Chapter One: An Omen


It was a pleasant day at Forochel, all things considered, and Ciro welcomed the slight chill on his skin as he walked deeper into the frozen cavern. They were supposed to have returned to the Mithlond three days past, but Ciro had always considered such deadlines to be suggestions, at best. His time was usually marked in years, rather than days, and he spent far too much time on the road to be bothered by such arbitrary limits.

The cavern winded deep into the earth, pulling them further and further away from the frozen sea. Ciro and his companion, a stoic elven fisher called Nirdin, stayed close to the icy walls. Ciro had charted this particular cave three decades past, but the freezing and unfreezing of the bay often chipped away at the caverns that surrounded it. The twisting turns that he once knew by heart became foreign overnight and he was forced to stop at each crossroads and reassess.

When he set out from the Grey Havens three weeks ago, he had his sights set on treasure.

It had eluded him.

Taunted him.

At times, it had even haunted his dreams.

There were whispers in the night, on the wind and in the very water he spent his life on, that Forochel had secrets buried deep beneath its ice and he meant to find them.

He had no idea what he was meant to be looking for, but as they descended deeper and deeper the familiar itch sprung up at the back of his mind.

They were getting close.

It was nothing more than a pinprick on the back of his neck – a whisper across his skin of something rumbling deep within – but he had been on enough of these excursions to know when it was time to trust his own gut. A human phrase, but an apt one to be sure. His sister was always more fond of the humans and their crude way with words, but she regaled him often enough that he had started to feel his affection growing for the ephemeral race.

Perhaps it was their fleeting nature that caused them to eschew any mincing of words.

And there was another.

Ciro smirked and shook his head.

"My Lord," Nirdin started, voice guarded and soft.

Ciro raised his hand, halting the other elf in place. There was a reason Ciro's uncle always insisted he take Nirdin with him. Even with his head stuck in the stars, Cirdan had the good sense to recognize the need for Ciro to have a chaperone, of sorts. Nirdin was loyal, perhaps to a fault, and as stone-faced as they came, and Ciro never minded the older elf's companionship. In fact, he had come to consider him a friend over the years.

But he did not need a friend today.

He was not sure he even needed a companion.

He would just as soon troll through the caverns on his own - free from prying eyes and the burden of his own crushing expectations. The weight of Nirdin's stare on the back of his neck felt heavy, but he continued walking deeper and deeper into the cold. These ice caves had been hewn long ago – whether by hand or nature he was no sure- and he did not trust them not to buckled under the crushing weight of ice and wind just outside.

They would need to be quick and Ciro, so used to the ability to wander around aimlessly, felt the pressure beginning to build.

The light dwindled as they got deeper into the cavern and Nirdin moved in closer. There was light shuffle, the sound of fingers wrapping around worn leather, and Ciro knew that his loyal guard and longtime friend was balanced on the edge of a knife, just as he was.

Turning left, and then right, and left and left again, they finally came to a large room. It glowed a soft blue, illumined by the light from outside fighting through the layers of to make it them. Ciro might have noted its beauty, haunting and cold though it may be, and tucked it away at the back of his mind to tell Maren about later if he was not so taken by the small stone in the middle of the ice cavern.

It sat half buried in snow and ice and could very well have been mistaken for a nicely shaped rock if Ciro had not stared so deeply into the depths of one of its siblings not three days past. It was much smaller than the other, dull from all the years it spent forgotten in the wasteland of a once great kingdom, but it still seemed to pull the very air from his lungs and freeze his heart all the same.

"My lord," Nirdin started again, voice faltering as he looked down at the smooth stone. "Did you know this was here?"

A truly remarkable coincidence, if he did not.

But he could not muster the words need to say yes. Perhaps the stone had stolen those as well. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind he must have known.

He took a step forward, arm outstretched. The cold bite at the tips of his fingers but he ignored the sting and continued to crunch through the ice until he was directly on top of the stone. He stared at it, something churning deep within him the longer he looked. He bent down, ignoring Nirdin as he moved in closer, and touched his hand to the cold stone.

Nothing happened.

It felt no different than touching a whetstone or an old river rock, so cold it was it almost felt wet. But he continued to hold his hand to it, to try and pull something from it and make sense of why he felt such a powerful need to be there. He kept his hand wrapped around the stone for only a moment longer, frustration building in his chest before he felt the smallest pull.

Find them.

The voice was soft as spider silk and sweet as summer honey. It pulled him closer and held him, soft fingers wrapping around his mind like a lover before they turned violent.

Ciro pried the stone from the cold grip, ignoring the cracking of the ground beneath their feet as he disturbed the ice for perhaps the first time in centuries. It was old beneath the earth, closer to when this world was still young, and Ciro was struck for perhaps the first time in his life, by the wisdom of the dwarves in giving it such deference. The age - the danger of long kept stories buried deep- could very well swallow them whole if they were not careful. But still he pulled the stone free and held it up to his face.

