"I have nothing left to say to the ghosts.

Two decades full of nothing but monsters and crime scenes

and sometimes I am the monster and sometimes

I am the crime scene. There is nothing I would undo

so much as things I wish would wake up forgotten."

― Clementine von Radics

Gandalf glared at the tower balcony like the extent of his displeasure alone would force Saruman to reveal himself. When Pippin asked about it, the wizard had scowled and snapped, "He will show his face when he decides to and not because you are bored."

The hobbit had scurried off, a faint flush on his cheeks tempered by the defiant wrinkle between his eyes. Pippin might have faced imprisonment by orcs but it was clear that a sharp word from Gandalf still held sway.

They waited among the ruins with eyes that flickered persistently overhead, waiting for a glint of white hair from the corner of their eyes, waiting for the attack that was bound to take place any second.

One day passed and then two.

But Saruman didn't show.

Not when Gandalf called out and brandished his staff, ancient words of power echoing over the rubble. Not when the Ents set flame to the growing pile of dead orcs, a befitting and strange irony.

Not even when Lyra found herself in the dwindling remnants of her watch, gazing up at the tall tower, shivering and rubbing the arm that had been so savagely broken just within. Her mind, her very spirit, had come so close to being unmade inside those walls and she was seized with a sudden and vicious desire to witness the once proud structure topple and burn. Then she might be able to convince herself that it was never there at all.

To see her father engulfed in flames behind its marble shelter, his corpse devoured by the very thing he had created. A fitting end and then Lyra could forget him as well, shove him out from her mind, nothing more than a memory and then with the passing of long years, not even that.

It wasn't difficult to imagine what it might feel like. The intermingling of relief and justice- those would come first. Those were easiest to quantify.

But there would be pleasure as well. Pure and unadulterated relief. The egotistical knowledge that she had managed to outlive him, that she would bear witness to a world devoid of his influence. And finally, perhaps more staggering than all the rest, there would be a sort of twisted joy to the kill.

And it wouldn't be for any of the dozen logical reasons she could rattle off.

Not because he was an enemy who served someone far worse. Not because of the terrible crimes committed in his name that he mistook for praise. In the end, oddly enough, it wouldn't even be personal. There was no vendetta against him, no list of his sins against her that must be accounted for.

It was something that went beyond all that, deeper than the blood as well. it was power and ability- what thrummed through her veins. Impossible to explain to one who didn't share it. It was duty and fate, something she'd never believed in, never witnessed outside of tales, and this destiny was written for her eyes alone. A creeping realization, one that she'd felt since the first time she met Saruman, one that she found impossible to give voice to.

Saruman had to die and Lyra was to be the one who killed him. As simple and horrible as that. She wasn't naive enough to ignore the distinct probability that it would entail her end as well. She had been tempted to tell Gandalf countless times. If only for him to chuckle and pat her on the back and tell her that it was impossible- rightly so- and then she'd feel better because the responsibility would have been lifted from her shoulders. But she never told Gandalf because doing so would not sway the inevitable.

Peculiar that while killing her father wouldn't be personal, something inside Lyra still ached for it. There was a clock in the back of her mind ticking away the seconds. A growing chant of closer, closer, closer.

That realization, cloying and red, was impossible to ignore.

It was, more than anything else, that which kept her staring up at the dark sky long past her watch. Some nights when there was little else to distract her mind, the intensity of it frightened her. She learned what helped. Biting her lip or clenching her fist-just a small tinge of pain, enough to remind her that she was still alive, and then she would trace her fingers over the scars that littered her arm, further proof that she had survived him, a shard of hope, dangerous though it might be, that she still could. She sat there and allowed the hope to creep in until the feeling lessened into something manageable.

The nights weren't always bad. Lyra would even say she was happy, more content than she had been in a long time. In many ways she was so very lucky. But it would be foolish and naive to pretend that things were going to be alright from here on out. Foolish to envision a future that was steadily deteriorating, a young life wrapping to its conclusion. And that was why she hadn't kissed Legolas again. Hadn't avoided him per se but she also didn't allow herself to be alone with him. She knew he noticed, could feel his eyes tracking her as she made her way around the camp. She still sat beside him when they ate, while the hobbits regaled them with stories of their adventures, still fletched arrows at his side while the fire lulled down to embers. He had yet to confront her over it. She suspected he was trying to be patient, trying to allow her time to process. She only wished it were so.

It was pathetic how difficult doing nothing turned out to be when the memory of their kiss still lingered in her mind, flaring to life at the most inopportune times. How the arms around her had spoken of a thousand years of strength, how calloused his fingers had been against her cheek, how at first he had held her like glass and then when his composure broke, like he was desperate to keep her. She wanted it all like a greedy child. Had to remind herself just as often that she couldn't have it. It wouldn't be fair, not to him and not to her.

