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

Title: Borderline (#2838)
Author: imaginigma
Chapters: 3

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: While Aragorn and one of his rangers are on a scouting mission, the Chieftain of the Dunedain has to make a decision that will change his life forever. There are some lines that need crossing, but others should be left in peace.
Published: 21 Jul 2006
Updated: 21 Jul 2006
Warnings: Violence
Type: Angst
Characters: Aragorn; OC


Chapter 1 - Towards the Elostirion

Disclaimer: I do not own them, although sometimes I wish I would. I make no money with this story.

Chapter I: Towards the Elostirion

The wind was howling over the deserted plains and rain was pouring down almost horizontally, drenching the two rangers in seconds. Tiny ice fragments bit into their exposed skin; the mud soaked into their clothing and made their leather boots slip on the wet ground.

Heavy grey clouds veiled the sun, and the temperatures were low enough to make the two men shiver from time to time. Neither birds nor other animals dared to venture out in this unholy weather, and the hills that towered in the distance seemed desolate and forsaken.

Tightening his wet cloak around his shoulders and wiping some rain dripping strands of hair out of his face, Aragorn turned to look at his companion. They had travelled for nearly four days, leaving the ranger camp and their friends behind them. Their path had led them steadily north, and now the Tower Hills were only a stone throw away. Aragorn and his companion had planned to reach the Hills the day before this one, but the bad weather had forced them to seek shelter, therewith delaying their journey.

Shaking his head slightly and wiping the water out of his eyes, Aragorn nodded at his companion; they would have to make haste if they wanted to reach the shelter of the Tower Hills before nightfall. Ignoring the sludge that seemed to swallow his steps, he strode out wider, and so they marched on.

The other ranger, Rogondil, a tall and broad shouldered man who had served the rangers long before Aragorn had become Chieftain, was stomping through the mud with determination. The hood of his green cloak was drawn deep into his face to shield him form the icy rain, but his figure looked hunched and weak.

But everybody who knew the ranger, knew better. Rogondil was a strong fighter and his stamina was legendary, even among the rangers. It was said that he had once killed a warg with his bare hands to safe his little brother Amandil, who was also a ranger under Aragorn’s command.

But where Amandil was outspoken and open to all, Rogondil was quiet and still. Most of the time he kept his thoughts to himself, but when he was asked, he always came up with valuable ideas.

That was mainly the reason why the two rangers were now trudging through this storm, eager to reach the Tower Hills. Rumour had spread over the lands, telling of nameless things, of cruel murders, of people that vanished without a trace. The villagers on the borders of The Shire lived in fear as well, as their animals had been stolen, and some of the villagers had vanished, too, only to turn up days later, dead.

Nobody truly knew what was going on, but one day, Rogondil had overheard some strangers in a settlement near the northern border of The Shire, while he had been on his way to the ranger camp. The strangers had been travelling merchants, who had passed by the Tower Hills on their way east. They had told of wild men, of thieves who had tried to murder them and steal their goods. According to the tale of the merchants, they had escaped only with their lives because they had been able to hide from the wild men.

Once back in the ranger camp, Rogondil had told of what he had heard, and so, he and Aragorn had set out to find out more about the wild men and their hiding place. They had chosen to go to the Tower Hills, because it was their only hint as to where these thieves and murderers could hide.

Against the wishes of Halbarad, Aragorn’s second in command, they had set out alone. Aragorn did not want to take more men with him in case it was only the tale of two drunk merchants, and on the other hand he felt that his men were needed to protect The Shire. If the tale was true and they actually found the wild men in the Hills, they would turn back and later return with the other rangers.

So far, they had only met rain and cold wind on their journey. Their packs were soaked, the faggot they carried as wet as it could get, and overall, they had been forced to set out without any horses. Horses would have quickened their journey, but Aragorn had feared that the animals could attract unwanted attention.

Now, days from nowhere, with mud that slipped into his boots, rain that made his hair cling to his face, and an icy wind that sneaked under his cloak and made his body shiver, Aragorn wished he had taken the horses with him.

But things could not be changed now, and so the two rangers trudged through thick sludge, nearing the Tower Hills with every step they took.

When the hidden sun was nearing the distant horizon, the wracks shunning the world of its light, they finally reached the slopes of the hills. Green and full of bushes of different kinds, they rose into the grey sky, dwarfing the two tall rangers. Sighing and flipping back his hood, Aragorn lifted his gaze and scanned the slopes.

The rain drummed on his unprotected face, running in rivulets down his cheeks and then under his cloak and tunic to soak his shirt. But he did not care any longer. He was wet and cold since days, the little more water did not even register with him.

When his gaze reached the top of the rise, it lingered there for a moment. A black shadow, hidden by rain and wind, seemed to stand there, looming over the lands like a watcher. But beside of that, the hills seemed deserted; there was no sign of a fire or a camp.

Turning towards his companion, Aragorn gestured to the top of the highest hill, “We should seek shelter there. It will hold off the rain and the wind.”

Frowning, Rogondil took a look at the sky, “A thunderstorm is coming. We should make haste.”

So, they hugged their cloaks around their shoulders, and without another word started up the hills. The downpour had made the grass slippery, and more than once they lost their footing on the murk and had to grab the bushes to keep them from tumbling down the hillside.

