Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: What if...Weathertop (#2824)
Author: imaginigma
Chapters: 5

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Alternate Universe (AU)
Description: What if not Frodo, but Aragorn was stabbed that night at Weathertop? AU "What if" story.
Published: 14 Jul 2006
Updated: 14 Jul 2006
Warnings: 
Type: Angst
Characters: Aragorn; Hobbits; Nazgul; Arwen


Chapter 1 - I. Leaving Bree

Author's Notes: I could not decide between book or movie verse, so I decided for the middle. This story contains quotes from the Book and the Movie. What you recognize is definitely not mine. LoL. What else, ah yes. I could not decide whether to write the story with Arwen or Glorfindel. I opted for Arwen. I know that there are not many readers out there who like to read Arwen stories, therefore I (kind of) reduced her part to a minimum. I hope you like it nevertheless.

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 What if...Weathertop by Imaginigma

Disclaimer: Well, alas, I own nothing. Neither book, nor movie nor Aragorn, the twins, Glorfindel, Elrond, Arwen, the Hobbits or Mithrandir.

 ~*~ 
"You may escape from Bree, and be allowed to go forward while the Sun is up; but you won't go far. They will come on you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help. Do you wish them to find you? They are terrible!"

(Aragorn, Lord of the Rings)
 ~*~

°°°°° Chapter 1: Leaving Bree

The day had started out fine; a pink sunrise followed by a clear blue sky stretching as far as the eye could see. But alas, such pure things did not last long in a world besieged by an ever growing shadow, and soon the blue gave way to grey and white. A soft drizzle had started to fall, and the road lay muddy and slippery before them. And behind them too, for the five wanderers had already travelled this road for some days, although still many lay ahead of them.

They, -that were four Hobbits and a Man-, had set out from Bree almost a week ago, but they would have to travel for many more days, until they would finally reach their destination: The elvish valley of Rivendell, or Imladris, as it was called by those who spoke the tongue of the elves.

The four small Hobbits had not taken lightly to trust their new leader, a dark clad and stern looking man, who seemed to neither sleep nor eat. But Frodo, the one young Hobbit with the brown curls and the water blue eyes had come to somewhat trust the man, and so the others had stopped complaining. Well, not all, that was...

"Merry?"

"Yes, Pip?"

"I am hungry."

A snort came from the Hobbit called Merry, short for Meriadoc Brandybuck, and then he answered, "You are always hungry, Pippin." It was not meant as a rebuke, and the other Hobbit, his cousin actually, only shrugged his shoulders, "Well, I am a Hobbit!"

Merry only shook his head, and slowly trudged on through the drizzle. They had had that and similar arguments during all they journey, and to be frank, Merry could not hear his younger cousin's complaining any longer. That was not because he disliked Pippin, no, it was only because he himself felt rather hungry.

He could hear Pippin mutter under his breath about asking Strider, the tall legged man –Longshanks they had secretly named him- to stop and have something to eat, but after a few minutes and some deep sighs, Pippin seemed to come to the conclusion, that he could as well ask a stone. Strider would not allow them to stop to eat. Merry had to smile, as he thought back on the conversation they had had the morning before.

flashback

The sun stood already high in the sky, but grey clouds veiled the light, and the mist that had risen during the cold night had yet to settle. It was a bleak day, and none of the Hobbits had liked getting up when Strider had woken them. To Merry, it was a wonder how he was able to sleep at all in such foul surroundings.

They had broken their fast very early -and very quickly- and to Merry, it had not been a breakfast, but a breakfaster-than-necessary. Although, he doubted that such a word existed. When they had walked for some hours, their feet trotting over cold stone and moss covered rocks, Pippin had suddenly simply stopped.

But he had not only stopped walking, but put down his pack to eat something as well! Oh, Merry had known that it had not been such a good idea, but his cousin seemed somehow oblivious to the dark glares that the human sent them when they dared to linger. As it seemed, Strider did not like being in the open and having no protection from prying eyes; and after what had happened in The Prancing Pony, Merry could understand that.

Lifting his pack from his shoulder and therewith forcing the other Hobbits to stop as well, Pippin began to open the flap of his pack. Sam and Frodo stopped in their tracks, and stood beside the loyal pony, their faces slightly amused at Pippin's antics, but tired and strained as well.

Suddenly, Strider's voice lifted, and he said, "Gentlemen, we do not stop till nightfall." His voice was not stern, but it brokered no argument. But Pippin was not yet finished. He was hungry, and when a Hobbit is hungry, he has to eat, no matter the time or the circumstances.

"What about breakfast?" His voice was high and friendly, as if Pippin had no care in the world.

Had Merry not known better, he would have said that the stormy grey eyes of Strider twinkled in amusement, but as quick as the mirth had appeared it had vanished. But his voice was light and tinged with a bit of humour as he aswered, "You've already had it."

Ha, but it seemed the human did not know the stubborness of Hobbits when it came to food, and Pippin answered calmly, so as if he would talk to a dim witted blockheaded Bracegirdle from Hardbottle, "We've had one, yes. What about second breakfast?"

Now Strider looked positively amused. He simply turned and left Pippin standing on the hard rocks, and a few seconds later his tall frame had vanished behind some bushes. Sam and Frodo shook their heads, equally amused at Pippin's childish behaviour; although, Merry was certain that he saw Sam lick his lips. Sam was a Hobbit, after all.

Leaning over to his surprised cousin, Merry told him, "I don't think he knows about second breakfast, Pip."

Well, this stunned Pippin even more. Eyes wide and face unbelieving, he questioned horrified, "What about elevenses? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper? He knows about them, doesn't he? "

But Merry gave Pippin one of his looks, that told his cousin that he had once again said something very foolish, "I wouldn't count on it." And with that, they left the cold rocks and lichens covered stones, to follow a stranger into the wilderness...without having second breakfast, or elevenses for that matter.

end flashback

Aragorn tightened his cloak around his shoulders and shifted his pack on his back. He was used to long hours of walking in every weather, but he was concerned for the well being of his little companions. During his time as a ranger and protecting The Shire, he had learned a lot about Hobbits, but these four furry feet-haired Hobbits were the first he actually came close to.

Of course, he had seen Hobbits, listened to them talking and singing and merry making. He knew about their fondness for food, their joyous personalities, their jokes and jibes, and their large family trees. And, he had even picked up a very hobbitish habit: pipe weed and smoking. Gandalf had been the first to teach him the ways of the pipe, and with the years, he had grown quite fond of Old Tobey and the Longbottom leaf.

But he also knew that Hobbits were a secretive folk and seldom strayed out of their borders. They knew not of the dangers and perils that lurked in every corner of the world, or sneaked into their homes at night, when the shadows are the darkest and all the lights have gone out. Aragorn glanced back over his shoulder and beheld the four drenched little beings.

Indeed, he thought, Hobbits are a strange folk. There is much to learn about them, but the longer I know them, he thought, the more riddles they bring. He saw how Sam gave the pony an affectionate pat, he saw Frodo glance at the sky and frown, and he saw how Merry slapped his cousin Pippin on the head. No doubt, the young Hobbit had again said something very foolish. Aragorn sighed again. It would be a long treck, and it would be dangerous before they were even near Imladris.

Even now, he could almost feel the breath of the Black Riders on his neck, and the fact that Gandalf had not been with the four Halflings when they marched to Bree, had worried him. The wizard would have done everything in his power to protect Frodo and the Ring, and Aragorn could not even begin to think about the reasons for Gandalf's absence. There were simply too many.

Letting his eyes glide back to the road before him, he scanned the way and was relieved when nothing out of the ordinary met his eye. He had decided to not follow the direct path, but walk through the wilderness along the way instead. It was more exhausting and it would slow them down somewhat, but to Aragorn, two or three day delay was far better than being killed by the Black Riders.

And that the riders were still near and searching for them, was no matter of doubt. They wanted the ring, they felt it, they smelled it and they could talk to it, and sooner or later, they would come for it. It would do not good to lead the Hobbits directly to their doom on the open road. No, the treck through the wilderness held better chances of survival.

Slowly, the sun rose over the sky, and soon it neared the horizon, and the light grew even dimmer. In this time of year, the days were short and the nights long and cold; they would not walk on through the night, although Aragorn wished he could. He wanted nothing more than to reach the safety of Imladris, for one reason or the other. But travelling at night, in this weather and with the Black Riders around, it was not wise to do so.

So, he let his eyes travel over the scenery before them, and just as the sun sank behind the horizon and the world was dipped into shadows, his searching eyes found some high rocks that were overgrown with lichens and circlet by old thornbushes; there was an overhang and it looked as if it could keep them dry throughout the night. A perfect spot to rest.

"Gentlemen, we will rest here for the night."

