The Raven's Blade I: A distant Light (rewritten)

by Valandhir

Kili survived the battle of the five armies, thought he lost his home again. Decades later a grim dwarven warrior comes across a man searching for Imladris. Thus begins a journey across the lone lands that will lead into war. This version is a complete rewrite and expansion from the original. Mix of movie/book canon. Rated M for violence, just to be safe.

17. Chapter 16: It is me whom I cannot

Chapter 16: It is me whom I cannot forgive

"By all the signs, Captain Shagrat, I'd say there's a large warrior loose – Elf most likely, with an Elf-sword anyway, and an axe as well, maybe; and he's loose on your bounds, too, and you've never spotted him. Very funny indeed."

Anarion lay on the ledge above the arguing Orcs, a small grin curling his lips as he heard the Orcs' voices getting louder and louder. "They'll be busy arguing for another few hours at the least," he whispered to Sam, who was beside him. "You go on: take Frodo and get out of here." They were past the passes over the mountains, on the eastern side of the Mountains of Shadow.

"Beggin' your pardon but we can't leave you behind in this… in this place with your injury," Sam argued, his eyes pointing to the blood-soaked bandage on Anarion's leg. "You can barely stand, let alone run, if you get my meaning."

"That's why you have to go on without me," Anarion said firmly. "I'll make sure that they have more reason to argue amongst themselves for a while, distract them while you slip away. I wish I could bring you further, wherever you have to go." He saw Sam open his mouth and forestalled a response at once. "Don't tell me. A secret I don't know they can't get from me."

The stout Hobbit accepted that with a curt nod. He was a pragmatist, Anarion had learned during their dangerous journey across the mountains, contrary to his companion, Frodo, who had crept up to them. During their time sneaking through the Mountains of Shadow on a pass long secret and barely remembered, Anarion had come to learn that Frodo was a calm, introspective person. Noble and idealistic too, which made this journey hard for him, the further they came into the dark lands the paler and weighed down Frodo seemed to become, the black breath affecting him more than his comrade. "Will you be all right, Anarion?" he asked. "You will get back to your people, will you?"

Anarion had a hard time to keep his features still. In his heart, he knew that he was too deep inside Enemy territory to hope for escape, especially with his wounded leg. He'd be lucky if he lasted the next one or two days. But he forced himself to smile reassuringly. "Of course. Once I know you have a good head start, I'll make my way back to Ithilien." Frodo's blue eyes seemed to pierce him, and the Halfling shook his head, a gesture that was resigned and sad.

Drawing his pack, that sat beside the rocks close, Anarion quickly went through it, handing Sam what he had left of provisions, the pack with the bandages and salves and the vial with saline liquid that would purify water. Rangers never parted from these things, they were vital to survive in the black lands. In the end he came to a small metallic cylinder that had been resting on the side of his pack. It was not much longer than his hand, made from simple, heavy steel. "Come here," he waved them closer and both Halflings crept up to them.

Gently tapping his fingernail under a small lid in the side of the cylinder, Anarion pulled a long band, a metal sheet that held a thin layer of silk out of the cylinder. The silk was painted with a minuscule, detailed map of Mordor, its fortifications, paths and orc dens, while the backside of the metallic sheet had the maps of several major Orc strongholds etched into the steel skin. Anarion carefully traced the old map, it had served him well and it had served another even better. "This map holds all that is known of Mordor amongst those not servants of the Enemy," he said to Frodo, who's eyes were darting over the map. "This handwriting –"he indicated one edgier, "are older entries, twenty years and older, while these," he pointed to his own more fluid hand. "were made by me in the last ten years."

Frodo carefully held the map, his blue eyes wide. "This is a treasure beyond counting, Anarion… I doubt many people guess how much you know of the Enemy lands." He whispered.

"We are Rangers, we walk in the shadows none else dares tread," Anarion said with a small smile. "I hope this map will help you to navigate the lands ahead." He gently placed his hand over Frodo's showing him how to fold the map back into the steel cylinder. "The man who originally made this was a Ranger too, he dared enter many a dark stronghold, and they say he even scouted the outskirts of Barad-Dûr itself. It guided him – even when he dared to enter the accursed city of Minas Morgul… may his strength and luck go with you, may his spirit watch over you always."

Anarion watched the two Halflings sneak down the slopes of the dark mountains. He hated himself for getting injured, for not evading that arrow that had pierced his leg, for not being able to help them further. The Captain had trusted him to do this but there was no other option now. The young Ranger took his bow and arrows, forcing himself up to his feet. He'd give them a great warrior to hunt for.

TRB

Kíli rapidly descended the stairs of the tower and went out into the yard of the citadel; dawn would be upon them soon, another long day awaited. Tired and lost in his thoughts, he did not pay heed to the number of Tower Guards in the yard. Only when they approached him he looked up. "Alaris Thoroniâr," he greeted their leader. "is something the matter?"

"You are to come with us at once," the Alaris informed him.

Had there not been a number of them circling him, Kíli would simply have followed Thoroniâr to whatever meeting he was summoned to, but with a dozen guards encircling him he knew this was no invitation. His hand went to his back to draw his blade.

"I'd not advise that," Thoroniâr's voice was cool, steady, a guardsman arresting a criminal and certainly not getting worked up about it. "drawing weapons against the guard is not offense taken lightly in these lands."