So Lyra took each day as it came, no weighty expectations, no delusions of perfection. It was so much easier not to fight it. Easier still not to think about it.

She took note of the cleaning path of water, of the the birds that abandoned their fear and began to make nests again, of the smiles on her friends' faces when they cooked dinner at night, competitions over who smoke rings were the most impressive. Gandalf had been forfeit from the involvement early on when he had transformed his smoke into a dozen butterflies that flit around their heads and disappeared into Gimli's beard. The fellowship pieced itself together little by little.

Ents moved among the rubble, quiet for their size, like the ground itself worked to swallow any noise. One of the Ents with a bramble beard so long it swept the floor caught sight of her and grinned in the darkness. At least she assumed it was a grin. It was difficult to tell beneath the bark and birds nests.

She lifted her hand and waved back. It wasn't that the Ents were an overly curious bunch. Rather she knew they were creatures of nature, of a strange logic. Predator and prey and before their group could be welcomed, it only made sense to dissect the definition of the two.

The hobbits had been neatly classified away as something to care for, worthy of protection. They were small and weak with boundless energy that was usually afforded only to the very young.

Gimli had a much easier time conversing once he stopped carrying his axe everywhere. Aragorn was treated with respect but held at arm's distance. The Ents might be able to sense his goodness but they no doubt also took note of the potential for danger. The opinion of men and dwarves was rather lacking in the trees' minds.

It was different with the elves. Not enough to take note of, not enough even for Gimli to pretend outrage. The differences were small, minuscule if you weren't paying close attention. But the Ents seemed to relax in their company more than the others. Occasionally one would join her on watch, would point out glowing constellations above, would stretch their limbs to the fullest heights, recite poetry for hours and hours on end, their leaves rustling in the breeze, the creak and groan of branches after a well told story.

Perhaps it was the fact that their lives converged with similar timeframes, that the memory of one could be held in the mind of another. It was disconcerting to think about, how her life would have extended beyond theirs. If she chose the path of immortality. If she managed to survive this war. If Saruman's destiny hadn't become intertwined with hers.

Perhaps the Ents didn't see them as much of a threat to their way of life since elves had a deep respect for the woods, for all things that grew. It was more ironic than anything else, something that set her ill at ease, especially considering who she was, who Linus was. Linus who had been just as in awe of her but managed to hide it better.

Legolas was accepted the most readily. Lyra wasn't sure if it was his mannerism as a prince or the fact that the relations between Ents and elves had always been one of mutual high regard, even though hundreds of years had passed since.

Lyra found herself seized with a sudden shyness that made her unable to meet their ember eyes, often taken to stuttering in their presence. Not that it ever seemed to bother them.

And there was the lingering suspicion that if they found out who she was, the giants would not be so gentle after all. Legolas had broken the news to her the day before that it was common knowledge among the Ents already. Supposedly they had a sense for that sort of thing. Lyra had paled dramatically but the hobbits had been quick to assure her that trees would be the last ones to hold her accountable for the actions of another. Blood was not a quality found among their kind. Indeed, no one was cruel to her or looked at her skewed. Half the time it seemed they forget she existed at all and it wasn't long before she was able to ease her way into their presence without racing thoughts or foreboding anxiety. They were easy company, natural as a walk through the woods.

It was surprisingly freeing to expect nothing at all from her days and receive so much.

She stood and brushed the dust from her legs, chanced one last glance above, eyes narrowed in the darkness, sure that he would be there to gloat, to see her weakness with his own eyes one last time. But the dais was empty just as it had been since they arrived. Saruman never showed.

So they waited. And so the night deepened.

Lyra woke a second before she hit the ground, tendrils of a nightmare still clinging to her skin, an itch just beyond reach. The images evaporated as she blinked into the darkness, her chest heaving, sweat making her hair cling to the back of her neck. She sat up slowly, running her fingers over her arms and legs, and pulled in a deep breath. She had been dreaming of falling every night this week and each night she came a little closer to the ground. Tonight, she could have reached out and touched the dirt just before her impact.

The moon above showed that mere minutes had passed since she had lain down to sleep. With heavy movements, she stumbled to her feet and tossed a few more logs onto the fire. The sound of soft snores and heavy breaths mingled in the air, lingering just beneath the faint brush of wind.

A slight pull snagged her attention. A faint tug that whispered her name. She hesitated, thoughts scattering back to Rohan, back to the reminder of just how wrong this had gone in the past. But Lyra wasn't under his control anymore; the necklace had been destroyed and her friends were scattered round, soft in sleep.