Aragorn nearly smirked at the audible sigh that Pippin gave, "Finally! I thought we would never stop. The hair on my feet has already locks from the rain, and my stomach is as empty as an empty stomach can be."

While Sam readied his pony for the night and Frodo settled down under a rocky overhang where the earth was still dry, Merry and Pippin flopped down on the ground and began to sort through their packs for their evening meal.

Suddenly, Pippin spoke up, "Roasted tomatoes, and some bacon, and roasted bread and warm apples that have lain in the smouldering ashes, and eggs and..."

"But Pippin," Sam sad, "we cannot kindle a fire, as all the wood is wet. We will have to do with cold bread and cheese and normal apples."

This was something Pippin did not want to hear, and he eyed Sam flabbergastedly. "But, but Mr Strider, hello up there!" Here he bend his head backwards so that he could look Strider into the face, who stood near the edge of their small camp.

"Mr Strider there, you can kindle a fire, can't you? I mean, you have to, I have heard the Tall Folk freezes always and needs fires."

Lifting an eyebrow, Aragorn watched the hopeful face of the youngest Hobbit for a moment, and then gazed into the other faces. All four Halflings looked eagerly towards him, and he knew that they all wanted to have a fire. Whether to cook, to keep them warm or to chase away their fears, he did not know.

The idea of a fire did not appeal to him, as it could draw the enemy towards them, but a fire would at least keep the wolves and other predators of the night away. And truth be told, he could do with a nice warming fire as well.

And, he thought, if the Hobbits get nothing warm to eat tonight, they will be insufferable tomorow. So, he turned fully towards the four hopeful beings, crouched down and pulled some dry branches out of his pack. He had collected them before the rain had started, and although the fire would have to be small, with some luck it would last through the night.

Pippin's eyes widened and he nudged his cousin Merry with his elbow, whispering, "See? I told you he can always make a fire."

Aragorn kindled a small fire and soon the air was filled with the smell of roasted potatoes and hot bread. Sam was a good cook and all the Hobbits let him do the cooking, but they just could not stop talking. Not for a minute, it seemed. And while Aragorn stood at the edge of the camp and gazed out into the gloaming, his ears were filled with comments such as "Look at those tomatoes! Yummy!" or "Sam, turn that piece of bread please, it is not yet brown enough on that side".

It was somewhat comforting to hear their careless talk, but Aragorn could not join in. He felt the darkness that awaited them, and he could almost hear the snorting of the huge black horses.

Gandalf, he thought, were are you, my friend? And what keeps you from being here, now at all times? But he got no answer, and so the stood motionless at the outer rim of the fireglow, a shadow among the others shadows, and guarded the four small beings that had already found a way into his heart.

The constant murmur of the Hobbits became lower somewhat as they began to eat, and the silence was comfortable for Aragorn. So many years he had been in the wild, he had travelled so long and hard and mostly alone, that the noise of only some voices hurt his ears. And, he thought, I need my ears for the sounds of the night, not for Hobbit talk.

Suddenly, he heard soft footsteps behind him, and he turned his head to see who approached him. Usually the Hobbits stayed on their own and talked to him only when necessary, but from time to time Sam would stare at him when he thought he would not see it. Perhaps he was the first human he had seen or been talking to, Aragorn did not know.

But it was not Sam who approached him, but Frodo. And in his hands he carried a small bowl, filled with some roasted tomatoes, bread and cheese. He looked at him with eyes as big as the full moon, and then lifted the bowl towards him, "I thought you might be hungry, Mr Strider. I saved you some of Sam's delicious tomatoes."

Aragorn took the bowl and bowed his head slightly, "Hannon le, Master Frodo." The food looked indeed delicious, and Aragorn took a bite from the warm bread. He did not know what Sam had done to it, but it was the best a few-days-old-roasted-bread he had ever eaten. Chewing slowly, he gazed at Frodo for a moment, and then back out into the night.

It was completely dark now, and not event the stars were visible. Frodo was still standing beside him, "Mr. Strider, why do you speak elvish? I mean, Bilbo always said that only a few non Elves speak the High tongue."

Chewing the bread and then swallowing it, he said softly, "My father taught me, Master Hobbit, a long time ago."

Stillness settled once more, and just when Aragorn thought that Frodo had nothing more to say, he spoke up again, so quiet that the others could not hear him, "How far is it to Rivendell from here?"

Aragorn tilted his head to the side and swallowed the roasted tomato he had just eaten. "If we hurry and not tarry, then it is two weeks still to go."

"Two weeks," Frodo said thoughtfully, but nodded his head all the same. "Aye, that is what I thought. Bilbo told me that it was a long road. But, Mr. Strider, I cannot see how our food can last that long. We have been careful in the last few days, but, it will not last for two more weeks."

Clearing the last tomato from his bowl, Aragorn placed a hand on Frodo's shoulder. It was the first contact they had, but Frodo did not shy away, and that was a comforting thought for Aragorn. It seemed, at least Frodo had some trust in him.

"There is food in the wild," he said, "berry, root, and herb; and I have some skill as a hunter at need. You need not be afraid of starving before winter comes. But gathering and catching food is long and weary work, and we need haste. So, tighten your belt, and think with hope of the tables of Elrond's house!"

For another moment they stood in silence, and then Frodo's voice could be heard, "Do you think we will make it to Imladris? These Riders are still out there, and they are searching for us. How can we expect to go unnoticed for the time it will take us to reach Elrond's house?"

To Frodo's surprise, Strider sighed deeply and his voice was low as he answered, "We will not go unnoticed, and sooner or later they will find us. But do not fret yet, for not all hope is lost. I now ways and roads that they do not, and I will see to it that you will reach the House of Elrond safe and sound." After a moment he added, "I promised Gandalf to protect you, and that is what I will do."

"But you are only one, and they are nine, no offence meant, Mr. Strider. How do you plan on doing this?"

"If by my life or death I can protect you, I will do that. And now, go to sleep, Master Hobbit. The road is still long and Imladris far. But you will see, once we enter the Last Homely House, your worries will diminish, your fears vanish and your aches be soothed."

Frodo gazed up at Strider's face, and in that moment he could clearly see a small smile flitter over the weathered face. He took the bowl back from the man, then nodded once more, and returned to his companions. Soon, the four Hobbits wrapped themselves into their blankets, and let sleep find them.

Frodo could not sleep at first, and so he lay there awake and watched Strider's back for some time. A strange man indeed, he thought before he too drifted off to sleep, strange, but not as stern and foul as he pretends to be.

Tbc...


Chapter 2 - II. Amon Sƻl

°°°°° Chapter 2: Amon Sūl

Finally, after another day of walking, the five companions had reached the top of a small hill, and before them lay the ancient tower of Amon Sūl, Weathertop. The ruins of the old watchtower rested on the peak of a round hill; the broken stones and cracked pillars adorned the hill like a crown and it rose so high and dark before them, that the Hobbits had to crane their necks to see it.

"The ancient tower of Amon Sūl. There we will rest tonight." Aragorn told them and then made his way down the hill they were all standing on. The Hobbits followed, their cloak billowing behind them in the cold wind, and their eyes never leaving the ruins on top of Amon Sūl.

It took them an hour to reach the base of the hill, and there they stopped. Shrubbery and bushes grew there, and the base had many holes and crevices. Aragorn tilted his head and looked towards the ruins, his face unreadable. The wind caught in his dark hair and wiped it around his face, but he seemed not to notice.

Suddenly, the meek voice of Pippin reached his ears, "Merry?" His cousin already knew what Pippin wanted to say, but he responded nevertheless, "Yes, Pip?" "Merry, I am hungry."

Inwardly, Strider grinned. It seemed not even the ancient ruins or the cold weather could discourage the young Hobbit. Turning, he said, "We will set up camp someway up the hillside. There we will be protected from the wind." And perhaps even from the enemy, he added in his thoughts.

It took them half an hour to climb up the steep hillside, but once Aragorn told them to stop, the exhausted and hungry Hobbits flopped down on the hard ground, relieved to finally be able to rest.

While Sam searched through his pack for the dry branches he had collected during the day, Merry and Pippin rolled out their blankets and talked vividly over their supper. But Frodo did not join their talk; he stood near the edge of the little camp and gazed out at the lands below him. Darkness was beginning to settle, and the shadows grew in the dimming light.

Just as he was beginning to ask himself whether it was a good place to rest, Strider came back to the camp. He had climbed to the top of Amon Sūl to see whether there was any sign of Gandalf. His face looked worried as he kneeled down and beckoned them all to his side.

He opened a grey blanket and presented to them four shining swords. They were small and thin, but they looked sharp and well cared for. "These are for you. Their blades are sharp and their tips deadly. Use them wisely, the darkness around us had many eyes and I want you to be safe while I am gone."