Kíli closed his fist, knowing the words true. A stranger drawing a weapon against the guard could be executed in Gondor, killing a guard was an offense that would get one hanged without any judge wasting time on a second hearing. Gondor's laws were strict and he was well familiar with them. "I am an ally of your people, Thoroniâr, and as such your laws protect me too in times of war."

"That would be true, had Lord Denethor truly and formally acknowledged your so called alliance," Thoroniâr arched an eyebrow. "I would go as far as recognizing you as a mercenary fighting for us, which still means you will follow me now."

One of the guards had stepped up on Kíli from behind, trying to take the dragon sword from him. The dwarf spun around, his first making hard impact with the guardsman's side. Several more guards joined the fight, some of them underestimating Kíli's strength and in consequence getting thrown across the yard.

Thoroniâr moved forward, he only used a dagger as he had to capture the dwarf alive. With his right hand he grabbed the dwarf's long hair, yanking it around to bring the blade right to Kíli's throat. The dwarf pushed, trying to break free, the blade grazing his jawline. Thrononiâr applied more pressure, a second guardsman grabbing them dwarf's shoulders from behind, forcing him to his knees.

Kíli knew he had no chance to break free, whatever this was about, he would have to see this through from wherever they would bring him.

Thoroniâr freed his hand from the tangled hair, noticing that one of those strange braids had fallen apart. "Disarm him," he ordered his men.

Shortly after the guards led Kíli away from the yard, leaving behind one item on the white flagstones – a silver bead, marred by blood and entangled with hair.

TRB

Denethor descended the stairs of the Tower of Kings by midmorning, having received Thoroniâr's report that the Dwarf was secured in the dungeon "Have Hirgon sent to Dol Amroth with a message…" Seeing the Tower Captain's frown, he stopped.

"But, you sent Hirgon to Rohan with the Red Arrow a week ago," Thoroniâr reminded him.

Denethor frowned. Had he indeed done so? He recalled that Boromir had been very insistent on this and he had given in, eventually. He'd deal with Rohan when they came here, if they came at all. The Rohirrim and their King could not be trusted. "Very well then, Captain. Send a message to Imrahil of Dol Amroth that I may have need of him soon. Where did you store the dwarf's weapons?"

"For now they are stored at the guard armory, my Lord," Thoroniâr's eyes pointed across the yards to the other side of the citadel.

"Good. Keep them apart from anyone. They are bespelled, twisted and touched by some of the vilest arts known to their degraded race." Denethor eyed the Captain coolly. "You will make sure no one disturbs me. If someone of import needs to speak to me, you will carry the message yourself. None other will come down to the dungeons. Is that understood?"

He needn't have been that forceful, for there was neither doubt nor wavering in the warrior's eyes, Denethor noticed. Apprehending the dwarf creature had not shaken the man, nor caused him to wonder what his orders were about. The Alaris bowed deeply. "As you wish, it shall be done."

Denethor waited for him to vanish from the courtyard before he reentered the tower to walk down to the dungeons beneath it. In ancient times, these dungeons must have served a different purpose, or maybe they had been reserved for traitors. Denethor did not know for sure; he had only found out about their existence by accident. At that time, he had doubted he'd ever have need of them. But young as he had been, he would not have believed many things: he would not have believed that any of Isildur's diluted blood would threaten to return, nor that his eldest son would become enthralled by vile magic.

The dungeon was not very large; it had no need to be. The guards had secured the Dwarf with the chains hanging from the ceiling, they had most likely been forced to use to employ the entire length these chains had, because prisoners of such small size were rare, and few small orcs would have had the honor of ever being brought here. To the side of the room, Denethor saw the chainmail armor and tunic of the dwarf, discarded along with whatever other clothes he had chosen to wear, all that he still had now were the breeches. His naked torso was marred with new injuries as well as old. He noticed several blueish glittering scars on the left side of the chest. A small cut ran along his jawline and the bruises on his collarbones were fresh as well, along with the disheveled mane there was little doubt he had struggled against being brought here. "Resisting the Tower Guard carrying out a lawful order of their Lord can get you executed in these lands, especially as a stranger," he observed. "Or did you forget?"

Kíli shifted his weight; it was easy to see that he was trying to release the strain on his arms. "How could I? Your people are very fond of making that clear," he responded his voice having a cold, tense sound to Denethor's ears.

"A greater crime it is to use bewitchment on the person of the Steward or his family… The punishment for such a crime is not spelled out in the law but it is supposed to go beyond the mere penalties for murder or treason," Denethor pointed out, using the torch he carried to light the tripods in the room, the flames rising slowly, illuminating his captive.

The flames dancing along the torch moved like touched by a soft wind, bending towards the dwarf, as if the fire itself wanted to touch him. "Every man can die only once," Kíli told him, "whether he is guilty or not." His eyes strayed to the flickering flame, and Denethor perceived a strange comfort, maybe even love in them. He stepped back, placing the torch on the wall.

"It is the manner of dying that makes the difference." Denethor walked around the captive, the dwarf's body was marred beyond belief. Ugly and flawed, like a piece of broken garbage forgotten to be discarded. Denethor noticed the feet firmly planted on the ground, reaching for the safety of the stone, the shoulders tense, rigid, there were a thousand ways a man could betray fear, and this one did by trying to not betray it. "Tell me, how did you ensnare my son into your spells? How did you make him forget his loyalty to me?"

