– One excerpt in a compilation of many recordings of the Thaliondor brothers and what occurred to, by, and between them during the Age of the Obsidian Throne. –

Surprisingly, considering it was a dungeon, the cell was completely– almost dustily– dry. It was cold, however, with an icy chill that seeped into the bones.

Above the cell, one could hear roars and growls and screams– the dragon and werewolf pens during feeding time. The fire-breathing wyrms emitted an aura of nearly-physical, debilitating dread. It was known as the Shadow of Fear, and it seeped down through the black marble into the dungeon. It did not help the cold any.

Chains clinked and prisoners cried out, but there was no rescue for any of them. Somewhere in here, there was his father and some of his noble friends, Aerandír knew. He didn’t care anymore. The pain and the cold sapped all feeling from him. If they came into his cell and killed him outright, it would be a mercy. He halfway wished they would do so.

Keys jingled in the corridor and the door to his cell clanked and groaned as it opened. Hanging in his shackles, the elf princeling didn’t bother opening his eyes. The left one was caked shut with blood anyhow. He forced a grating, mirthless chuckle from his throat as quiet footsteps padded into the cell.

“Come back for more?” He asked, the stone floor icy and hard against his bruised knees. “Come to test my resolve again? You will never break me. But please, I invite you to try.”

The newcomer knelt beside him with a whisper of cloth and leather. A warm hand grasped his cold, raw wrist.

“Well met, brother.” A quiet voice breathed in his ear, devoid of nearly all emotion.

“Gil?” Aerandír said incredulously.

“Hush.” The assassin whispered. He fingered the chains, then stepped back. A whisper of air parted around something very, very sharp.

“What are you doing, traitor?” Aerandír asked quietly, cracking his good eye open to glare at his brother. Gil flinched slightly, his head bowed, his shaggy black hair hiding his face. Aerandír’s Lorenium longsword was in the assassin’s hand, and he raised it. He turned his face even further away.

“What does it look like?” He retorted. “Hold very still, brother. Vandril has the keys to the chains. I was able to steal the cell keys, but only Lorenium can break Lorenium.”

“What– Wait. No.” Aerandír’s good eye widened as he realized what Gildran had in mind. “Just go find the keys. Please.”

“Vandril will kill me if I do that.” Gil replied, aiming carefully.

“Gil…”

“Hear me, brother. Eldragor has dark plans for you. I may be bound to him, but I need only obey direct orders. He didn’t speak to me about you, so I am free– for now– to do this. I don’t want to see you broken by Eldragor as I was.”

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“Then you should have killed me in the forest.” Aerandír spat.

“I don’t want to see you dead, either.” Gil replied bitterly.

Aerandír snorted in mirthless amusement. “One of those choices is a whole lot better than the other, brother.”

“Regardless.” The assassin replied. “Just shut up and let me do this, will you?”

“If I had the strength right now, I’d kill you.” Aerandír retorted. Gildran lifted his chin slightly, a faint smirk curving his lips. Without another word, he lifted the longsword high, then brought it smashing down on the chain shackling his brother’s left wrist. Aerandír sucked in a sharp breath and groaned as the chain pulled upon his already-wounded flesh. The Lorenium links vibrated and rang out with a strong, clear note. Gildran lifted the longsword again and struck a second time. The chain tolled again.

“Stop.” Aerandír groaned. Gildran ignored him, gritting his teeth and swinging with all his strength. The chain shattered and Aerandír cried out, cradling his bloody wrist to his chest.

“Just one more.” Gildran said, raising the sword once more.

“Brother, please… just kill me now.” Aerandír pleaded. The chain pealed out its clear note. Then again. Shouts sounded from the depths of the dungeon. Guards had noticed the commotion.

“One… more… time…” Gil grunted, striking once more. Lorenium shards sprayed all across the cell, and Gil ducked away, shielding his face with his forearm. He slowly straightened to see both chains were now shattered, and he held the broken stump of his brother’s sword in his hand. Aerandír lay crumpled, doubled over upon the cold floor.

“Oops.” Gil said, eyeing the broken sword in his hand, then shrugged. “Come,” he hoisted his brother upright and slung Aerandír’s arm over his shoulders. “I know a way out. I can get you there, but the rest is up to you.”

“In the state I am now?” Aerandír asked angrily, hobbling along as his brother half-dragged him through the corridors of the dungeon.

“You’ll have to manage somehow.” Gil said, stone-faced. The guards drew nearer, though still out of sight.

“I hate you.” Aerandír hissed.

“I don’t care.” Gil replied, looking straight ahead. He bore his brother to a large door in the wall. The roar of turbulent waters echoed from beyond it.

“What is this place?” Aerandír asked warily.

“It’s where we dispose of refuse and corpses.” Gildran said. He leaned his brother against the wall and heaved the door open with one hand. “This is your way out.”

“Gil,” Aerandír said, wide-eyed, shaking his head. “If I go into that river right now, I will die as surely as if you had stabbed me through yourself.”

“I’m afraid it gets worse.” Gil said, finally meeting the First Heir’s eyes. “I need a believable excuse for when Eldragor questions me. I need it to look like I killed you.” He took a step towards his brother, broken sword still in his hand.

“Wait. No. Brother, please.” Aerandír pleaded. Gil continued, unrelenting.

“There is no other way.” He said flatly. The assassin grasped his brother’s shoulder and drove the jagged stump of the sword blade through the side of Aerandír’s ribs. The princeling gasped in pain, his eye wide with hurt and shock. Blood quickly soaked his dirty, ragged tunic. Gil jerked the blade free, slightly-glowing crimson staining its length.

“There was no other way?” Aerandír asked hoarsely, grasping his brother’s arm tightly, looking up into his eyes. Pain made his voice thick.

Gil shook his head mutely, apology in his gaze. Aerandír closed his eye and gave a nod.

“Then presume me dead,” The princeling whispered, “to you, traitor.”

Gil pushed his brother away, and Aerandír toppled out the refuse gate and into the raging river below.