With that he stood to his feet and turned into the direction of the steep path that led down the hill.

"Gone?" Frodo asked. "But where do you go? Have you found any sign of Gandalf?"

Aragorn turned and gazed at Frodo for a moment before he answered, "Indeed, I found some sign that Gandalf was here only three days ago. But he was in haste and was probably attacked. I will go down and search for other signs. Stay here and stay quiet; I feel that we are not alone."

And with that he vanished into the darkness, leaving a worried Frodo and three very hungry Hobbits behind. Sam, Merry and Pippin had not heard Aragorn's words, as they had gazed at their swords and marvelled at their simple beauty.

With Strider gone, Frodo felt all hunger leave him and be replaced by a gnawing feeling inside his stomach. The darkness seemed suddenly much darker and the shadows hid dangerous form. The air seemed to be filled with voices and the wind sharp and icy. He shuddered.

Without a word to his companions, he wrapped himself inside his blanket, lay down on his bedroll and closed his eyes. Another shudder raced through his body, but whether from the cold night or the fear that grew inside his heart, he could not tell. And before he drifted off into an uneasy sleep, he wished that Aragorn would be back soon.

°°°°°

Aragorn made it down the hill side and then paused to let his gaze pierce the darkness. The plains before him were covered in low hanging fog, and the grey waves seemed to dim the sounds of night.

Or, he thought, there simply are no sounds. And indeed, the starless night was eerily quiet, as if the world held its breath. But why, Aragorn could not tell. But he could feel the icy coldness that lingered in the air and seemed to freeze his lungs inside his body. It was a coldness he had only rarely felt in his life, and hoped to never feel again.

Letting his sharp eyes scan the darkness and his ears listen for every sound, he sighed inwardly. He neither saw nor heard anything, and that probably meant that the Black Riders had not yet found them.

Letting his hand stray to the hilt of his sword on his side, he noiselessly made his way through the dried bushes and shrubs, following the baseline of Amon Sūl. He felt slightly guilty for letting the Hobbits alone and without his protection, but he just needed to make sure that they were alone.

And, he thought bitterly, I have to make sure that Gandalf's body is not lying here among the dead branches and shrubbery. For I could never forgive myself if it were so. Gandalf, old friend, he thought not for the first time, where are you my friend? Where are you now when I need you the most? How am I to protect four innocent Hobbits?

But he got no answer, and so continued on around the base. From time to time he would crouch down to inspect the ground, letting his fingers slide over an imprint or feel the break of a branch. Indeed, he thought as he straightened from his crouched position after examining a very deep imprint in the soft soil, Gandalf was here not long ago. And he was being followed, but by what or whom I cannot tell.

The fog swivelled around his legs, reaching up to his knees, and he tightened his cloak around his shoulders as a gust of wind made him shiver. Amon Sūl towered above him, and when his eyes scanned the ruins, he felt a pang of gentle pain inside his chest.

Amon Sūl, the great Watchtower from ancient times. It is said that a Palantir had been held in Amon Sūl, one of the seven seeing stones that were now lost to the world. A fierce battle had been fought here, and rumour had it that in the darkest of night, a lonely traveller could still hear the screams of the falling men and see the burning flames of the fire that had devoured the tower.

Aragorn took a deep breath of the cold night air, and continued on his way around the base of the hill. Just as he had rounded the bend and was again facing the side where the path led up to the top, he heard it.

Horses!

His heart beat wildly in his chest and his breath froze in his lungs. The Nazgul! Here!

Snapping his gaze upwards, he saw the glow of a fire and its reflection form the stones. The Hobbits must have lit a fire to keep them warm. Or to cook food, he thought dryly. Foolish Hobbits! Did they not know that the fire could be seen for leagues?

Cursing under his breath and feeling guilt gnaw at his heart, he unsheathed his sword and without hesitation he charged up the small path to the top. He could see that the fire was being put out, but he knew it was already too late. Five black horses stood at the base of Amon Sūl and more likely than not more waited in the darkness.

He had not seen the riders, which could only mean one thing: The Nazgul had already gone up the hill! And the Hobbits were all alone, and they had neither the means nor the experience to fight them.

Aragorn did not feel the pebbles that rolled down from under his feet, not the sharp rocks that scraped his arms and elbows as he ruthlessly charged up the hill. His thoughts were directed at only one thing: Frodo!

By Elbereth, if Frodo was hurt or even killed, and the ring would fall into the hands of the Nazgul, and all because he had been too careless, oh, Aragorn knew that he would never forgive himself. A foolish thought he knew, as all the world would be dipped in darkness and pain, and he would die before he had even the chance to feel remorse.

No, he thought as he rushed to help the Halflings, I will do all I can to protect Frodo and the ring. Come what may.

°°°°°

"Up the path! Go up!" Frodo was yelling at his friends. Why had they lit the fire? Had they not even thought about the dangers? But being angry at his friends helped nobody, and so the put his anger to the back of his head and followed his friends up the path.

And truly, his anger was soon replaced by fear. Pure and breathtaking fear. He thought he could feel the Black Riders approach and his heart beat so wildly in his chest that he feared it would shatter his ribs.

Panting, Frodo stood beside Sam, Merry and Pippin, forming a circle. They faced outwards and waited. Waited for the inevitable. Here, up the hill and standing among the ruins of Amon Sūl, they were trapped. They could not go down, as the had heard the enemy come up the hill, and they could go no further upwards.

Frodo trembled slightly as a gust of wind rushed past him. Where was Strider, he thought desperately? Is he already dead, slain by these black ghosts? But inside he felt that the ranger was still alive, although he did not know why he knew that. But where was he then, when they needed him?

Frodo felt Sam tense beside him, and hear the hitched breath of Pippin and Merry. And in that moment, he wished that he had not taken them with him, but that they had stayed in The Shire, where they would have been safe and secure. Not here, in this wilderness, with these Black Riders. He had lead them to their very death.

Suddenly, he heard a rustle of robes, and his heart skipped a beat. They had come...they were here. A black shadow appeared over the rim of the top, then a second and a third. Five tall figures clad in midnight black approached them, all armed.

They drew their broad swords and held them before them as they approached menacingly. The blades seemed to be dull and old, but they looked sharp and deadly. Heavy booted feet crunched the stones under them, and gloved hands held the hilts of the sword.

Pippin squealed lowly in fear and Merry gulped. Sam tightened his grip on his sword and shoved Frodo out of the way. If these monsters wanted his Master, then they would have to kill him first.

But Frodo did not notice all of this. Fear had gripped his heart, and an icy hand clenched it so hard that he thought it had stopped beating. A coldness raced through his body and numbed him; he could not flee, he could not fight. This was the end, and he knew it.

Dimly he was aware that one of the robed figures approached them, and that Sam, Merry and Pippin were shoved out of the way. Suddenly, there was only he and the Nazgul. A screech reached his ears, so unearthly as if it came from the dead itself. Horrified, he let go of his sword and it clattered to the ground, useless.

On numb legs he stumbled back, fell to the ground and stared scarred at the Nazgul towering above him. He could not hear the yells of his friends, or his own terrified scream. No, all he could hear was...a whisper.

/Frodo...Frodo.../

The ring, no, not the ring, its master. He was calling him. Or was it, was it the Nazgul? Frodo did not know it, but suddenly his thoughts seemed to go blank and he gripped for the ring. The ring, aye, the ring. He had to use it, yes, use it. Put it on.

His finger fumbled for the ring and in a fluent motion he slipped it onto his finger. And the world as he knew it came to an end. Where the ruins of Amon Sūl had been, white light was. Edges had lost their sharpness, there were no colours anymore. A chill claimed his body and he lifted his gaze and saw...him.

Tall and white and scary. A King of old, long dead but still alive. The Ringwraith stretched out his hand towards him; he wanted it, needed it, asked for it. And Frodo, he could not help it, but he reached out his hand towards the dead King!

His heart yelled for him to pull his hand away, to take the ring back, but he could not! What devilry was this? He trembled and wanted to scream, but he had no breath left in his lungs to do so. Help me! He thought, please, someone help me!

His hand nearly touched the outstretched fingers of the Nazgul. Almost...

Suddenly, something distracted the Nazgul, and Frodo saw the dead King look to his side. And then a tall shadow, nearly as tall as the ghost himself placed itself between Frodo and the Nazgul. The form held a sword in the one hand and a burning log in the other.

Frodo snapped his hand back and as if a spell had been broken, he returned to reality. Panicked, he took the ring of his finger and took a deep breath into his starving lungs. He looked at the figure and his heart leapt in sudden hope.

Strider had come!

Tbc...