The black eyes flickered and there was an almost imperceptible hesitation in him before the dwarf spoke again. "Your son is the most loyal Man there is – he'd never turn on Gondor."

"Is that so?" Denethor asked in a whisper, how could this stealing creature claim to know his son, or his heart?. "Why then do you claim his loyalty?" He stopped to face the captive, grey eyes meeting black and Denethor saw darkness, these eyes held a darkness of deeps, of shadows and pain – how could this creature carry so much Shadow and not be a servant of the Enemy? "You will tell me how to break the spell on him, son of Dari, and then you will die."

"If Mahal has measured the time of any Dwarf's passing, he'll guide him to the right place." Kíli's had studied the old man's face and what he had seen there frightened him. These contorted features and hastily flickering eyes did not belong to any sane man, and worse they reminded him vividly of Boromir's expression during those terrible moments in Amon Hen. He did not know what Shadow had befallen Denethor, but he was determined to not give ground.

Denethor could see the steely façade snap into place. It was something that inevitably happened with all captive warriors: they'd go into defense, hide their feelings and try to use an armor of courage to get through what lay ahead of them. The trick was to crack the armor, to find the weak spots that they could not protect, and the Seeing Stone had given Denethor many events, many painful moments of the captive's life that would work to break through the armor he invisibly created around himself. He would learn that his soul already lay bare. "You were not quite as… brash… when the Goblin King had you," he observed softly, "and this wasn't even the first time, was it? Only the first others saw. What a weak impression you must have made against the… what did he name it? The bone-breaker?"

The dwarf went still, not just that he did not reply, his body too ceased moving, or even showing any signs of heightened tension, it sagged, stopped being upheld at all, even the gaze of the dark eyes became empty, as if the very words had forced the dwarf into non-reaction. Fear, the fears of the past were encroaching on him, Denethor thought, and he would learn that these fears were not even through the door yet.

Denethor slowly removed the glove he was wearing; what he was going to do now he had seen in the Palantír, and while he knew that the Seeing Stones could not lie, he was not sure if he had understood the knowledge passed to him rightly. The voice that had whispered these instructions to him had come from afar, Denethor did not know from whence it came or into what lesson of old he had tapped, but he had learned… oh he had learned. "Pain is a patient teacher, Kíli – the only teacher that has all the time in the world." With his bare hand, he touched the Dwarf's broad chest, and the dwarf's body convulsed in searing pain, spreading through his body from the center of Denethor's touch, racing through every bone and muscle like liquid fire, even as Kíli bit back a scream. Denethor smiled, feeling the power surge through him, he could see how the pain spread through the dwarf, like fiery lines intertwining on his body, he knew what he was inflicting and it was an intoxicating feeling to be aware of every sweet ounce of torment he was giving the dwarf and being able to watch so detachedly all the same. He would free his son. "The bone-breaker," he said softly removing his hand from the dwarf's chest. "I never seem to quite remember the entire story…"

Denethor saw the dwarf's hands clench around the chains, the creature was struggling now that the pain was gone, like all lashed things it knew that the next blow would fall.

He approached the Dwarf again, not touching him yet. "I was told that the Orcs used knives to carve into your skin, here." The dwarf's shoulders were covered by the lustrous mane that would have served any maiden proud. Denethor ran his fingers through the long tresses, brushing them aside in a nearly gentle touch. He could feel a rigid tension return to the dwarf along with a shudder running right through his skin. Amused he repeated the gesture, actually putting the long hair forward that it fell in front of his shoulder to reveal the right shoulder blade and the crude set of characters scarred on it. A rude and crude statement of ownership, inscribed into the very skin.

Denethor's finger traced the writings, his touch sending one single fiery line of pain through the crude letters, the dwarf would remember pain old… and learn of pain new.

Kíli stifled any noise in his throat when the fresh pain ran through his body, he wanted nothing more than to break these bonds, to escape those touches but all he could do was not allow any of his distress to manifest in words or voice. He would not give that old man that triumph.

"Of course, they lashed you – they always do, don't they? I never can quite understand why." Denethor circled the captive again, his hand tracing the lash marks all across the back. "Such marks of shame… like any commoner whipped in the market for stealing a goat would have. So low…"

He could feel the dwarf tense anew; he was so skittish to touch like a fearful maiden, an amusing trait in one who was supposed to be hardened warrior.

"And then they brought the bone-breaker... not a hammer, but a saw. A vile, rusty saw to sever your bones in the shoulder." He touched the place where the scar ran across Kíli's strong shoulder. The dwarf almost jumped at the touch, trying to push off the hand but the chains holding him in place. "And as you screamed your agony into the dark, your uncle watched... Your King left you to suffer alone."

TRB

"Three marching columns, one Orcs, one Haradrim and Orcs and the third Easterling Legions all are crossing the Pelennor at different angles." Faramir's hand pointed out the directions on the map. He stood with Boromir and Veryan, in the Captain's Guard room at the citadel, a map of the city and the Pelennor spread out on the heavy stone table between them. Their father had not deigned to join them, and Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, was delayed, though he had sent word he would eventually attend. "At that pace, we will be under siege in less than two days. The populace of the surrounding lands and the Pelennor villages has fled to the city already."

