Chapter 1: Threads woven of shadow
The cold had come very early this year, during the last golden days of late summer it had hardly seemed possible that it might become winter at all. But the last night had changed this; a cold wind had begun blowing harshly from the misty mountains, chasing an endless stream of heavy clouds west. Even as it was not snowing already everything looked changed. Gone was the sun, the radiant leaves and the slowly failing warmth, remnant of a long summer, the skies were grey, dim the light and it was getting colder.
The rider had seen all the changes high in the skies, for he had ridden all night and most of the day before. Not that he cared much, neither the cold weather nor the long ride meant much to him. He was used to rather harsh conditions. When he reached the long winding road that led up to the gates of the Northern Capital of Annúminas he lightly clapped his horse's neck, encouraging the tired animal to a last leg of haste.
Trenaron had been standing guard at the gates for many a time. He had seen all kinds of messengers and strangers coming up the slopes of the mountain and rarely been worried. But that cold autumn morning was different. Not for the weather, certainly not that. Winter was early this year but this happened from time to time. Some fog had risen from the lake early and lifted slowly. The wind had decided to cease exactly the moment when it might have been of some use. So the heavy mists hung in the air and the barren trees down the lower slopes looked right like pale ghosts, stretching their arms towards the fortress. But Trenaron knew them to be just trees.
What had startled him was the rider who emerged silently from the morning mists like a spectre. The hoofs of the horse were hardly to be heard; it just stepped out of a particularly huge bank of fog. It was so near to the gates that Trenaron nearly jumped. But it was the rider that gave him the creeps. If the horse was tall, then it fitted its rider perfectly. He was a tall man, with long bronze hair falling to his shoulders; his eyes were of an intense green and were right now scanning Trenaron thoroughly. On top of all this, there was no way to tell the age of the rider. He seemed to be in his early fourties, as far as Trenaron would guess by his face and appearance, but then there were those knowing eyes, that spoke of experience beyond his years. The guard had seen many Numenórans with that expression, that those old eyes that went quite beyond the lifespan of lesser men, but there was something different here; a strange and ageless quality to the man that he could not place at all, although it startled him deeply.
Pulling it together Trenaron studied the man to asses where he might be from and what he would want. The armor drew his attention at once, chainmail black as night itself under a silver harness engraved with the Raven and the Star. The guardsman blinked, it could not be. The Raven and Star where the coat of arms of Moria, and this rider was a man not a dwarf; again his eyes fell on the magnificent armor, he had no doubt it was of dwarven make. Mithril-steel, and there was only one place in the world that could make such things, and they certainly were not trading. The horse had stopped right in front of him and realized he had been staring. "Who are you and what brings you to the gates of Annúminas, Stanger?" he asked quickly.
The rider arched an eyebrow at him. "I am Boromir, Captain of the Ravens, and I am here to see the Steward Faramir, Prince of Ithilien."
Trenaron looked at the man disbelievingly, but stepped aside to let him pass. He just had enough presence of mind to send a runner up to the citadel. Let the Captain of the Royal Guard sort out if this rider was who he claimed to be.
Boromir rode through the streets of Annúminas, slightly amused at the guard's fluster, he had not expected to be recognized, it had been too long that he had been among men. The one time he had been here, it had been as Captain of the Ravens, when Durin VII had attended the ceremonies of the re-founded city. He was not sure that it was wise to move the capital north like this, if Gondor's nobility was what they always had been they needed the constant presence of a King and a firm hand as well. He pushed the thought aside, those were neither his concerns nor worries, ahead he could already see the Citadel gate. There was no doubt the city guard had send a runner ahead, because the posted citadel guards were just approached by another man, no doubt their Captain wanting to know why he had been called. The man turned when Boromir's horse approached and the Captain of the Ravens was surprised to see a face familiar, if changed.
"Thoroniâr," he greeted the man who had served with him during the long war against the shadow. It was well to hide his surprise. Thoroniâr had changed, he still was the tall, powerful warrior but his once black hair was now thickly streaked with iron grey, and the passing years had etched deeper lines on his face. Nevertheless his grim expression made way for a smile when he recognized the rider.