Chapter 3 - III. A Knife in the Dark

°°°°° Chapter 3: A knife in the dark

Aragorn's heart hammered in his chest as he charged up the steep path. He could hear the unsheathing of weapons and the sound of heavy boots on the hard ground. The Black Riders had reached the top. As he had passed the campsite, he had found the Hobbits gone, and that meant that they had gone to the top.

He panted, slipped on the gravel and caught his balance only a second later. There was not time to slip and fall now, the Halflings needed his help. Middle Earth needed his help! Gripping his sword tighter, he ran as fast as he could.

He was only a little ways from the ruins, when he heard the frantic screams of one of the Hobbits, presumably Sam, but Aragorn was not sure. He quickened his steps even more. I am coming, he thought, hold on, I am coming!

What he saw when he reached the top would forever be burned inside his memory. Merry, Pippin and Sam were lying on the stones, unhurt as it seemed but too afraid to move. Four Nazgul stood near them, but none of them attacked.

And Frodo, Frodo was nowhere to be seen. But the fives Nazgul, a tall figure with a long sword at his side and a sharp looking knife in the other hand stood at the edge of the ruins. His hand was outstretched, so as if he wanted to grab for something. And suddenly Aragorn knew!

Frodo must have used the ring to escape, but the Nazgul had found him, as they could see through the ring's magic. Frodo had tried to escape and was not trapped in the shadow world of his enemy.

Without thinking, Aragorn screamed and jumped in front of the black clad Ringwraith. "Elendil!"

Whether it was his sudden appearance, or the name of one of his forefathers, Aragorn did not know, but the Nazgul took a step back and gave him therewith the time he needed. Swinging the burning branch that he had brought with him from their abandoned campsite, he advanced on the Nazgul, forcing the figure away from Frodo.

He knew that his sword was useless here, but the servants of Sauron feared the fire; although it could not kill them, it hurt them and forced them to retreat at least for some time, until they had gathered enough strength to return.

In this moment on Weathertop, Aragorn felt no fear. He had no emotion at all, and when the Nazgul screeched and attacked, his only thought was that he had to protect Frodo and the Hobbits. He did not think about himself, and maybe that was the mistake he made.

In a quick motion, the other Nazgul charged, and for the fraction of a second Aragorn was distracted. The tall ghost King who had tried to take the ring from Frodo saw it, and lunged forwards. Before Aragorn could react, a fierce pain shot through his left shoulder. He swung the burning log and it caught the Nazgul's robe. The dry material burned bright, and the Black Rider screamed, turned and ran to the edge of the hill.

But Aragorn had no time to lose. The other Nazgul attacked. He let go of his sword and took the branch from his left into his right hand. A deadly coldness swept over his left arm and numbed it. Already he could feel his fingers losing their feeling and strength, and he knew that he had to end this fight quickly.

Charging himself, he set two other Nazgul on fire, and when the third one came too near, he thrust the burning branch into its side, setting him aflame as well. Then, it was eerily quiet all of a sudden, but Aragorn knew that the fight was not over yet. Panting, he tightened his hold on the branch, and the splintered wood cut his palm.

Then, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, and turning in a swift and powerful motion, he threw the burning branch right at the last remaining Nazgul. The black robe caught fire immediately, and in a high pitched wailing sound, the last of the Black Riders disappeared behind the ruins and fell to his doom.

The fight was over.

Aragorn trembled. Sweat was standing on his brow and his breathing was laboured. Without conscious thought he closed his eyes and sank to his knees. A shudder raced through his body and he let his head hang.

So cold. His left arm was numb and at the same time colder than ice. Aragorn had been a healer for many years and he knew that his injury was no normal stab wound. He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. Dimly he heard agitated voices and then more sensed than heard the Hobbits approach.

Opening his eyes, he lifted his head and gazed around. The Hobbits were standing before him, their faces frightened and worried. But, to his utter relief, none of them was hurt. Finding Frodo's eyes, he was glad to see that the young Hobbit looked scared, but otherwise unhurt and back in reality. The ring had not claimed him yet.

As if ripped out of a trance, he suddenly heard the worried voice of Frodo reach his ears, "Strider, you are injured!" Aye, he was injured...

Turning his head, he let his eyes rest on the black hilt that was still protruding from his shoulder. Reaching up, he gripped it firmly with his right hand and with a resolute motion, he pulled the blade out of his flesh. It made a sickening sound, but surprisingly, no blood gushed from the wound.

Aragorn looked at the knife, but suddenly the blade vanished in ash and shadow, and he let the hilt drop to the ground as if burned. A morgul blade, he thought. Oh no.

Fear wriggled its way into his heart. He had been stabbed by a morgul blade. He was as good as dead. But that was not his only concern. The Hobbits...oh please no. He had only heard of the power of such a blade, but he knew that he would soon glide over into the world of the Nazgul and become one of them. And then, he would not hesitate to kill the four innocent Hobbits, or anyone else.

A voice broke through his thoughts, "Strider Sir? Can you hear me?" It was Sam who had spoken, and Aragorn looked at the Hobbit's face for a moment, before he nodded. But he did not answer. Instead, he reached inside his leather overcoat, pulled out a piece of cloth and wrapped the knife hilt in it. After placing the hilt inside his cloak, he got to his feet.

He had made his decision. And they needed to hurry.

Without so much as sparing a glance at his shoulder and his arm that hung stiffly at his side, he scanned the ruins, and then the four Hobbits before him. Indeed, they were unharmed, bless the Valar. Aragorn swallowed, and then spoke urgently, "We need to leave this place. The Nazgul might be gone for now, but they will be back, and their wrath will be terrible. Hurry!"

Grabbing Frodo's arm, he pushed the Hobbit in the direction of the path that led down from the hill. He had no doubt that the others would follow, and he was not disappointed. Merry, Pippin and Sam rushed after them, and so they climbed down the mountain. They stopped briefly at their campsite to gather their belongings, and then they descended the hill as quickly as possible.

The night was still dark and would be for many hour to come, and Aragorn wanted to put every hour they got to good use. It was nearly a fortnight to Imladris, and with the Hobbits and the Black Riders it would take them even longer.

And with my wound, he thought bitterly, I will never make it. He knew not all there was about morgul blades, but what he knew made his heart beat in fear. Soon, he would begin to become one of them, one of the black Nazgul. He would slide over into the otherworld and become a willing less slave of Sauron. And when that happened, he would kill everyone who stood in his way, be it brother, friend or foster father.

No, Aragorn thought desperately. It will not come to that. I will see that the Hobbits will be as close to Imladris as I can manage, and then I will leave them and...and...

He did not know yet what he would do, but he knew that he would not –never- enter Imladris again. Not if it would mean the death of all those he held dear.

They hurried through the night, their feet stomping over grass and their arms and legs being cut by the sharp blades of it. But they did not stop, and as the bleak light of day turned the sky lilac, they crossed a small river.

Suddenly, Pippin slumped to his knees and let his head hang. He panted, "I...cannot. Please, a little rest. Only...some minutes."

The little Halfling coughed, and the others stopped in their tracks. Merry rushed to his cousin's side, and Sam and Frodo stood there, panting and trembling slightly. They were exhausted, and not even the fear of the Nazgul could make them move.

Aragorn stopped as well, his chest heaving and his breath coming in short ragged gasps. Normally, he could run many leagues without tiring, but the coldness that had gripped his shoulder had spread through his arm and sneaked into his chest. He had trouble breathing.

One look at the Halflings told him that they would not be able to go on. Desperately wishing to go on, but knowing that it could very well kill the Hobbits, he nodded. Sam, Merry and Frodo flopped to the ground beside Pippin, and they let a water flask go around; each of them drank eagerly.

But Aragorn could not rest. He stood near the sitting Hobbits and scanned the open plains around him. During the night, he had neither seen nor felt the Black Riders, but he knew that they would return; if they were lucky not for a few hours yet.

Suddenly, he felt someone tug at his dirt covered cloak. Looking down, he looked into the worried face of Frodo. The Hobbit held out the water flask, "Here, Mr Strider. You must be thirsty." Aragorn nodded, took the water and drank eagerly. His throat seemed parched.

Returning the flask to Frodo, he nodded his thanks and then returned his gaze at their surroundings. But Frodo had more to say, "Strider, you are injured. You need to clean the wound and bandage it, otherwise it will become infected, and what good are to us then?"

Aragorn nearly smiled at that, but his heart ached too much at the thought that Frodo was concerned for his well being. Shaking his head, he said softly, "It is not deep and does not bleed. It will not become infected. Once we are in the safety of Elrond's house, I will take care of it."