"Have all people moved out of the lowest ring," Boromir said. "We will need it as a battle ground when they get over the wall. We will make the best use of the time we still have. I will talk to our Dwarves; they can help us block and bar the gates."

Imrahil of Dol Amroth pushed open the door of the guard room, striding in hastily. "I apologize for my delay," he said courtly, "but Hirluin of Morthrond and Lisuar of Lossarnach were both rather insistent I hear their complaints. They feel that the muster of their lands was conducted… rather harshly." His glance went from Boromir and his brother, to Veryan who stood with them at the map table..

Veryan did not speak; only an arched eyebrow asked his father if this really was the time to discuss disgruntled nobles and their complaints.

"It needed to be done and they were drawing things out needlessly, Imrahil," Boromir told the Prince. "I expected them to see by now what we are facing."

"I reminded them of that too," Imrahil replied calmly. "Yet… there is another matter. It is very commendable that you found Gondor new allies on your journey north, Boromir. I would call it praiseworthy, especially as they are willing to commit troops to our cause…"

"But?" Boromir asked, frowning.

"Only the Steward may make such decisions without hearing the Lords of the Provinces," Imrahil raised his hand, the wide gesture indicating the citadel, the council hall, maybe the entirety of Gondor that he spoke of, "and they were not heard, nor has your father yet confirmed his acceptance of this alliance."

"We are at war, Imrahil." Boromir shook his head, pacing forth and back between the table and the wall. "If the Lords of the Land wish to negotiate for a few years, they are welcome to do so… the next time war marches upon us. I am not going to turn away valuable allies."

"I think the Prince is only relaying the complaints of others," Faramir voice was sharp and his words directed at Imrahil, whom he cast a piercing glance. "I would guess all the White Mountains provinces will have been speaking to him."

Imrahil's eyes widened, of course he was aware that Faramir was the more political savvy of the brothers, but he had not expected him to see the matter so clearly. "What makes you assume that, Faramir?" he inquired. "I did not mention names or provinces."

"Simply because they are the only ones likely to have any trade relations to the other Dwarf kingdom up at Mount Erebor," Faramir told him.

"And thusly will be loath to see the Man from whom their trade partner stole the throne here." Boromir caught on what Faramir was saying. "When will they see that we will have Orc legions before these very walls in less than two days and an army of Easterlings on top of that? Mordor is ready to overrun us all, and they worry about their petty trade rights."

"Alienating them is not going to help, Boromir," Imrahil argued his point, he wished Boromir would see the matter more balanced and had consulted with the council prior to bringing a banished Prince and his rogue followers to the city. "But I also doubt that their view on matters among the Dwarves is entirely correct either. Maybe the leader of your allies would be willing to confirm that?"

"I expect Prince Kíli and Dwalin to arrive here shortly," Boromir replied, "and we may spare a few moments for your concerns. Though to my mind, it is of no consequences if some provinces find their trading partners vexed as I do not see the troops of said trading partners on our walls this very moment."

"This is more long term than this war, Boromir." Imrahil snapped. "Dáin is a very powerful and influential King in the North, and this dwarven rogue you brought here with his war-band, is a disgraced and banished son of…"

He did not get a chance to finish the sentence, Boromir had closed the gap between them in two long strides, his hard hand grasping Imrahil's wrist. "You still are parroting the words of nobles fearing for their purse, Uncle," The Captain of Gondor said in a low, threatening voice. "Kíli, son of Dari is the last son of Durin's true line – the true heir to the throne Dáin stole, and a better friend and ally than that a thieving dwarf sitting up north and not bothering to even think of our situation. I would trade these 'thieves and rogues' as you call them for any of your petty nobles and deem it a trade well done."

Before their altercation could reach further levels, heavy steps approach the door. When it swung open, only Dwalin walked in, bowing shortly. Thirán was with him, but like most times keeping to the background. "Is Prince Kíli with you?" Boromir asked him at once as he let go of Imrahil and stepped back to the map table.

The Dwarves frowned as they exchanged swift glances. "No. I have not seen him since last night when your brother came for him. I believed he was still with you."

"He left the Citadel before first light." Faramir was instantly alert, his hands leaning slightly on the table, a typical gesture when the Ranger wanted to think. "If he never came back to the Undercity…." The implications were dangerous… if some of the nobles had acted already… no matter who had done this, it would endanger the alliance Boromir had built with the dwarves, for Faramir had no doubt that Dwalin and Bofur would not stay a moment longer if their Prince came to harm by Gondorian hands. Or was this a work of the enemy? Faramir doubted it slightly, because if the enemy's arm reached that far, they would have already seen assassins for Boromir and Denethor.

"Then someone saw to that." Frustrated, Boromir made a first, not quite bringing it down on the table, stopping himself from hitting the stone. This had to be the enemy's doing… or had someone else been aware of Isildur's Bane? Kíli was one of the very few beings in Middle Earth who knew with utter surety where the Ring was headed - of the three people in this city, Faramir, Kíli and Boromir himself, Kíli was the only who could be caught or vanished without sending all of Gondor into instant alert. Maybe the enemy had made use of those who would hate Kíli either way. "And one of our lovely noble snakes might be behind it." Boromir wished he could toss all of them into a dungeon and give the key to the sea. It was so like them to do the enemy's work out of their own petty concerns.