It kept its secrets.

Find the others.

Find them all.

Nirdin moved again behind him, hesitating for just the briefest of moments, before he touched a light, comforting hand to Ciro's shoulder.

His arm moved of its own accord and the knife buried deep between Nirdin's ribs before Ciro could even fathom that it was by his hand that it was done.

Blood spluttered from Nirdin's mouth as the shock – from the pain or the betrayal, Ciro would never be sure – registered before the pain. Ciro pulled the knife back, mouth dropping open as Nirdin fell to his knees. The sound of the blood dripping to the snow mixed with their erratic breathing. Each breath took them closer and closer and further and further and it was all Ciro could do to watch as his friend shuddered for the last time and fell silent.

Before he could even begin to mourn, to comprehend what he had done, the sickly sweet voice crawled back into his mind and all the shame and regret he felt was ripped away from him by force. He stood up and stepped back from Nirdin, dropping the bloodied knife in the snow as he tucked the Palantir in his cloak and walked back towards the entrance of the ice cave.

Bring them to me.


The screams were the first thing he heard before he woke from his sleep. He started, hand wrapping around his sword before he realized he had dreamed of suffering once again.

Boromir son of Denethor was accustomed to such dreams, although the discomfort he felt was a poignant as ever. He sat up, laying his sword over his legs as he reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow before any of the garrison noticed. They were toes to tits right now, each man's sense of personal space all but lost in the small confines of Minas Tirith. But it was preferable to Boromir, to be so close to his men and arms and so very far from the white walls of his city.

At the very least, when he woke up from his nightmares it was the stars that greeted him and not the wasted finery of his four-poster bed.

It was still before dawn but Boromir knew sleep was lost to him. He grabbed the rolled up cloak he had been using as a pillow and clipped it to his shoulders. He schooled his features just in case someone else was awake, just in case there was a new plague of restlessness passing through the camp. He did not care to see their faces of concern.

Even more, he did not care to see his own worries make a roost anywhere but the privacy of his own heart.

Boromir slid his sword into his sheath and grabbed his shield, although it wasn't needed. He felt naked without it. Exposed to the wilds now more than ever as the whispers from the west had grown ever darker. It was not the whispers that caused him so much concern, but the ever darkening skies.

The common folk thought nothing of them – just a little bit of poor weather, a touch of dust kicked up from the beyond Ephel Duath. They were a topic of conversation to them, a curiosity, a fascination, but to Boromir they were doom.

He looked around at the dirty walls, once sparkling white, and walked closer to the river. He kept his hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword, cautious as the day he was born and just a touch paranoid in a manner that was wholly unnecessary. He knew these waters, knew the once sweet taste that had now turned sour from the bodies littering the muddy banks, and had nothing to fear from them.

Boromir passed the guardsmen closest to the bank, two of his father's choosing and woefully unprepared for the task, and went to sit on the only piece of overturned rubble that wasn't monstrously terrible on the backside. He would sit watch and wait for the sun to rise. Perhaps, he might even be able to scrounge up a bit of warm tea to soothe his weary mind. He felt as if they bad been at Osgiliath for an age, fighting for each and every inch they gained with blood and sweat and bone.

He had seen it all before, smelled the acrid stench of the orcs just across the bank for a bit too long. He was half convinced it was their smell that had caused his dreams. Every night since he garrisoned, he dreamt of the darkening sky, dreamt of it turning to black before ash rained down and choked them all. The screaming started at some point, just after the White City fell into ruin. He did not know the outcome. He always woke shortly after.

"Couldn't sleep?" A hand clapped to his shoulder startled Boromir out of his reverie.

His body stiffened and his hand gripped the pommel just a little tighter. It brought him comfort and instantly relaxed him. There was a peace for him in battle, a control that he couldn't find anywhere else. His muscles knew what to do instinctively, he his hands knew just the right grip, his legs the proper stance. Everything was as it should be except for his eyes. He couldn't see a damn thing in the fog.

He schooled his features as his younger brother leaned against the damaged wall to his right.

Faramir smiled at him, still so boyish save for the stress lines next to his eyes.

"No," Boromir said, never fond of lying to his brother.

"I could not either," Faramir admitted, tilting his head up to the lightening sky. "The orcs have been too quiet."

"It is a shame, isn't it?"

"What?"

"How much easier it is to sleep when the orcs are screeching all throughout the night than it is when they are quiet."

They shared a knowing look before they both started laughing. The guards nearest to them cleared their throats and turned away. Boromir bore no ill will towards them. They were doing as they were told after all, just as he was. But they never let the two Steward's Sons out of their sight. The taller of the two, Byrnon, was a silly man. He liked to laugh when nothing funny had been said and found humor in everything from elvish tales to stories of old spinsters. Boromir liked to keep his distance to Byrnon. The other man, Selet, was short and stocky and carried no humor with him. He was at odds with Byrnon most of the time, but kept mostly to himself when he wasn't needed, a trait that Boromir greatly admired as he wasn't needed very often, if at all.