That was not entirely true, and Aragorn nearly regretted lying. The wound was deep, and he had felt something move inside the cut, but it was not bleeding. And without any herbs, he could not stop an infection. Alas, he had used his last herbs some time ago, and had not been able to find new ones in the short time he had had between reaching Bree and meeting with the Hobbits. And that he would take care of it in Imladris...he would not be able to do that, he knew.

Aragorn looked into Frodo's eyes, and suddenly realized that the Halfling seemed to sense that he had lied, but he would not take his words back, and so he simply took a deep breath and said, "You should rest while you can, Master Hobbit. The way is still long."

From behind them Merry spoke up and asked, "I know you told us, but please, tell us once again what these creatures are."

Aragorn sighed and without looking at the four Halflings repeated what he had already told them in Bree, "They were once men - great kings of men. Then Sauron the deceiver gave to them nine rings of power. Blinded by their greed, they took them without question. One by one they've fallen into darkness. Now they are slaves to his will. They are the Nazgul, Ringwraiths, neither living nor dead. At all times they feel the presence of the Ring, drawn to the power of the One. They will never stop hunting us." Letting his eyes find Frodo's he added softly, "But they shall never get you."

And Frodo nodded sadly and returned to his friends.

°°°°°

The days passed slowly, and with the end of every day, Aragorn felt himself lose his hold onto this world a bit more. More than once during their flight towards Imladris he felt himself stumble as his body refused to obey his commands. His skin was cold and clammy, and his thoughts lingered on many dark things. He faded.

Then, seven days after the attack on Weathertop, Aragorn saw a stone bridge appear before his burning eyes. The river it crossed was swift and of a deep blue, and the morning mist was still laying heavily over the banks.

The Mitheithel, he thought. Not long now and the Hobbits will be safe. They crossed the bridge an hour later, but the fear and tension they all felt did not lessen. The last night Aragorn had heard the unmistakable screech of a Nazgul. It had send a fierce pain through his shoulder, and his breathing had stopped for long moments. He knew now that he had to hurry even more.

So, they hurried on without rest, in the direction of the forest that bordered the hidden valley of the elves. Once inside the woods, they would have some cover from the red eyes of the Black Riders, and there Aragorn hoped to find some herbs.

For some more days they hurried on, and Aragorn had no feeling left in his arm. It was numb and as agile as a dead fish. It was useless, and would he be called upon to fight, he would have to use his right arm only.

Aragorn knew that Hobbits suspected that something was wrong. They shot concerned looks at him and whispered when they thought he would not hear. They were afraid, but not only of the Nazgul any longer. They were, at least to some extend, afraid of him.

For nearly a day he had not spoken, and he had neither eaten or slept for even longer. But, he just could not bring himself to talk. In the darkness of night, his thoughts strayed to black places. Places filled with pain and death, with horror and despair. He day dreamed of many evil things. He saw his family and friends, he saw himself with his bloody sword in hand, standing over their lifeless bodies. It was terrible to watch.

But what was even more terrible, was the feeling that spread through his body when he saw these pictures. He felt...good then. Only later, when his mind cleared somewhat, he would feel guilty and regretted ever having such thoughts. But while he dreamed...he loved it. And it scared him.

On their seventeenth day after the attack on Amon Sūl, they finally reached the outskirts of the forest, and passed into the shadowy woods. The trees towered over them, and the canopy was so dense that not even the moonlight could enter. It was a cloudless night, but the stars did not sooth Aragorn's weary heart.

Over the day, his vision had failed him more and more; colours had dulled, edges blurred, white turned to black and black to white. He was starring into a world that no mortal should ever see. He was becoming one of them.

The coldness in his arm had claimed his whole chest, and each breath he took rattled inside his lungs and ached fiercely. His mouth was constantly dry, not matter how much water he drank, and his mind was fuzzy and foggy. He knew that his time had come, and that he needed to leave the four Halfling's as soon as possible, now that they had reached the fake safety of the forest.

Upon reaching the forest, he urged the tired Hobbits to go deeper into the woods, and once they had entered far enough, he let them stop. Instantly, Merry and Pippin flopped to the ground. The youngest Hobbit had been very quiet as of late, and he had not even once complained that he was hungry. Maybe he was only too tired to complain, but Aragorn had a feeling as if he was afraid to talk to him. They all were in some way afraid to direct his attention on them.

He felt a sting in his heart at this thought. Valar, he had set out to help the Hobbits, not scare them! But alas, this could not be helped now. Perhaps, he thought, it is good that they are afraid. It will make it easier to make them leave me. And then another thought crossed his mind: They should be afraid. I only a day or two, I will be one of them, and beyond mercy.

Aragorn took a deep breath. Frodo stood near a huge tree, gazing into the darkness of the forest. They were not safe yet. Aragorn knew that he needed to go on a little bit longer, just a tiny bit longer.

But oh, the call of the Shadow was strong. He could hear it whisper his name, his real name. It beckoned him, it called to him, it pleas with him to come and join it. Darkness spread in his vision, and he could see things that were not really there. Shadows were there were none, shapes where there could be none.

It was so inviting to him to just answer the call. He wanted to let himself fall into the darkness, to forget and be forgotten. But no! He could not give in now. The Hobbits relied on him, and if he found no way, then they were doomed as well.

No, he needed to at least make sure that the Hobbits found their way to safety. Unsuspected he came out of his trance like state, and grabbed Sam's shoulder. The gardener flinched, and his fear widened eyes gazed at Aragorn.

"Sam, do you know Athelas?"

"A- Athelas?"

"Kingsfoil, do you know what it looks like?"

"Yes, of course, but..."

"I need to find it, and I need your help."

Sam chanced a look at Frodo, and then nodded. He darted away into the forest and was soon vanished behind the moss covered trunks of the trees. Aragorn gazed at the remaining Hobbits, and his gaze lingered on Frodo for a moment.

Aragorn frowned. Had someone called his name?

/Aragorn...Elessar.../

No! He shook his head to chase away the voice. He must not give in now. He must not. Gazing back at the Hobbits but avoiding Frodo's look, he said softly, "Stay right here. I will be back soon. Be on your guard."

And with that, he vanished into the darkness.

For some more moments the Hobbits gazed at the spot where Aragorn had stood, and then they relaxed somewhat. Huffing, Merry tossed a branch into the direction of the surrounding trees, "I do not know how you feel, but something is not right with that man."

Chewing on some grass blades, Pippin agreed, "Oh yes. Have you noticed the strange looks he gives Frodo? And he has not eaten for three days! That is just not normal."

Frodo said nothing. He stood leaned at a tree trunk and gazed into the forest. But he felt that his friends were right. Something had happened to Strider. The man had changed, and Frodo had noticed the paleness of the man's face and the sweat that covered his brow. Perhaps the human was ill...

No, Frodo thought. It is something else. He was stabbed by a Black Rider, maybe that had...changed him somehow. He remembered an old tale from Bilbo about the Nazgul, and he thought to remember that Bilbo had said that their blades held a black magic.

And he could almost hear the ranger's words in his ears.../One by one they've fallen into darkness. Now they are slaves to his will. They are the Nazgul, Ringwraiths, neither living nor dead. / 

What if the man was also falling under their spell. What...what if he became one of them? The thought made Frodo's heart beat quicker in his chest. If their guide was poisoned by the blade and was even now slipping into the shadow, then they were all in great danger.

Alas, he thought. We should not stay here if it is so. Strider will not be able to fight the magic of the Ringwraith, and he will succumb to their will and kill us. He will take the ring for himself, and then all hope will be lost!

But they could not leave. Not without Sam. And perhaps, he thought, he was only imagining things and Strider was not falling into the shadow at all. Mayhap the man was only tired and weary.

Maybe...

Tbc...


Chapter 4 - IV. Help Arrives

°°°°° Chapter 4: Help arrives

The soft earth under his feet felt good in comparison to the hard soil of the road. The trees were so familiar to him; he knew this forest by heart as he had walked under the trees many a time. Imladris was near, only a few more days and they would reach the Last Homely House. But Aragorn knew that he did not have that long anymore.

Even here, away from Frodo, he could hear the ring whisper to him. The voice sneaked inside his head, it soothed his troubled thoughts and made everything so simple, so clear. The light of the stars hurt his eyes, and he preferred darkness over dawn. The shadows held no ugly beasts or monsters, but friends and allies. They were inviting.

But no! He had to stay strong. Only some more hours, and then it would be over. He would chase the Halflings away, turn from Imladris and all he held dear, and vanish into the darkness. And by the Valar, he would make sure that the Nazgul followed him and not Frodo!

Athelas, perhaps it would help him. It was potent, and although it would not safe him, it would perhaps save Frodo and the others.

Silently as a predator Aragorn made his way through the underbrush, letting his grey eyes flitter over the ground. Athelas, athelas, he needed not much...