She wandered through the camp, keeping her tread light and silent. The horses shifted, huddled together to escape the chill of night air. A few fires burned, embers low and crackling and the moon shivered its reflection across the puddles of water that still flooded parts of Isengard.

Gimli was on lookout so she had little trouble skirting past his post, catching the whiff of pipeweed that he had no doubt stolen from Merry and Pippin. Small curls of smoke and brief red flares of the pipe flickered from where he sat above, perched on one of the broken walls.

Lyra walked until she reached the far stretch of Isengard where the sleeping figures of the rest of the camp were swallowed up, nothing more than half formed silhouettes. In the middle of the deepest part of the floods there stood a lonely figure, waist deep in water that gleamed black in the moonlight. She crept closer until the water lapped against her toes, nose wrinkling when she recognized her brother.

"Linus." she called, voice quiet enough not to wake the others but loud enough that it would carry to his ears.

He didn't look back at her, just stared straight ahead, not even blinking, swaying to and fro. She shuffled on the edge of the pool. "Taking a midnight swim?" she asked, keeping her tone light and playful but growing steadily more worried when he failed to reply.

After another moment of hesitation, she sighed and stepped forward. It was tepid, warmed by the fires that had burned beneath Isengard. Lyra tried not to imagine just how many missing orc limbs were floating around as waded forward.

When she reached his side, Linus mumbled something under his breath, too faint for her to hear. His eyes were sweeping across the water like he was searching for something below its surface, so fast that she felt disoriented by proxy. He barely seemed to be breathing, chest contracting in shallow bursts of air.

Hesitantly, she reached out to grab his wrist, intending to shake some awareness into him. In a move too fast for a reaction, Linus shoved her away so brutally that the air was driven from her lungs. Her foot got caught on something smooth and heavy beneath the water's surface and she went flying back, her muffled yelp swallowed by water as it pushed past her throat.

Being underneath the water was like entering another world. Screaming and shouting rang in her ears, sudden blinding white light that blinded her, impossible to see up from down. Incantations and chanting and a smooth black stone that had tripped her, glowing from within. Suffocating, Lyra was trapped. She thrashed, the terror eating away at her. She was inside again, locked up, surrounded and waiting for his footsteps, couldn't get out.

The water had only been waist deep but it seemed like she hung suspended, never sure if she was sinking deeper or fighting towards the surface, bubbles streaming from her mouth and nose.

She broke through with a gasp, sucking in air and feeling as if she were able to throw up all at once. The night stung her eyes. She was barely able to get her feet beneath her when she was pushed under again.

Her movements were fraught with panic but it was that underlying desperation, the chaos of flailing limbs that helped Lyra hook her leg around Linus and jerk him forward. Her nails cut deep into his arm, gouging ten bloody marks in a sweep of red. The pain seemed to startled something inside him and he pulled her up.

She surfaced, coughing and cursing and more angry than frightened.

His eyes met hers for the first time, widened in horror and then he let go so suddenly that she fell back under the water again.

"Lyra." His expression shuttered, turned bewildered. "Are you real? Are we here?"

He took in her wet and messy state in brief stages and then he looked down at his own hands, still clenched into fists, at the blood that trickled into the water from her hands on him. He recoiled so violently that he almost lost his own footing. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Not feeling at all charitable, she swat away the hand that he hesitantly offered, her annoyance at feeling like a drowned rat temporarily overpowering her concern.

"Might have been useful to know that you sleepwalk." she said, not even bothering to keep the accusal from her tone. "Better yet, that you try to drown people while you sleepwalk."

He flinched at the rough edge of her voice, curtesy of an aching throat. His eyes flickered down to the divots above her collarbone where his hands had squeezed, where they both knew bruises would bloom by morning.

His hand shook when he rubbed at his eyes. "It was him. I saw him. I could hear him everywhere."

Lyra froze, lifting her hands from the water, remembering how amplified that voice, his voice, had been beneath. She didn't know what lay below the surface but still standing within it made her feel vulnerable and raw. She swallowed, tried to inject some confidence into her voice. "It's just a-"

"It's never just a dream." He snapped, voice deepening to a near growl, looking suddenly dangerous and a little feral. Lyra's breath stopped in her chest and time hung suspended as they both waited. For what Lyra wasn't sure but then he blinked and his shoulders slumped forward. "I don't-I don't want to do these things." He sank down until his chin was submerged, like the water was luring him further in, wide eyes going distant and glassy again. "But what if he makes me?" He shook his head back and forth, sending small waves out. "I don't want to go back."

Linus hadn't been lucky enough to possess a simple hatred for their father. Linus had been raised by the man, treated with kindness and cruelty at turns, confused and alone and desperate for something more with nothing else in sight.