"We don't know that yet," Imrahil reminded him. "He might have simply missed his meeting with war-master Dwalin."

"No, he wouldn't have," Faramir said. "Something is wrong here." It was the worst possible moment for such a thing to happen: for strife to break out in their own ranks – the Enemy's work, beyond doubt. He could see the glances exchanged between Dwalin and Thirán, and that Thirán had placed a hand on Dwalin's arm, like he was holding him back from something. How much influence did the dark, silent dwarf have over the war-master? How much of that could he extend towards Bofur? Would he be able to wield that influence when push came to shove… provided he would not be with them anyway?

"Veryan, see to the preparations." Boromir decided, they needed to act quickly and he could not entrust this to anyone else. If Kíli had been taken because of what he knew of the Ring- Boromir did not like to think of it. "If someone complains too loudly, deal with them. I trust you to whip them in line and get the city ready for an all-out attack. Send word to me if necessary, I have a few ideas where to begin asking questions in the meantime."

Boromir and Faramir strode out of the room and into the yard. "You think the nobles are behind that?" Faramir asked. "It would make sense – and it could destroy our alliance with Kíli's people, and they may hope for further trade with Dáin, if they kill his problem."

"That is their motivation, no doubt." Boromir looked around, checking there was no one close by. "Fari – Kíli knows all about Frodo, about our hopes, about the plan… if someone captures him and interrogates him… Kíli is strong, but every man has a breaking point."

TRB

Inflicting pain through his touch was straining, Denethor had not expected it to take so much out of him, and the Dwarf was strong; he had neither screamed nor pleaded, no matter how much pain he had been subjected to. Sweat glistened on his bare skin, but he still stubbornly kept his head up, his eyes following Denethor across the room. Those eyes were still attentive, still able to focus, in spite of it all, the dwarf was still able to think on his feet. The Steward knew that the pain would have had other Men howling on their knees but until now he had only heard growls, and Denethor was tiring, it took more and more effort to inflict new pain on the dwarf. This was not a battle of brute force, he reminded himself, but of wits and knowledge. "You must think you are resisting me," he said like he was making conversation, walking towards the iron braziers. "That you are stronger than the pain. Maybe you still are… but there are things you can't withstand. Why don't you tell me how to break the spell on my son and I shall spare you further torment."

"I cannot give you what you deny yourself." Kíli felt the words rasping in his throat, his jaw hurt, but it was minor compared to the rest of his body. While the touch of the hand had left no visible marks on his body, every muscle and bone inside him burned in searing pain that lingered even after the hand was removed. It did not burn brightly like the blue fire, but it was a sickening, foul pain aching in his bones.

"What do you mean by that?" Denethor stepped closer, his flickering gaze trying to hold the Dwarf's who refused to look into his eyes. "I do not deny myself anything."

"You deny yourself your son's love through your own deeds, your demands." Kíli tried to steady his voice. "The love of a father is beyond demands, beyond expectations… You deny yourself the love of your sons, for you have consigned yourself to only love them in a form you have thought up for them."

"Liar!" Denethor snapped, in his rage actually slapping the dwarf, the sound of the blows a loud echo in the dungeon. "I foresee my son's path to destiny, and I shall free him of your manipulations."

"Boromir chooses his own path, neither manipulated nor pushed by you."

Denethor shook his head. The Dwarf thought he could confuse him with riddles; he would have to break him to get any truth from this creature. He turned and looked at him. "We all have things we fear," he stated. "Things we hide so others don't see that we are afraid. I had not expected a Dwarf's fear to be hot metal." He reached for a tong lying on the side of a brazier. "But then… few have been branded like cattle by the Goblins of the north."

His words had immediate effect on the Dwarf: all color drained from his face, for a moment his expression, the steely mask failed and gave way for a much younger and more fearful expression. Although he regained control quickly enough, the mask snapping back into place and his dark eyes betrayed fear for the first time.

"I have been given to understand that those Goblins brand their prisoners on the back to simply tell them apart…" Denethor spoke slowly, deliberately now. "How crude… how unsophisticated. Their kind knows naught but the coarsest things." He walked closer to his captive. "The back is at least discreet, is it not? Easy to hide such a mark along with the scars the lash left there… Kíli, slave of the Orcs."

Kíli forbade himself to look at fire and whatever instruments the Steward was heating there, he knew if he saw them he would give away the fear, he would show it, when he must not. All that must be endured can be endured. All pain can be borne. He reminded himself of Dwalin's words, he would not shame his friend, nor the trust his people had into him by giving in, or by begging, no matter how much the fear coiled inside him. "Why don't you try their hospitality just to be sure?" The words came out in one angry shout at the old man. He had no idea what he spoke of, he had never suffered at the hands of Orcs, never been the plaything of their sport… he knew nothing of the world.

