered what horrors it would reveal. If the emotions are strong enough, she would see what its owner had experienced. Perhaps the creation of the Orcs? A secret plan from the Enemy?

"Father, I have been having the same dream now for the last few days. It began just before the orcs attacked." Faramir's voice jolted her out of her head, while Boromir angled his body so he was hiding her from Denethor's view.

"Dreams? Faramir your gift is as disappointing as your ability to defend this city from the enemy. Useless and inconsistent, continuously letting me down and embarrassing our name." Wincing at the remark, Lothíriel bit her lip as she watched Faramir flinch and look hurt at his words.

"Father, for pity's sake, just listen to what he has to say first before cutting him down." Boromir ran his hands through his hair, as he looked exasperated at the whole room. With the way he glanced at her and Faramir, Lothíriel could almost see him planning to grab both of them and storm out of the room.

"Seek for the Sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand"

Faramir's voice was no louder than a whisper as he stared at Denethor with a vulnerable look on his face. Denethor's face grew cold at the words, an uncomfortable silence filling the room as Lothíriel wondered how the Steward would react. Faramir had never been wrong when he had his special dreams, and as much as Denethor ridiculed his power he was no fool. Turning right around, Denethor called for Boromir as he stepped out of the room.

Giving her a soft look, Boromir gently pulled the glove back on her hand before kissing her forehead goodbye. Faramir sighed loudly, pulling her into a strong hug and turning her away from the blade. The room seemed a bit warmer as she felt her cousin tremble in relief.

"Praise the Valar. You're safe." Leaning against his embrace, Lothíriel bit her lip as a part of her wanted to tell him that no, she wasn't. Not so long as she could prove useful to her Uncle, she would never be safe.

Smiling weakly as he stepped back, she nodded absently as he told her that she should return home before it gets dark and that he would escort her out. Boromir and her Uncle were whispering furiously as she and Faramir stepped back into the hall. The daylight seemed to highlight Boromir with light, while also casting shadows over her uncle's face. His gaze looked almost menacing as she watched him grasp Boromir's shoulders with a possessive grip.

"My place is here with my people. Not in Rivendell!" Pausing at the name of the elven city, Lothíriel wondered if Isildur's Bane would rise again there. Faramir's dreams were never wrong.

"Would you deny your own father?" It was moments like this that she could almost forget how cold and cruel her Uncle could be. He sounded so caring and sad at the thought. The image of a loving father asking for something small from his son. Memories of another dark-haired man, speaking to her in a loving soft voice, flickered past her eyes as Lothíriel was hit with a wave of homesickness.

'And yet...There is no home to return to, is there?' She thought. Her mother was dead, her father never home, busy helping Denethor rule and Boromir fight, and brothers scattered between the two cities...Where could she return to?

'I haven't had a true home since I was a child. All that's left is duty.' Tilting her chin up defiantly, she watched as Faramir stepped forward and included himself in their discussion.

"If there is a need to go to Rivendell, send me in his stead."

"You?" Denethor seemed to loom over Faramir as he looked at him with such coldness, "Ha, I see...A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality."

Even though he said those words levelly, Lothíriel could sense that he meant them in mockery. Faramir clenched his hands as he stared stoically back at Denethor's dismissive glance.

"I think not. I trust this mission only with your brother." The steward took his time saying each word, as if he wanted to burn the words in both Faramir and Lothíriel's minds. "The one who will not fail me."

Stepping closer to Faramir, Lothíriel grasped his hand and squeezed softly in support. They exchanged looks of grief, both knowing that Boromir would obey if it meant saving their people.

The journey he was about to take is a dangerous one, and as Lothíriel and Faramir watched him get ready to depart while she would go with the Steward to Minas Tirith, she wondered if she would ever see him again.


Cold white stone glistened as they made their way up the city levels, the sun dying the whole city in shades of red, gold and orange in a wondrous splendour. Sitting quietly in the carriage with Lord Denethor, Lothíriel stared out the window into the distance. Osgiliath's ruins were bathed with the red light in the distance, a brilliant red ruby to the eye. Lothíriel prayed that her cousins would return to her safe and sound. They had been more present in her life than her own brothers, these last few years. Boromir was a steady rock to lean on, dependable, brave and just. Faramir was just as brave and dependable yet he too had a "gift", no matter what the Steward said, and he knew how it could affect your life.

'Swallow you whole...like the shadows swallow the light.' She pondered, unwilling to look away as the ruined city slowly disappeared into the darkness of the night.

Reaching her abode, Lothíriel turned at the foot of the stairs to say goodnight, yet one glance had her words stuck in her throat. There in the Steward's hands was a bundle of leather, wrapping something inside.

"Shall you permit me to come inside with you Lothíriel? Your father won't be joining you tonight I'm afraid. He has too much work manning the armies in the lower levels." His voice was so soft and light, as if he were some kind Uncle wishing to make sure she wouldn't be alone. The moon peeked out of the clouds, briefly lighting the street and causing something inside of the bundle to shine lightly.

"Uncle-" What could she say? He seemed to sense her hesitation as he cut her off with a smile.

"You wouldn't deny me the right to make sure you are safe and well after travelling with me to see your cousins, would you?" Hiding her trembling hands she gave a small curtsey as she moved to the side so he could come in first.

"Of course not."

"Good. Then let's proceed shall we?" Walking behind him, Lothíriel wondered how she hadn't noticed that taint before. How could a simple bit of leather hide such a distinct miasma?

Walking to the study, Denethor made himself at home at her father's desk before placing the bundle on top.

"Come, sit. There is something I need you to do before your day is done." Flipping from the leather, a frightfully familiar Morgul blade lay there, shining maliciously in the faint candlelight.

"You know what has to be done." Swallowing painfully, Lothíriel sat in front of him as he pushed the blade closer to her. The shadows in the room seemed to bend towards the cursed thing, taking all warmth from the room, leaving nothing but coldness and terror. The Steward regarded her carefully as he leaned forward as if he was sharing a secret only for her to hear.

"The Palantir costs too much of my energy to use so frequently. We know that Sauron will strike again within the year. Boromir can only do so much during his journey, so it is up to us to make sure that Gondor is best prepared for what is to come." He looked at her so earnestly and passionately, Lothíriel felt guilty for not trying harder. This was her duty, what her family had intended when they passed her to Denethor's care all those years ago.

"Save Gondor. Save our people, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amorth." His voice echoed in the room as she took off her gloves and slowly reached out towards the blade. One hand touched the handle and the other grazed the blade carefully before a burning agony spread from her fingertips to her face. Opening her mouth she screamed in terror and pain as images assaulted her mind and the darkness consumed her.