"Lord Boromir," he approached the new arrival. "Captain, I should say," he added, reminding himself of Boromir's rank as the Captain of the Ravens. "It is a glad day that brings you to the capital. "I take it you are here with messages from Durin VII? I will have you announced to…."
Boromir interrupted the words with a gesture. "I am here to see my brother, Thoroniâr, not with official messages. But you expecting me to be a messenger means… Gondor finally has an heir?" He had dismounted, leading his horse as they passed the bridge and into the ward.
"Three weeks ago," Thoroniâr confirmed. "you should have seen the celebrations in the streets when the birth of Prince Eldarion was announced. Forgive me, I thought your King would have send you with his words… given your connection to this land."
"I don't think any announcement has reached Dwarrowdelf so far, either no messenger was sent or he never arrived. Have you had problems down the Tharbad road of late?"
Suddenly both men laughed, it had been twenty years since they had last talked but they would fall into the same pace the moment they were reunited. "Not that I know of," Thoroniâr said. "but I will find out anyway. Your horse will be well taken care of… and your brother will be happy to see you here. I will send someone to announce your arrival properly."
Faramir had been in the Tower of Knowledge, the great library at the citadel, when the guard had announced the arrival of his brother. A feeling of his brother's approach had been there during the last days, even as he made no habit of focusing on the bond too much. He had lived a good, whole life, married for the last two decades with a wonderful son and daughter growing up in his household and a wife who could still best him at swordplay and gleefully did so. The bond meant the reassuring knowledge that his brother was alive and alright, but while he had missed him certainly, he had never delved deeper into the connection forged between them during the ring war. Still, the announcement had left him excited; it had been very long that they had seen each other.
When Boromir strode into the room, Faramir could only smile. His brother had not changed at all, still the warrior, still the same powerful man and still impatient with doorwardens and other "useless" servants. Contrary to everyone else present, the guards excluded, he wore heavy armor. Faramir had no doubt that the magnificent armor was of dwarven make, Moria had the best armorers and bladesmiths there were these days. With the long blue cloak his brother truly looked like one would expect from a Captain of the Ravens. The brothers embraced, their greeting knew no years passed. "Boromir, it is good to see you. I take it you were sent with messages?"
"No, I was not send to congratulate Aragorn on finally having an heir," Boromir said. "the news had not yet reached Dwarrowdelf when I rode north. But I am sure there will be a suitable envoy here soon enough to bring the greetings and good wishes appropriate the occasion."
"I am sure there will be and I am all the more glad you came to see us finally. Elboron has been asking about you ever since you sent him that sword for his eleventh naming day." Faramir said, as the brothers sat down near one of the oriel windows of the tower. "I will freely admit I was not so happy with that, but Éowyn was delighted. We often have wished you'd come here." Boromir had not been there when Faramir had married Éowyn, thought a letter of him had arrived months later. The War of the Return had been in its second year at the time and Faramir knew his brother would have been on the forefront of the fighting. For years sparse letters had been all that had been all outside of the bond that had told him that Boromir was still alive.
"He is the Steward's Eldest son, he should become a warrior," Boromir replied to Faramir's soft critique in his choice of a gift for his nephew. "and I am sorry I was not there, Fari… there were things I would have wanted to share with you too. The day the great doors of Dwarrowdelf were opened, the coronation… I wish you could have seen it, or that I had at least the time to tell you about it."
Faramir became serious all at once; he knew that expression in his brother's eyes. "Something has happened, has it?" he asked.
"You did not feel any of it?" Boromir asked surprised, the pain he had felt through the bond had been fierce, brutal and he had been sure Faramir should have felt it too.
"No." Faramir knew what his brother was referring to. "I rarely do sense anything in the bond. I can feel you are alive but not much more, for which I am grateful. With all the stories and ballads I have heard of the War of Return, sharing the echoes of your heroics would not have been pleasant at all." He rose, reaching for his brother's shoulder. "Is Kili… Durin VII, I mean, is he alright?"