There! His keen eyes had found what he had been looking for. Kneeling down, he drew his small dagger. His heart beat easier now that he had found it, and he reached out to cut off some leaves.

Suddenly, cold steel pressed itself against his exposed throat. He stopped all movement and dared not to breathe. They had found him, they had come for him. It was over. He had led the Hobbits and Middle-Earth to their very doom.

Aragorn closed his tired eyes, and waited for his life to end. But...the coldness he awaited did not come. Instead, the pressure lifted from his neck and a soft voice taunted, "What is this? A ranger, caught off his guard?"

Oh please no, he thought. By Elbereth, no. Arwen...why you?

Despair washed over him. Why did it have to be Arwen? Why not someone else? He did not want his beloved to be here. Soon, he would vanish and be replaced by one of the nameless shadows, and then he would not hesitate to kill Arwen. No, not kill, torture and turn into a wraith, so that they would be together for all eternity. He would murder her mercilessly and extinguish all that she was. And the light of Undomiel would leave Middle-Earth. By his hand.

Aragorn sighed and let his head hang. A shuddering breath escaped his parched lips, and then he lifted his head and stood to his feet. He turned slowly. And when Arwen beheld his face, he could see fear enter her eyes.

So it had already begun, he thought.

"Oh Estel...what happened?" Arwen made a step forward, but he held out his hand to stop her. Aragorn shook his head, "No, do not come near me, Arwen, for you could not bear it to touch me."

She looked at him with those big blue eyes, eyes so blue as if they were a piece of the sky themselves. She swallowed, "Estel, what happened to you? We are all looking for you, for Mithrandir told us about your errand."

Aragorn took a deep breath. His vision had started to blur again and his breathing was raspy. Shadows lingered everywhere, and he saw Arwen as if through a curtain of white fog. Her voice came as if from far away, and her words did not really register in his mind. All he knew at that very moment was that he had to make her leave him.

Licking his lips, he told her, "I am fine, Arwen, just weary. Do you have a horse?" She nodded, "Aye, Glorfindel gave me Asfaloth."

Aragorn nodded to himself. Asfaloth...the fastest horse in Imladris. Perfect. Without looking at Arwen, he turned and headed in the direction of the other Hobbits. "Then come, Arwen, we have not much time."

Arwen stood there for a moment and stared at Aragorn's retreating back. She did not know what had happened, but she felt that something evil was at work. His face, she thought, it was so white. And his eyes, bereft of all glimmer and sparkle. As if he was fading. But that cannot be, as he was no elf.

And so she followed him with the white horse Asfaloth trough the forest. Soon, they reached the Hobbits' camp, but Arwen was worried. Aragorn behaved so strange. She had been so happy to see him, as they had not seen each other for such a long time. But he had not spoken a word while they walked and even now he avoided her gaze.

What had happened to him, that he felt so different? So...cold and lifeless?

When they reached the Halflings, Sam had already returned, clutching some leaves of Kingsfoil in his hands. He looked up at Aragorn with big eyes, but when he saw Arwen, his eyes turned as big as the full moon.

Sam had always wanted to see elves, and although he had seen the Wood Elves that resided near The Shire, he had yet to behold someone as beautiful as this elleth. Arwen smiled at them all, and her smile widened as she saw Sam's open mouthed face of awe.

Pippin nudged Merry and whispered loud enough for all to hear, "Look Merry. An elf!" Merry shook his head, "I see her, Pip."

The next moment, Arwen's attention was once more directed at Aragorn. The man had taken the reins of Asfaloth and was now motioning for one of the Hobbits to come over to him. "Frodo, come. Asfaloth will bring you to Imladris and the House of Elrond. He is swift and will carry you safely."

Frodo looked sceptical and then to his companions. "And what of the others? I cannot leave them here..."

To his own surprise, Aragorn became angry and nearly shouted at the Hobbit, "You can and you will! Now get here, time wanes."

Frodo stepped back, afraid. His eyes widened and his hand unconsciously reached inside his pocked. He felt the cold ring on his skin. What had happened to the man? Never before had he spoken thus.

As it seemed to Frodo as if the elleth thought the same. "Estel? What is it?" She moved to stand beside the ranger and placed a hand on his shoulder. He drew away as if he had been burned.

Aragorn did not want her to touch him, as he feared she could feel the icy breath of the shadow that lingered on him and enveloped him. Oh, he did not want her pure and graceful spirit be tainted by the evil that had claimed him, and he feared that should she touch him, she would be drawn into the darkness as well. Although he knew that it could not happen, his body reacted strongly to her touch and he drew away.

Sam, misunderstanding his reaction, rushed to his side, held out the Kingsfoil and said, "Here, the Kingsfoil as you asked me to find. I found a lot of it, actually, well...it grows around here." And he stretched his arm even a bit further to show him the small leaves he had collected.

Aragorn flinched, but Arwen seemed not to notice it. With wide eyes, he looked at the leaves, then at Sam and back to Aragorn. "Estel, what do you need Athelas for? Are you injured?" Again she made as if to touch him, but before her fingers could reach him, he turned and stepped back a ways.

Aragorn simply ignored Arwen. It hurt him to do so, but there was no time to explain. Frodo needed to leave, and the sooner the better. His chest hurt and the coldness had reached his other arm as well. The fog inside his head had become denser and he saw all as if through a haze.

And, he could feel them. They were near, they were back, searching, racing, coming,....calling. And oh, he wanted to answer their call...

NO! He had to see Frodo, the Hobbits and Arwen to safety. There was no time to tarry. Gesturing towards the horse, he urged, "Frodo! Come, get up. You need to hurry." But Frodo did not move, instead, he looked at the beautiful elf and said confidently, "Strider is hurt, but will not treat his wound."

Arwen paled, but her voice was steady when she asked, "Injured? By whom and what, Master Hobbit?"

Aragorn felt anger rise in his chest. Why did Frodo not understand that he was trying to help him? To protect him from the Nazgul and himself?

His voice was gruff and he ordered, "Frodo, get on that horse, now!"

But again, Frodo did not heed his words, "We were attacked on Weathertop, nearly a fortnight ago. It were the Black Riders and they stabbed him with a strange knife. The...the black blade vanished in ash and shadow and nothing remained but the hilt."

Arwen blinked and her face lost all colour. As if in slow motion she turned to Aragorn, and her eyes were full of pain and worry. "Estel..."

A deep sigh escaped his lips, and he turned his head away from her. She knew now. She knew about the magic of the morgul blade, what it did and what would happen to him. Oh, he would have spared her this knowledge and his heart ached at the thought.

Silently, Arwen stepped in front of Aragorn, and with gentle hands under his chin turned his head. Forced to look into her big eyes, he saw the sadness in her face...and her hope. She spoke softly in elvish, "Estel, I need not ask you if it is true, for I see it in your eyes. But there is still hope. Glorfindel and my brothers are in these woods searching for you, and Gandalf awaits you in Imladris. Take Asfaloth and ride. Please Estel..."

Aragorn closed his eyes. No, there was no hope for him. He would fall into the shadow and become one of them, he could feel it. And there was no way he would let Frodo and the ring alone in these woods, without a horse or help. Slowly, he shook his head.

"No, Arwen, there is no hope. I give hope to the world by saving Frodo, but I have kept no hope for myself. Take Frodo and the ring to safety. Ride to Imladris, Arwen."

Now it was her turn to shake her head, "No, meleth nin, I will not leave you. I..."

Aragorn released his chin out of her grasp and cut her off, "Can you not see it, can you not feel it? There is no time for me, no hope! Go, Arwen."

Taking a step back, denial shone in her eyes, "I do not believe you. I cannot believe that there is nothing we can do."

Suddenly, a cold hand gripped Aragorn's heart and squeezed it mercilessly. Ice spread through his veins, so cold that he shuddered from the sensation. A ringing filled his ears and a voice, deep and menacing, whispered to him.

/Aragorn...Elessar/

Fear, pure and untainted filled his being. The Nazgul, they had come, they were near. Aragorn had no time to lose. In one fluid motion, he unsheathed his long sword and gripped the hilt tightly. The blade shone silver in the weak moonlight and when he lifted it in a salute like gesture before his face, he could see it reflect in Arwen's bright eyes.

"Estel, what are you doing?"

His voice was steady as he answered her, although he trembled inside and his heart shattered into thousand pieces, "I will do something I should have done long before." He advanced on Arwen, but there was no fear in her eyes as she stepped away from him.

"Estel, you do not know what you are doing."

Oh, but he knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to safe her life, and that of the Hobbits as well. If she would not leave out of her own free will, then he would make her. Letting the sword fall to his side, but still lifted enough to pose a thread, he advanced even further on Arwen.