Denethor did not react to the words; instead he circled his prey, before grabbing Kíli's left wrist. He noticed the black work tattoo inside it, two runes of names intertwined in a flame, how sentimental, how weak… to carve one's dead family into the skin like longing for them to be still there. Pathetic. "They say the hands are very important among your kind. How you can do delicate works with these paws is beyond me." He studied Kíli's strong, calloused hand, it was larger than a man's hand, with strong fingers, hardened and marked by work as much as the sword- Denethor sniffed disdainfully. "Hardly the hand of a king – a paw like any stonebreaker will sport. Still…" He took the tong and removed a heated iron, an ancient steel seal of the City, from the brazier. The seal had once been used like all seals would, to seal letters and documents, but the long steel shaft with the steel inlay depicting the white tree of the city, could serve for other things too. "In times of old a brand, a stigma would be branded on a convicted criminal, dwarf." The Steward told him. "and this will mark you for what you are. Not even a slave… but a criminal of the foulest sort…" He pressed the glowing stamp right into the Dwarf's palm. And this time Kíli screamed.

TRB

"Nothing," Faramir reported to his brother, back again in the Captain's Guardroom, one of the few places where they could talk undisturbedly. "I have shaken a lot of trees around our noble houses and what I got are apples of all kinds of intrigues sorts, but nothing even remotely connecting with our friend. Boromir, while the nobles a grumbling to Imrahil about Kíli, they do not dare to act out against him, because they are not blind to your friendship with him, and thus they are chosen their steps carefully."

It was fifth afternoon hour and their search had turned up a lot of things, including a few conspiracies, but certainly not their friend. By now, Faramir could no longer deny he was worried, for there was no reasonable, or safe, explanation for their friend's vanishing, and every hour that passed made a fate of pain and suffering for him more likely. If the Enemy could strike like that, right in their middle, at the very heart of their own city, no one was safe. The thought chilled Faramir's bones, he was a Ranger, used to strike where the enemy did not expect it but he had rarely had the same tactics employed against him. How could one protect against such a strike? How to find the one who caused it? How could they go on trusting each other, when trust was so easily misplaced?

"He has to be still inside the city," Boromir mused. "The Gates are guarded too well." They left the guard room and went out into the yard again. "Which means we must focus our search on those parts of the city that would allow for a captive to be hidden. We can discount the Undercity this time, though." Boromir wondered where they might start, any clue that could help them.

They had walked across the main citadel yard, when Faramir suddenly caught a glimpse on something glittering on the flagstones. He went towards the spot that was no twenty paces from the entrance of the tower where they had their quarters. "Boromir!" he called for his brother, as he squatted down.

"Faramir?" Boromir had followed his brother, fully aware that Faramir's keen Ranger eyes often picked up the smallest clues. "Did you find something?"

Faramir rose again, opening his hand to show Boromir a small item. A steel clasp, smeared with blood and a streak of dark hair still entangled in it. "Kíli used to wear such," he said.

"It is one of his," Boromir had noticed the strange habit to wear braids early on their journey and had seen those steel clasps quite clearly. He looked to the ground where it had been found and back at the blood and hair on the small item. Kíli had not lost this by accident. "The Light preserve us… he was attacked not twenty feet away from our tower, right inside the citadel." He frowned, if it had happened here, someone must have seen it. The Guards should have seen it.

He swiftly looked around and then strode down the yard towards the Citadel Gate where Thoroniâr was just assigned additional guards to several key spots of the citadel. "Any news on your search?" Boromir asked.

The Alaris' shoulders squared slightly as he turned around to face Boromir. "No, my Captain. No one seems to have seen the Dwarf," Thoroniâr replied evenly, but Boromir spotted unease in his face, and the Man would not meet his eyes.

"My brother found this in the upper yard," Boromir opened his hand to show the Alaris the clasp. "It belonged to Kíli, aside from none of your guards finding it, it means something happened in the citadel in the early morning hours and you have received no report on it yet?" He saw how Thoroniâr's eyes widened when he saw the clasp.

"No. But maybe the Guards believed this piece of… jewelry to belong to some maiden or maidservant. I will have them asked about it, once the Nightwatch returns for their shift." The Alaris of the Tower Guard turned to hastily return to his duties.

Boromir tensed, he knew Thoroniâr, knew him since they both had been boys in this very citadel, and it took not a second glance to see that the Alaris was hiding something, or maybe not saying all he knew. A cold hand touched Boromir's heart – he knew how persuasive the Enemy could be, how deep the Shadow could sink his claws into a man's heart. How… how could Thoroniâr have fallen for it? He was loyal as a war hound and just as fierce. Another thought came to Boromir's mind, if anyone knew the citadel front and back it was the Alaris of the Tower Guard, if anyone could have gotten Kíli out of the city… maybe sent off to the enemy camp… to Minas Morgul itself… it would be him. He did not want to think it, he did not want to picture his friend in those dungeons, in the night under the dread city. But that was where they would send him to learn of what had happened to the Ring. Inwardly Boromir prayed to any power that might be listening that he was wrong, that his friendship would not have condemned Kíli to die in the dungeons of Minas Morgul. Angrily he reached for the Alaris shoulder and spun him around.

"I have known you for more than thirty years, Thoroniâr," he said fiercely, his eyes searching Thoroniâr's face, he did not know what to look for, what signs a man turned to the enemy would show, but he hoped there would be a visible change, detectable to the naked eye. "and I have never known you to turn your back on me like this. Never, not even once. You know something – do not deny it. Speak!"