"If he were dead, we both would be walking beside him to Mahal's great forge, brother." Boromir reminded him. "But no… while alive things are not alright; and I need your help. I do not know to whom else I can turn."
There was warmth spreading inside Faramir's chest, they might live different lives, they might serve different kings, even their very beliefs might have grown apart, if Boromir's reference to Mahal was any indication, but they still were the same brothers, they still trusted each other and Boromir would still trust him for help when he needed it. "What can I do?" he asked. "I feel we might be right by beginning in the library."
Rising too and walking to the windows to look out, Boromir described what had transpired on the last day of September. "He said that Durin's Bane would not again harm his people, that the curse already had what it wanted." He repeated the words that had haunted his ride here. "and if I think back, during the last years there always was something around that time. Some injury or harm, usually chalked up to Orcs, bears, Goblins or the occasional underground accident. Kili would always be back at his feet for Durin's day and life would go on. I never saw the pattern until I witnessed what happened in the crypts." He turned around to face Faramir. "Durin's Bane should be dead for twenty years now, and what I saw was no Balrog at all…"
"But it certainly came after your King," Faramir had of course noticed his brother referring to Durin VII still by his given name, so all the rumors that the two were close were true. "it reminds me of something in the ancient Numenóran texts… Ar-Pharazôn I think mentions a curse on 'Lord or Land' in his writings." Faramir had been permitted by his father to study all the ancient writings, including the darkest works of the ancient Numenórans, in the pursuit of the ancient knowledge father and son had found a measure of agreement with each other for a while. Walking along the long shelves, Faramir found the tomes he was looking for quickly, putting them on the table by the great window.
"Ar-Pharazôn, wasn't he one of the dark Numenoran Kings?" Boromir asked, he had never cared much for ancient history, if it was not battles, wars or at least good strategy.
"One who worshipped Melkor, built him a temple and made human sacrifices, exactly the one." Faramir put another tome on the table, opening the books he began to search for the passages he remembered. "but he wrote down a lot of the dark knowledge he attained and that may help us now." He looked at Boromir. "Do you have any idea or indication whence the curse originates?"
"None whatsoever," Boromir had to admit. "Dwalin thinks it might be an ancient secret of Durin's House, his brother said something to that effect before asking Kili to join them in Moria long ago."
"Tied to the bloodline, that would fit all the writings claim." Faramir said thoughtfully. Impatiently he rifled through another tome. "Unfortunately there are not that many records of Durin's house and those that are available are mostly copied from older dwarven texts…" he sighed, pointing at a page. "and hardly legible."
Boromir stepped closer seeing a now familiar writing on the page, like a longer quote copied from another text. "Moria-Khuzdul, with a few elven terms thrown in," he said his eyes taking in the text. "And worried by the burden he felt descend upon him Durin III returned to Eregion on the eve of battle to find Celebrimbor where he dwelt in his great forge. But when he found the great elven smith, he lay in his own blood tormented and broken. 'Beware' he spoke. 'because you before all others have touched an evil that will haunt you and your line until the last of its gifts is passed beyond the reach of your blood…"
"You can read that?" Faramir could not help to be amused, he should have expected Boromir to having learned the language of the Kingdom he had chosen to help rebuild, but knowing his brother's dislike for books had not assumed he truly would.
"Yes, the text is ancient. There are similar ones in the hall of records, it must be from a time before the friendship of the dwarves and elven nations came to an end. Not that it helps us much."
"If I knew more details of what we are looking for, I might be able to narrow the tomes I have to peruse." Faramir pointed out, suddenly startled when the other door of the great library opened. Accompanied by her brother Elrohir, Queen Arwen had entered the library.
Faramir bowed deeply. "My Lady,"
The Queen smiled. "Faramir, does my husband still occupy your time with that insipid prophecy the seer spouted on the streets?" She asked, warm humor in her voice.