"No, you do not know what you are doing Arwen. Can you not feel them? Do you not hear their call? They are coming and they are near. They will find us and then they will kill us all and take what they have come for. And I will go with them, as I have become one of them by that time."

"No, no Estel. You can fight it. You have to!" Her voice was pleading now, and she made as if to touch his face.

Aragorn batted her hand away roughly, and in this moment he hated himself so much that he wished he were already dead. His heart was broken.

But he did not let his feelings show on his face, and instead looked grim. His voice was tinged with anger as he spoke, "I have fought it, and I failed. Arwen, go!"

"NO! I will not let you face this evil alone." Defiance shone in her eyes.

But Aragorn had made up his mind and he would not back down now. In an almost evil whisper he spoke in elvish, "Arwen Undomiel, do you know what I will do with you once the Nazgul arrive? And what I will do with the Hobbits, with Frodo? First I will kill the Hobbits, one after the other. And while I listen to their screams of death, I will take the ring. It will be mine, and then Sauron's."

Aragorn slowly walked closer to Arwen, and she backed up until she stood beside Asfaloth. The defiance had left her eyes, and a sparkle of uncertainty could be seen. But Aragorn was not yet finished. It hurt his soul more than anything he had ever done before, but he had to say the words.

"And you, Arwen, oh I will not kill you, but make you one of us. I would take a black blade of morgul and plunge it deep into your tender heart. And then I would wait by your side and watch how the grace of the Valar leaves you. How your bright eyes become dull and lifeless. Feel the coldness of your skin and sense the evil that stirs in your heart. I would turn you into a Ringwraith and we would be together for all eternity. And then," Aragorn was now so near that he could see the stars reflect in her eyes, "then we would go to Imladris and first murder your brothers, then your father. And after that we would go to Lothlorien and pay a visit to you Grandparents."

He nearly recoiled as he saw it. Fear, fear stood in Arwen's beautiful eyes. With a trembling hand she gripped the mane of Asfaloth and her voice hitched as she spoke, "It is not you that speaks thus, Estel."

He smiled coldly, "Oh, but it is me. Or, rather the better part of me." Then he lifted the sword in a demanding gesture and pointed it at Frodo who still stood at the edge of the campsite, and ordered in the common tongue,

"Frodo, get on the horse, NOW!"

This time, Frodo did as he was ordered. Aragorn turned and let his gaze travel over the scared faces of Sam, Merry and Pippin. He knew that they had not understood what he had said, but they had at least understood enough to feel sacred. He had not wanted to frighten them thus, but it had been the only way.

"Merry, Pippin, Sam grab your packs and follow the horse. Asfaloth will show you the way. Once you reach the road, follow it until you reach a wide river. Cross it, and you will be safe in the realm of the elves."

They nodded and hurried to grab their belongings. Satisfied that the Hobbits did as he had ordered, Aragorn turned and looked at Arwen. She stood beside Asfaloth and had not moved an inch. Her bright blue eyes were searching his face, but it seemed she could not find what she had been looking for.

Sadness stole over her features, but she tried again to reason with him, "Estel, you are stronger than this, and you are not alone. Don't let hope abandon you."

Narrowing his eyes, Aragorn took the last of his resolve and answered, "Hope is already lost in these lands."

A silver tears ran down her cheek, but she nodded and mounted behind Frodo on Asfaloth. Letting her gaze linger a moment longer on his face, she asked, "What are you going to do now, Estel?"

"Die."

And with that, he slapped Asfaloth on the back and the white horse sprinted away in the darkness. Aragorn gave Merry, Pippin and Sam a stern look and gestured with his sword into the dark forest.

"Go. And do not look back."

And they did not look back, not once.

Leaves rustled, branches snapped, but soon stillness settled over the woods. Tiredly, Aragorn let his sword drop to the ground, and followed only a second later as his legs would not support him any longer.

What had he done? Why had he said such cruel things to Arwen? Oh, she had been afraid...of him! Never, never would he forget that look on her face, a face that was more beautiful to him than anything else. He had broken a heart that was more dear to him than his own. Oh, he was not worth her love, and he knew that she would forever hate him for what he had done to her.

But, that forever would at least not be long. Getting to his feet, he took up his sword and looked around. Arwen and the Hobbits had gone East, towards the Bruinen and safety. Therefore, he would head...north. It was as good as any direction, and going back the way they had come was no option.

His plan was to make the Black Riders believe that he had the ring, and they would never believe that he had gone back the way he had come. No, going to the north was a good choice. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn let his gaze rest on the spot were Arwen had been only moments prior, and then he turned and headed north.

Tbc...


Chapter 5 - V. Flight to the North

°°°°° Chapter 5: Flight to the North

Aragorn was running. His breath came in ragged gasps and sweat stood on his brow and trickled down his back to drench his tunic. Wet hair clung to his pale face, and with every breath he took he could feel his lungs tearing apart. Blood was on his lips, but his lips were not split.

His sides burned like fire and his feet had long lost every feeling and were numb. They chased him, they hunted him, they saw him.

For nearly a day Aragorn had been able to lead the Nazgul on a chase through the forest, running steadily northwards. He did not really know why, but the Black Riders were following him and not Arwen and the Hobbits. All he had hoped for had come true. By now, Arwen, Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin had crossed the Bruinen and were safe in the realm of the elves. And the fact that Gandalf had reached Imladris, as Arwen had told him, relieved him greatly.

But his own time had run out. Half an hour ago, one of the riders had actually seen him, and now he was fleeing. But his strength was gone, his body numb and aching at the same time, and his heart broken.

The coldness that spread from the morgul wound like flames from a fire was consuming him, and he could do nothing to stop it. His vision was reduced to white and black, shadows danced before his eyes and all sounds but the heavy beating of his heart were dulled.

He stumbled. He could not go on. He...could...not. One of the riders came alongside him and the horse snorted loudly. Aragorn could smell the foul stench of the beast, and as he lifted his head, he saw the red gleaming eyes that stared down on him.

He stumbled once more, and this time he crashed to the ground heavily. He lay there panting, his whole body trembling and shivering. But strangely, he felt no fear, for fear had long left him. His task was fulfilled, his charges safe in Imladris. From the moment the blade had entered his shoulder, he had known that his life was forfeit.

Weakly, he rolled onto his back, looking up at the Black Riders that surrounded him. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and cold sweat rolled down his body. One of the riders, the tallest of them, dismounted and slowly approached his motionless form. The Nazgul unsheathed his long sword.

It was time.

Coldness gripped him even tighter, and suddenly, Aragorn saw the Nazgul as a tall, white being. Light shone all around him. Aragorn could see the crown on his head, the ring on his finger and the clothing on his body. And he knew that he had passed into their world. The world of the Ringwraiths. He was one of them now. He had fought and lost.

The Nazgul, the Witchking, smiled down on him and extended his hand towards him in a gesture of a 'hand up'. All Aragorn had to do now was to reach up and let himself be pulled to his feet.

The ice inside his body melted and the aching in his chest and sides vanished. His vision cleared and he could now see the other Nazguls. Tall and proud the Kings of Old sat on their horses, pictures of the splendour of old. White Light surrounded them all, and the world outside looked dark and evil.

Oh, Aragorn was so tired. Tired of fighting against the Nazgul, tired of running and hiding. Staring up into the smiling face of the Witchking, he stretched out his hand.

Suddenly, a memory flickered through his foggy mind. His brothers, Elladan and Elrohir playing with him when he had been a little boy. Another memory flashed past: His foster father, Lord Elrond, teaching him about various herbs and roots. Another picture, Legolas, his brother by heart, laughing about a joke he had made. Another memory...Arwen, smiling at him.

He could not stop it, and more and more pictures flashed past his eyes. Memories of his childhood, his teens, the time with the rangers, his time in Rohan and Gondor. Faces, voices, places, smells, colours. Faster and faster they became, and soon they rushed past so quickly that he could no longer distinguish between them. These were his memories, his thoughts. And they were...leaving him.

Aragorn wanted to hold onto them. Desperately he tried to hold them back, to clear his mind and remember something from his childhood, but...they were gone. All his memories were...gone. The smiles, the laughter, the colours of the flowers, the pranks, the good natured taunts of his brothers, all was gone. Lost. Forever.

A cold ache pierced his heart. No, not my memories, he thought. Take me, but do not take that which I died for. And in a halting motion, he withdrew his outstretched hand.

The smile of the Witchking turned into a grimace of fury, and a piercing screech filled the air. Suddenly, all the colours returned to Aragorn, as well as his normal sight and hearing. The aches in his body burned hot, but the fog that had clouded his mind was gone. The coldness of the wound was still inside his body, killing him slowly.