The proud Alaris of the Tower Guard took a step back from the fierce anger he was confronted with, he cast down his eyes, trying to avoid Boromir's gaze. His hands were shaking, he curled them up in fists to hide it. "I cannot, my Lord," he said in a low voice.

"Cannot?" Boromir's frown deepened, what kind of compulsion could make a man silent like that? Was there a magic able to do this? "I command you to speak."

Now Thoroniâr looked up, grim determination etched in his face. "Then I beg your forgiveness for not obeying, my Captain, but I cannot."

For a long moment, Boromir simply studied the Man's grey eyes. He knew his Men, he knew his troops, their leaders were familiar, only thus he had been able to lead them well. He had known Thoroniâr before they even had been soldiers, and he could read many things in the Man before him: fear, worry, and deep regret to have to oppose him among them. Whatever the other Man knew, Thoroniâr bore it like a burden. "Thoroniâr." Boromir allowed for his voice to soften, to be less demanding. "There is only one other who could have ordered your silence. But why would he? Why is it you do not trust me anymore?"

"It is not mistrust, my Lord." Thoroniâr's eyes went past Boromir, trying to evade his gaze.

"It is distrust, Thoron, no matter how you phrase it." A cold wind seemed to brush Boromir's soul, Thoroniâr would always feel that he owed Denethor loyalty beyond even that of a soldier, a debt of gratitude and loyalty that harkened back to their childhood days. And while that debt was also rooted in their friendship, Boromir was angered that Thoroniâr, who had known the situation of his family longer than most, had not the sense to come to him with something like this. He grasped Thoroniârs arm forcefully, forcing the other man to look at him. "You have a simple choice here, Alaris," he said coldly. "If my father forbade you to speak, you will have to choose between him and me. Will you be loyal to him, or are you still loyal to me?"

"Boromir!" Faramir had stepped beside them, releasing Boromir's hold on Thoroniâr's arm with one firm grip of his own. "You cannot make him chose like this. He cannot choose between his Lord and his Captain."

"I can, Lord Faramir," Thoroniâr said slowly, his shoulders straightening, as his jaw set in a determined line. "I must." He faced Boromir, grey eyes searching Boromir's glance, like there was an answer written there. Eventually, he spoke. "The Lord Denethor ordered me to apprehend the Dwarf named Kíli when he left the Citadel and bring him to the dungeon under the Tower of Kings. He still is there… as is your father."

"Why?" Faramir's widening eyes and for one moment slack jawed expression betrayed more of his shock to Boromir than the incredulous tone in his voice. His brother tried to find a reason, logic to what they had just heard, even when there might be none.

"That can wait for later," Boromir said firmly. "You made the right choice, Thoroniâr… the hard choice, but the right one." He hesitated for a moment; he had left Truefire at the guard room not expecting the need for a weapon in the citadel. He would get it… no… this, if it was what Thoroniâr's words indicated would demand a more formal weapon. "I will need your sword."

Thoroniâr drew the blade, handing it to Boromir hilt first. "It was always yours to command." He meant those words, even as his grey eyes were deeply troubled.

Wordlessly, Boromir took the blade and went to the gate of the Tower of Kings. Only Faramir followed him. Whatever would come now, it was for them alone to face. For a moment, Thoroniâr watched them leave. Shame and fear warring inside him, he then straightened up. He had made his choice and he would stand by it. He followed Boromir to the tower.

TRB

Boromir had pushed open the door to the King's Tower and hurried down the long flights of stairs that led to its dungeon. When he was halfway down the stairswell he heard the first scream, rising from the deep and ringing from the walls of the tower, a hollow, hoarse howl of agony. He had a hard time to recognize the voice, had it not been for that distinct deep timbre he would not have known for Kíli's voice sounded raw and hoarse. He nearly halted his step, when he realized that Kíli's voice was hoarse from screams, Boromir knew, he was too familiar with that kind of voice.

He hastened down the stairs, stopping on the last flight when he could see the dungeon. It was one large dungeon cell only, Kíli had been chained with the heavy sealed chains descending from the ceiling, and by now they seemed to be the only thing keeping him standing, his arms were bent and leaning heavily in the chain's grip, disjointing his shoulders. The entire body covered sweat and shaking, shaking from pain.

Denethor had just recovered something from a brazier two metal rings of sorts. Horrified Boromir watched as the old man put them over Kíli's hands, so their glowing seals burned into the palm. Stigmas. In times of old those would have marked convicted criminal. But it was not until Denethor's hand touched Kíli's naked skin, that his whole body was arching up, like under a whip of sheer agony, the scream even drowning out the chocked sound behind Boromir that betrayed his brother's horror at this scene more than anything.

"You will tell me how you enchanted my son, and how to break your bane on him," the Steward demanded. "And you will beg for my forgiveness before I permit your death."

For a moment Boromir froze – was this why his father… no he could not think of him like that, why Denethor was doing that? Out of the misguided belief he had fallen under an enchantment? How… how could he? How could he dare to turn on the very friend that had saved Boromir from the enchantment of the ring?

"If I ever were to do this, it was me whom I could not forgive." Kíli's voice was rough; the words came out in gasps but Boromir noticed a still clear glance in his gaze and a defined purpose when he spoke. No begging, no incoherent words, Kíli was a long way from being broken, and that alone bespoke strength his tormented body was any indication how far Denethor had gone.