Boromir looked across the bank, steeling himself for the day to come.

"Prepare the men," Boromir said, sensing that their morning was going to start earlier than expected. He hoped this would be the day they ended it. He always slept better outside, but he would do well with a meal that didn't taste of gristle and burned hair, he decided.

Byrnon and Selet followed his orders and hurried away. The fog that had moved in in the early hours of the morning made it harder to see and Boromir thought he heard the sound of one of them running into something.

"Milords," A man called, rushing into the small clearing between buildings and replacing the other two the moment they left. "A raven approaches."

"From which direction?" Boromir asked, standing up. Whatever mask he had allowed to slip when around Faramir, he put it firmly back in place as he turned to face his men.

"From the north."

"From Erebor?" Faramir asked, tone indicating his doubt.

The dwarves of the Lonely Mountain were known for their fondness of using ravens, but they rarely sent them south for anything short of dire news.

"It must bode ill," Boromir said, watching the raven as it passed low over their heads.

"The King Under the Mountain is old. Perhaps he has, what is it they say, been returned to the stone?"

"Perhaps."

Boromir kept his gaze on the raven until it flew out of sight, a knot of something poisonous settling in his stomach. It was a poor omen, no matter which way he looked at it. The dwarves were reclusive in the best of times. If his dreams turned out to be true, perhaps the dwarves had always had the right idea of it. If Thorin Oakenshield was truly dead, and Boromir had the sinking feeling that he was, then the dwarves were likely to retreat even further underground. He never believed in coincidences, but the rumors of Isildur's Bane coupled with this new death hardly brought him comfort. But he was loath to think of what it could mean.

His dreams coming true, perhaps, or worse.


Gimli son of Gloin paused when Liluwen sighed heavily. He looked over at the two seated to his left, lacing his fingers together over his stomach. Eldarion was watching him, interest sparking in his blue eyes even though Gimli was certain he had heard this story time and time again. He doubted he was truly interested, or even remotely so, for that matter, but rather simply pretending for both his, and his blonde friend's benefit. She was a bit of a follower in that regard, vulnerable to whatever his suggestion was, and open to whatever activity meant that she got to spend just a little bit more time with him. Currently, she stared out the window, fingers playing absentmindedly with the ends of her hair, feet tapping on the white stone rhythmically.

Eldarion kicked her shin, forcing her attention back over to Gimli and him.

"What?"

"Pay attention," Eldarion admonished with a small bite of authority in his voice. He was nearly an adult now and his had begun to show.

"I'm too old for stories," Liluwen said moodily, sinking down into her plush seat with a sour expression on her pale face.

Gimli rolled his eyes. Even edging towards majority, the young elleth was as stubborn and disagreeable as ever to everyone but Eldarion. He knew her foul mood came from being stuck in a room while the rest of the city prepared for Eldarion's birthday celebrations. He also knew, although he would never tell her as such, that she was sour towards the idea that Eldarion was now old enough to marry a woman that was decidedly not her.

"You are just old enough, young lady," Gimli said, earning a smirk from Eldarion and a scowl from Liluwen. She folded her arms over her chest and sighed again, pulling her legs up into her chair.

Truthfully, he wasn't quite sure how he had been saddled with the task of keeping them entertained. Again. He didn't think he'd given any indication that he was willing, nor did he recall offering. Still, Arwen approached him shortly after breakfast and he found he wasn't able to say no. She was almost as beautiful as her grandmother and the sway she held over him was much the same.

He looked at the two, knowing that he would need to keep them busy until the evening. He cleared his throat and prepared himself for the long day ahead. "You gave a stink the last time I told you a story and you ended up begging me to tell you another. Now that I am, you complain?"

"She's just being difficult for the sake of being difficult." Eldarion and she shared a look, seeming to communicate without words, before Liluwen looked back over at Gimli. "Will you continue?"

"Of course," Gimli said. And so he did.


Hello!

Sooo, if you read the original of this story, I am very sorry for the confusion. I have been planning a rewrite for a while, as the original was very cheesy and very trope filled. In addition, I wanted this story to be more along the lines of my Hobbit story, which it was not in its original state. This was the first thing I ever wrote and was very proud of it at the time, but the more I looked at it, the more potential I saw for improvement. Hence the rewrite. I think this version will be much better and more entertaining.

If you're new, welcome! I hope you enjoy this story! There is a Hobbit story that serves as the sequel to this, but it can be read as a stand alone, if that floats your boat.

A few things to note before moving forward:

1. Thorin, Fili, and Kili survived the events of the Hobbit

2. Balin died in the Battle of the Five Armies

3. Because of Balin's death, he was not alive to retake Moria

4. The dwarves are going to be more involved in the events of this story

Enjoy!