Above him, the Nazgul screeched once more, and then he lifted his long sword in a menacing gesture. Aragorn stared wide eyed how the Witchking thrust his sword down to kill him.

The sharp blade rushed towards him and Aragorn could see the black hole under the hood. This was it.

But suddenly, a swishing filled the air, and something red buried itself deep into the Witchking's chest. An arrow!

The Nazgul screamed and let his sword clatter to the ground, where it instantly turned to nothingness. Fire licked at the black robe and the creature screamed in rage. More and more fire arrows came down on the Nazgul, and they all screeched and spurred their horses. Burning, the Nazgul were fleeing!

Aragorn, still lying on the ground, heard voices, calling his name and they became louder and louder. Someone was running towards him, he could feel the vibration in the ground. He heard horses and when he weakly turned his head, he saw three elves rushing towards him. Two dark haired and one golden haired. His brothers and Glorfindel.

But alas, he felt so tired, and the ice inside his body that had come back as soon as he had withdrawn his hand from the Nazgul, was numbing him. Breathing became difficult, and again his sight and hearing failed him.

He felt the earth shake under him as his brothers kneeled by his side, and then he felt their hands on him, but his mind was too cold and too tired to react any longer. Peace filled him. He had not become one of the Nazgul, he had fought and won. It was over, and he knew that he could die in peace now.

His shoulder send icy tendrils through his body, and he closed his eyes. The voices around him became softer and then he could not hear them anymore. All he heard was the 'thump', 'thump', 'thump' of his heart.

'Thump', 'thump'...'thump', 'thum-p'......'thump, -ump'...'thum- -p'....

Stillness settled over his senses and he exhaled deeply.

This was it now. Almost there...

But it was not over. A light, brighter than the sun and whiter than the moon shone through his closed eyelids. Warmth seemed to engulf him and it chased away a part of the evil cold inside his body. A new sensation fill his shoulder, warm and soothing.

Athelas...

Then, a voice floated to his ears through the stillness. A soft voice, but strong and clear and lifted in song, Glorfindel's voice:

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel,

silivren penna miriel

o menel aglar elenath!

Na-chaered palan-diriel

o galadhremmin ennorath,

Fanuilos, le linnathon

nef aear, si nef aearon!"

The lay seemed to fill his heart with warmth and hope and his body felt light. And then, he knew no more.

°°°°°

When Aragorn awoke he lay in bed. It was wonderfully soft under him, and white blankets were draped around him. It was warm and sunny, fresh air entered through the open window, and he could hear the gurgling of the streams and the singing of the birds. Sweet voices sung elvish songs, and the air was filled with the scent of forgotten flowers and ancient blossoms.

He was in Imladris...he was home.

A small smile crossed his face, and Aragorn opened his eyes. He was not alone, no! Gandalf was sitting by his bed, smiling warmly down on him.

"Mae govannen, Aragorn. Mae govannen."

"Mithrandir! It is good to see you, old friend." Surprisingly, Aragorn felt no weakness, or the lasting effects of a fever as he was used to after waking up in his bed in Imladris. Slightly confused, he gazed up at Gandalf, and in that moment the door to his room opened, and Elrond entered.

The ancient elf's face lit as he saw Aragorn awake and alert. Elrond came to sit on the edge of the bed, and smiled at his foster son. "It is good you have awakened. We have been waiting for you, Estel."

Elrond reached out and stroked his cheek gently with his long fingers. "You scarred us, ion nin."

And suddenly, all the cold and dreadful memories came flooding back to Aragorn, and he flinched under the touch of his foster father. A shudder went down his spine and goose bumbs appeared on his arms. He closed his eyes as he remembered everything that had happened and all he had done and said.

"Sh, Estel. It is over now, do not let your thoughts return to darkness and despair. Let the light enter your heart and sooth your soul, ion nin."

Aragorn nodded against his father's gentle touch. Elrond was right. He had faced the evil and he lived still. His heart had not broken and his soul had survived. His eyes were still closed when he felt his foster father lift his tunic to expose his shoulder wound.

Aragorn did not want to see it, he did not want to face it yet again. But, he had to know. Softly, he asked, "Ada, why am I still alive?"

His father let the fabric fall down, and sighed softly. "It is by your own strength that you live, Estel. From what I heard from your brothers and Glorfindel, they found you surrounded by the Nazgul. They wanted to kill you, but the burning arrows of the twins and Glorfindel chased them away. To their surprise you were near death, but not near the Shadow of their world. They bathed the wound in athelas and sang to you until they were sure you would live. A piece of the morgul blade was embedded in your shoulder, but we were able to remove it and the wound heals nicely. Estel, it is a miracle you could survive the call of the enemy for so long. I am proud of you, ion nin."

Elrond placed a hand on Aragorn' brow, and the man nodded weakly. They do not know, he thought. They do not know that I nearly gave in, and that I wanted nothing more than for the pain and coldness to stop. They do not know that I nearly gave up my life. Oh, I am glad they do not know.

"And the Hobbits...and Arwen?"

Elrond smiled wistfully, "They arrived here safe and sound. Do not worry."

And Aragorn relaxed and drifted off to sleep once more.

Elrond stroked his son's dark hair affectionately, while he gazed at the sleeping human. Suddenly, the low voice of Gandalf reached his ears, "He will never heal completely, you know that. And he will never forget."

"Aye, I know that. But the memories will fade, and be replaced by others, brighter ones. And with time, he will begin to forgive himself."

Gandalf nodded, and let his gaze travel from the sleeping form of his friend to the beauty of Imladris outside the window. He sighed deeply, for indeed, they knew. Elrond and Gandalf knew or at least suspected of what had transpired during Aragorn's flight from the Nazgul.

But both were very proud of the man, and they felt that without him, Middle-Earth would have already been lost.

°°°°°

Aragorn slept through the day and the following night, but when the next day dawned, he left his bed and walked through the Last Homely House. It was still quiet and serene, the servants had not yet risen and most elves were still sleeping peacefully.

When he had awoken, he had found two chairs beside his bed, together with crumpled blankets, and he knew that his brothers had sat with him through the night. A smile graced his lips at the thought; he was well over eighty now, but still the twins acted as if he was still a boy. It was a comforting thought to be loved.

The gardens lay quiet in front of him. The sun peeked over the cliff walls, and reflected on the dew covered grass and tiny blossoms. A waterfall could be heard in the distance, and a small fountain gurgled nearby. It was so beautiful, that Aragorn stepped onto the soft grass and strolled through the gardens for some time.

When he neared a bed of wonderful orchids, he stopped and sat down on a marble stone bench. He was not tired, but he wanted to simply sit there and think. He knew that too soon, he would have to answer many questions, and explain many things, and he felt the need to delay them. If just, for a tiny bit longer.

So, he stretched out his long legs, rested his hands on the bench beside him, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander. For many minutes he sat so, but then his keen ears picked up the soft step of an elf.

Opening his eyes he looked around...and froze. Arwen was standing near the orchids. Her dress was of a pale green and embroidered with little leaves and her hair was falling over her perfect shoulders. But that was not what caught Aragorn's gaze. It was her eyes.

She looked at him with bright eyes that looked deeper than the sea and as blue as the sky, wiser as the Valar themselves and clear as silver glass. His throat constricted, and he was unable to speak.

And truly, what should he say? He had said and done terrible things to her. He had threatened her and scared her. He had, sweet Eru...he had hurt her so deeply. Aragorn's body began to tremble. Softly first than fiercer. His breathing quickened and he could not help but turn his gaze away.

Soft footsteps neared, and then he sensed Arwen sit down beside him. But he could not look at her, he could not look into those big blue eyes and see the hurt he had caused. But, to his surprise, Arwen took his hand in hers, and said softly, "Estel, look at me."

No, he could not. Please Arwen, go, he thought.

"Estel, please look at me." And with that she placed her other hand under his chin and gently forced his face around and up. His grey eyes met her blue ones, and a smile graced Arwen's face.

Her smile seemed to pierce his heart, and warmth filled his chest. There was no hate or fear in her eyes. All he could see was understanding and love.

Aragorn whispered, "Arwen, I..."

"Sh, no, Aragorn." She placed one of her slender fingers on his lips and effectively silenced him. There was no need for him to tell her. She knew that he had done what he had done to protect her and the Hobbits, and that he had not meant what he had said.

She knew his heart, as he knew hers.

And with that, she took his hand and placed it over her heart, reassuring him that it still belonged to him, and him alone. Aragorn closed his eyes and listened to his own heartbeat, feeling Arwen's under his fingers.

So they sat for a long time, and both felt at peace. And Aragorn knew, that whatever happened in the future, he had Arwen's love, his brothers' loyalty, his father's pride for him, and his friends' strength.

Aye, he was home.

The end.
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