With rising anger, Boromir watched his father casually inflicting pain on his friend with a cold cruelty that he had never believed him capable of. "Enough!" he bellowed, storming down the last flight of stairs, sword in hand. "You will end this!"

The Steward turned around, his face falling. "My son…" he whispered. "He stole you from me… he stole your love, your loyalty." With one fluent move, the Steward drew his own sword, advancing towards his son. "I will not allow him to corrupt you."

Boromir parried the attacks with practiced ease. While his father was a solid swordsman, he lacked the years of war that had shaped Boromir. "Kíli saved my life, Father," he said, trying to reason with the old man. "Without him, I would not have lived to come home." He hoped that the old man would hear him, that he somehow could not reach him, shame and anger warred inside Boromir, shame and pain at seeing his father fallen to such vile depths and anger that Denethor had allowed himself to be twisted like that. Had he forgotten about honor, about loyalty, about friendship? Was all that he cared for power and his own visions?

"Lies! He is lying to you…" Denethor attacked again, more fiercely this time, their swords clashed loudly, steel ringing out against the walls of the ancient dungeon. "He will confess once he is properly broken… He was an Orc slave once – his will is weak."

Orc-slave… Boromir knew that Kíli had seen horrors in their hands, he had known as much ever since seeing the back injuries, and after seeing what Eriador was like, he admired the strength of Kíli to dare wander it alone, to fight alone to protect his people trapped in the lone lands. How could Denethor even dare to judge on that? Or to use it against him? "You have become a monster." Inside him, the anger and the whispers of his dreams welled up. "You are nothing but a pathetic fool…"

"Boromir!" Kíli shouted,his entire body was shaking with pain and at first his own voice failed him. He put some pressure into is agonized shoulders and used the leverage of the chains to make himself stand, fresh stabs of agony running through his body, but he pushed beyond that. Never let pain be stronger than yourself, never allow agony to rule you, true strength is overcoming your own body. The words echoed in his mind and he drew strength from them. "Boromir! You will not kill him." The sentence came out with all the authority Kíli could give it. "Nothing he did here is worth patricide. Nothing he did here is worth you becoming a murderer for it. You will not kill him!"

Faramir moved along the other wall of the dungeon, past Kíli to flank Denethor, he too had drawn his sword as he advanced past the captive dwarf towards his father.

Denethor sneered at the Dwarven Prince, when he heard the order snapped at his son. In this one moment, he could see the Prince in exile clearly, and he hated him all the more. Another fallen house, another thief. "There are many ways to prevent your plans, Dwarf," he spat, "other than breaking you." In his hand appeared a dagger, but instead of defending himself, he threw it, his hand was shaking, throwing his aim only slightly off the blade buried itself deep into Faramir's chest.

The silvery blade spun through the air and hit Faramir squarely, cutting through his leather armor effortlessly. The Ranger's sword cluttered to the hard stone floor, as Faramir dropped to his knees, hands reaching for the weapon impaling his chest. He struggled to keep upright for a moment before he fell to the ground, felled by his own father's stroke. "Fari!" Boromir's shout was tinged in horror, in the absolute shock of seeing his father turn on Faramir. He could hear the pained rattling of Faramir's breath, and see the body curl up in pain.

Denethor's eyes widened in shock when he saw his son on the ground, blood pooling beneath his body. "Faramir…" For only one merciless moment, the sanity returned and he saw with clear eyes how Faramir sank to the ground, blood smearing his body. His son… his son was dying. Faramir tried to raise his hand towards him.

"Father…" The one word was all it took to jab so painfully at the ray of sanity, to carve up Denethor's soul with agony. Even as the sanity fled the horror of his own deeds, the pain remained the agony of losing his son… his sons… to enslavement.

"I will not be made a servant…" Denethor grabbed the sword directed at his chest, meant to hold him in check, the tip was only a hand's breath from him. Boromir reacted in reflex, trying to break the blade free but Denethor in his desperation was stronger, he held his grasp on the sword firmly and plunged into it, impaling himself on Boromir's blade.

The sword slipped from Boromir's hand as the Steward's body hit the ground, but Boromir did not care: he hurried to Faramir, kneeling down beside him, disregarding the blood on the ground; he lifted Faramir's injured body up, holding him. "Boromir…" Faramir's voice was soft, weak. "do not… do not hate him… he was not… not himself."

"Sh… don't waste strength on him," Boromir whispered gently, holding his brother, much like he had when Fari had been younger and ill. "Conserve your strength." Carefully he took stock of the wound. He could tell that the dagger had missed his heart, but the wound was deep and dangerous. Very gently, Boromir cradled his younger brother against his chest. That their own father would not stop short of killing him was beyond any nightmare the Ring had ever inflicted on him. He felt Faramir shake, his body was cold, the shock of the wound setting fully in.

"Boromir," Faramir's voice was low, his speech labored, even as he managed to speak more clearly than before, he was marshaling his waning strength into the words. "You must go on alone… you can't let this break you… I know you are strong… do not allow this… this to take your soul. Please, brother…"

The idea of going on alone, without his family, was one Boromir could hardly bear to think off, losing his brother like this… no… he did not even want to picture it. Words failed him and he could only hold his brother close, while the blood streamed from the wound and his breath became slower and slower.