"No, my Lady, my brother brought another question to me, which I will admit confounds me."
Boromir could tell that this certainly was not the first library conversation his brother had with the Queen. For Lady Arwen approached the table, quickly sorting through the books. "The History of the Dwarven tribes, The Kingdom of Moria, and Bregon's book on the Dwarven Kings…" She sorted them to one side and frowned. "The Songs of the Dark, in Adûnaic and two translations, Lisuin's book on Ar-Pharazôn, I shudder that you dare read it, and… the Book of Dark Secrets? Faramir, what on Arda are you looking for?"
"You must forgive, Faramir, my Lady," Boromir spoke up. "I came to him with a question regarding a curse that has befallen my King and he was so kind to aid my search for answers."
The Elven Queen studied him calmly, but not unkindly, and then she sat down in the one chair available. "Tell me of this curse, Boromir."
For a second time Boromir recounted all the events of the past years and the events a few weeks ago. King Elrohir, Arwen's brother had taken to stand leaning against one of the huge shelves, maybe the only warrior not feeling out of place in a library. The Queen listened intently, never interrupting Boromir, only sometimes encouraging him to go in with a nod, or short glance. When he was finished, her expression was very serious. "This does bode ill indeed, for only great evil could have wrought such a curse," she said. "and Faramir, you were right, it is most certainly a curse that will fall on Lord or Land, depending if the Lord is willing to bear the pain for his people. But I fear the root of this curse may be as ancient and vile as we fear them to be. Find me Celendiar's book on his father please, and… the Naró ra Tarmin…"
The Queen turned to her brother. "Elrohir, is Aelin with you?" She asked, knowing that it was more than likely; the Noldor had been friend, swordmaster and advisor to her brother since their youth. "Can you send for him?"
"I will at once, my sister, but whatever for?" Elrohir did immediately send one of the guards outside to have the warrior found and brought here.
"Because I will need him to make any sense of the Naró ra Tarmin," Arwen said. "and I fear I will need the eye of spellsmith on this as well." She looked back at Boromir. "Your King was crowned Durin VII, was that name by choice or was it preceded by signs that made this choice inevitable?"
"There were several signs, my Lady," Boromir replied to the question. He knew that this coronation name came with the belief that Durin himself would be reborn, and that there were signs heralding him in a prospective dwarf king. "one of them the Dolek Nardûn, another occurred when the great gates of Dwarrowdelf were reopened and the ancient light of the deeps shone again once Prince Kili touched it. The last sign was a vision of Mirrormere." He could not say more, anything beyond that was to be shared in silence by those who had the honor to have been present. But it was enough.
"So the signs were there, tying him closer to the bloodline than his birth alone might have," Arwen said thoughtfully. She took the books Faramir had brought to her. "Thank you, Faramir. Stay please; you often have the keen eye for the details that slip by me."
For more than an hour the Queen silently perused the various books, now and then asking Faramir or her brother to bring her another one. When Aelin finally arrived, she had spread out tomes all over the table and two bookstands. "Aelin," she spoke at once, not wasting time on formalities that she knew Aelin would only give her because she was Elrohir's sister, the day had not yet come that he would bow to a Queen of men. "I need to ask your help again with this," she pointed on the Naró ra Tarmin. "I doubt there is anyone else on this side of the sea that can still make sense of this… tongue." She handed him the book, the page she meant already open.
The Noldor took the book, clearly familiar with it. "…with the Essence of the Deep, woven in such a way that should the power of the artifact fail to take hold in a willing wearer it will yield a powerful curse to fall upon Lord and Land, Kith and Kin, Blood and Brood, to be borne until all the artifact ever yielded is beyond the wearer's reach and the generation marked by its touch is utterly spent.." he translated the text.
"I feared as much," Arwen said. "there could only be one source for Durin's Bane, if indeed the Balrog was not Durin's Bane but only a manifestation thereof."