"You tried to get away. But he always brought you back." She remembered the glimpse of scars she had caught in the darkness. The pattern they wove across his skin, cuts and burns, a lifetime of horror and pain. "And then he would punish you." A fierce rush of protectiveness washed over her, staggering in its intensity. "I won't let him have you."

He shook his head dizzily, rolled his forehead along his arm. "You don't know. There have been so many times-" he breaks off, a fine tremble running through him. Lyra caught a sound of pain, so close to a whimper that it set something off inside her that vaguely resembles panic. She reached down and pulled him to his feet, uncaring if it made him snap at her again. She wanted, needed, nothing more than to get away from the water. Every surface that it clung to felt dirty.

"He said-he said we'll see only when it's too late." It was said hastily, as if he were in a great rush to get them out, like he might not be able to manage if he hesitated a second longer.

"See what?"

His eyes rose to meet her for the first time, wide and crazed. "That we can never escape him. We'll never get out."

"You already did." she reminded.

But it didn't seem like Linus could hear her anymore. "Endings are inevitable." The laugh he gave was hollow and broken, a man utterly without hope who knew his ending was drawing near, close enough to see.

She ran her hand through her hair and sighed, frustrated that she couldn't simply make him understand. Couldn't make him feel the bone deep commitment within her to keep him safe. That she couldn't tell him that it was her fate, not his, tied to their father. It made no sense at all. There was only this shared blood that ran through their veins and while that had been enough to make her love Linus, it had also been enough to make her fear her father.

It was a relief to reach the water's edge. They were both dripping wet, Lyra holding up most of Linus' weight but she felt lighter as soon as their feet touched dry ground.

"In the morning, you won't remember. You'll feel better then." His skin was too hot as she rubbed her hand over his back, trailing across the ladder of his spine, up and down, in what she hoped was a soothing effect.

His hand reached forward slowly, deliberately giving her time to pull away. When he traced her hand with one finger, a shudder ran through his entire frame. "We're the same, you and I."

She tried to smile. "Of course we are."

"No matter what." It sounded oddly like a threat, like a last ditch clutch for balance.

It took another hour for Lyra to lead Linus back to his bedroll. He took to pausing for extended periods of time, staring wide eyed at nothing, studying the shadows with single minded intensity, ears cocked at the distance like it held hard-won secrets that he might hear if he just listened carefully enough. And while Lyra wanted nothing more than to tuck him securely in bed with a blanket tight around any bare skin, she had been afraid of moving too fast. Especially when he trembled with each step and stumbled like he was learning to walk for the first time. When he spoke, his lips were clumsy and drunk as if the words refused to form the way he wanted.

Luckily, none of the others were awake. She doubted Linus wanted anyone to see him like this, reduced to half hearted mutterings and little jerks of contact, mostly asleep on his feet. He grew quiet and still as soon as his head touched the blanket. She sat with him a while longer, gently carding her fingertips through his hair, softly humming a tune that she remembered Arwen singing to her when she'd been young and afraid of the dark.

Slowly, the lines of tension on his face bled out. This close, with Linus so still, it was easier to take notice of the small things that had slipped her attention before. The minuscule scars on his neck, not like the heavy handed ones roped over his back. These were flecks of white from the accidents a child might have that they would carry through life. Lyra had many of her own. Full blooded elves would heal but Linus and Lyra's skin held more stubbornly to theirs. Not that Lyra minded. Often she found herself running her fingers absentmindedly over one scar, tracing the graceful dips, recounting the moment of pain, the comfort that followed when she was just a child and coddled to ease the hurt. Her tears had been wiped away by Arwen's soft hands. The twins had distracted her with their playful antics. Elrond would scoop her to his side where she'd find a space to nestle and read aloud from one of his many books, voice deep and heavy and lull her into sleep.

She didn't like to image how different Linus' experience must have been from hers. Bleeding not from a scrape, but from heavy wounds purposefully inflicted. No one to lessen the pain. No one who cared enough to make it stop.

She leaned closer to Linus one more time, taking in a deep breath, the scent of his skin a shadow of hers. "I think you belong to me now." she whispered and smiled, the words torn from a possessive place that she hadnt realized existed.

Lyra spread her bedroll next to Linus, hand stretched out just enough that she could still feel the warmth of his skin pressed against hers, still feel the heartbeat that thundered too fast.

It was in that strange state of being between dreams and reality that Lyra found she could remember scraps of the nightmare. Remember what the voice inside her head had echoed over and over, that deep raspy voice of their father, whose twin she sometimes heard in Linus when he was scared. Ice cold eyes and gnarled fingers and so much power. They rang inside her head even after she had fallen asleep, the promise that he had left her with. The curse.

You'll never be free of me. Never be free.