"My Lady, you mean to say that the Balrog was a result of Durin's Bane and not the curse itself?" Boromir felt like a cold abyss was opening under him. Had Kili borne that curse alone, never saying a word, to protect his people, to give them a home again?
"Indeed it is so." Arwen said, her eyes again perusing the books. "when Durin III took the First of the Seven Rings, their true power failed to manifest, the Dark Lord never could touch the Dwarves, all the Ring did was to wake the greed for gold in them and enhance their natural skills... but with the Ring's true power failing to manifest itself correctly, a terrible curse fell upon Durin's house. One that may last yet to this day."
"But, my Lady, Kili never even saw that thing, it was lost when he was still a child, and the power of the Rings was broken when the One Ring was destroyed, was it not?" Boromir asked, a sense of dread spreading inside him. He had seen enough of one ring to not wanting to content with another one in this lifetime.
"His grandfather still held that ring at the time the child was born," Arwen pointed out. "but this touch was too fleeting to truly mar him, I fear that it is through his own actions or inactions that your King brought that upon his blood." She raised her hand. "Nay, do not rise to his defense; I do not judge him as he could hardly know better." The Queen's eyes held Boromir's gaze, not allowing him any discussion. "When your King followed his Uncle, Thorin Oakenshield to Erebor to reclaim the treasure, his Uncle fell under the spell of the gold. As far as I know Kili never opposed his Uncle in this?"
"No," Boromir said softly, "he had to stand by and watch him slip away. But what has the treasure of Erebor to do with the Ring?"
"Everything!" Arwen rose, in that moment she was less of the Queen of Men but the Mage of the Elves speaking of things of power. "This very treasure was assembled through the power of the Ring as Thror and his father's wielded it, the curse on the treasure might have been greatly enhanced by the dragon's presence but the core of the curse was older and deeper. When Thorin Oakenshield fell to the spell of gold so tragically he burdened himself and his line again with Durin's Bane, from which the curse originated. The Seven's power may be broken but the curse lives on, and it will until the last of Durin's blood is utterly spent and all their works fallen to ruin."
"That is why he is bearing the curse in silence," Aelin observed. "he truly is one of the strong Kings of his kind to do so. But he cannot outlast it for long."
"But…" Boromir did not allow all the dread tidings drown him. "there has to be a way to break the curse, or at least to free Kili of it. There is no curse that cannot be broken."
Arwen smiled at him sadly. "You truly are the loyal, stubborn man my husband claims you to be, Boromir," she said. "but I will not lie to you – with the Rings broken and destroyed the curse has manifested itself unbound by the bonds of yore. You may be able to break it for future generations if your King does not have children and does not chose a blood-heir. The curse is tied to his line and should end with his death."
"His death is not something that I will accept lightly, my Lady. Is there nothing else that can be done? I do not care what it is, as long as it frees him."
"The only way to free him is one that cannot be asked of any man, or dwarf or elf," Arwen told him. "it is something no King, no Leader, not even those much higher than them, may ask of a mortal or immortal."
"You have my undivided attention, my Lady. What way would that be?" Boromir did not notice the quizzical look Faramir exchanged with Elrohir, at this question.
The Queen studied the Captain for a long while. "The only way to break the curse would be to alter fate itself, to prevent Kili from falling to the curse whence it originated – he must oppose his Uncle should he fall to the spell of gold, or his Uncle must be saved from it too. You see Boromir, it is something that cannot be asked of anyone, because it would mean giving up life, home, even their place in the world itself…"
"Are you saying it could be done?" Boromir asked. "That you know of some Elven Magic that could allow someone to be there and undo what has been done?"
"Have you not listened to me?" Arwen asked him. "To pass the forbidden portal would mean losing all – altering the threat of fate of whomever passed the dread threshold, they'd lose their life here, their people and family, loved ones and homes… even their place in this time for no one ever has returned from that doorstep. It cannot be asked for anyone, Boromir, no matter how brave."
The Captain of the Ravens met her eyes evenly. "In that case, my Lady, you have a volunteer."