Small rivers of mud and dirt flowed freely down the slopes, which made it nearly impossible to not stumble and fall into the sludge and further begrime their clothing. After what seemed like hours, the two rangers had made their way up the hillside and stood in the rainstorm, panting.

Now, with nothing as shelter and high on top of the Tower Hills, the cold wind assaulted them mercilessly, wiping their cloaks around their shoulders, and tearing the hoods from their faces. The storm had increased in intensity, and it howled and raged as if in anger.

Aragorn had to shout to make himself heard against the storm, “Come, the shelter is not far.”

Rogondil only nodded and followed his Chieftain, who had already begun walking towards the black shadow that they had seen from the ground.

Aragorn sighed inwardly as he made his way to the old ruins that he knew lay before him. These were the ruins of the three old towers that the High King Gil-Galad had build to honour Elendil, so many centuries ago. This tallest tower, the Elostirion, had even held one of the three Palantiri of the North, before the downfall of the Kingdom and the war against the dark shadow in the East. Now, only cold stones were left; the remnants of the former splendour and glory of the Kingdom.

But that was not the reason for Aragorn’s irritated mood. He had been here more than once, and although the sight of the old tower had affected him during his first visit, it now only made him wish for better times, but did not sadden him any longer.

No, his strange mood was caused by his companion. At first, Aragorn had debated with himself whether it had been a good idea to take Rogondil with him on this mission. But the man was the only one who had heard the merchants’ tale, and therefore he was the only one who truly knew where to look for the wild men.

Nevertheless, Aragorn could not fight the feeling that Rogondil was hiding something from him. During the last few weeks, the ranger had become more and more distant. He had not talked as much as before, had wanted to be left alone and had gone on missions that had taken him far from the rangers, their shelter and protection.

Not even the merry mood of his younger brother had been able to open Rogondil up; to make him talk about his problems and to return to his former self. The other rangers had left the man alone, unwilling to intrude into his privacy, but one day Amandil had asked Aragorn for help.

He was worried about his brother and clueless as to what to do. Therefore, Aragorn had decided to take only Rogondil with him on this mission. Perhaps there would come a situation in which Aragorn could talk to the man, and find out the reason for his change in behaviour.

And truly, the older ranger had seen to be glad to accompany his Chieftain on this mission. But with the days passing, Rogondil had become still and quiet once more, which made Aragorn a little uneasy. Not that the man talked much under normal circumstances, but the nearly complete stillness during this rainy day, and the frown that seemed to permanently have settled on Rogondil’s face, had begun to worry Aragorn.

As he stepped into a puddle of ice cold water and felt it slide into his boot, Aragorn thought that maybe the man was only feeling as bad as he did. Once they were sheltered from wind and rain, with a warm fire and something to eat, maybe Rogondil’s mood would improve.

Stumbling against the onslaught of the storm, the two rangers soon reached the ivy covered ruins of the old tower. The formerly white stones were green with moss and shrubbery; debris littered the ground and puddles of mud and rainwater had gathered on the ground.

Reaching the crumpled wall of the building and bracing himself against the wind, Aragorn made sure that Rogondil was still behind him before he entered the structure. As soon as he stepped through a crack in the walls, the wind ceased to torment him, and most of the rain was halted by the still thick walls of stone.

Lifting his hood off his water beaten face, Aragorn took a good look around. The tower did not look any different from when he had been last here; the thick walls were covered in moss and ivy that wound around the cracks, patches of lichen covered most of the stones. Little fissures here and there let the light enter, and although the roof was nearly gone, it still held off most of the water.

Three of the four walls were nearly broken down, but the forth was still strong and almost undamaged. It was this wall that Aragorn now walked to. Behind him, he heard Rogondil enter the tower.

The other ranger was as drenched as he was, and therefore Aragorn decided to light a fire, or at least try to. Whoever was hiding on or near these hills, the storm and the oncoming darkness would effectively veil the firelight. It was safer to light a fire, than sleep in wet clothing, exposed to wind and cold.

Unfastening his pack from his back and taking out the branches and leaves that he carried, Aragorn did his best to start a fire, and after long minutes, a spark ignited some of the drier leaves. Soon, a merry fire was burning, casting flickering shadows over the walls.

Turning and shrugging out of his tattered and weatherworn cloak to let it dry, Aragorn saw that his companion was standing near the entrance to the tower, looking outside into the gloaming. Stepping up to the man, Aragorn asked, “Do you see anything?”

Aragorn wanted to know if the man saw any movement; an animal or the wild men who they had been searching for. But the gruff answer he got surprised him.

“No. Nothing that should disturb you.”

Without looking at his Chieftain, Rogondil turned away from the entrance and made his way over to the fire. Sitting down heavily, he shrugged out of his cloak as well, then reached inside his pack, took out some food, and without waiting for his Chieftain to join him, he began to eat.

Aragorn frowned. Something was definitely not right with the man. Aragorn, although Chieftain, he had never made a fuss about it. He had not ordered his men to call him by his title, or behave differently in any way when he was around. But nevertheless, he thought that he deserved some sort of respect. Not because he was Chieftain, but because the rangers were his friends.

And although he did not want his men to act differently towards him, they did. They trusted him and honoured him; they paid him the respect they thought he deserved. The rangers looked up to him and knew that he would do everything in his power to protect them. That was why they behaved as they did, and that was why they followed his lead without question.

But Rogondil’s open disrespect towards his Chieftain was new to Aragorn. He did not understand what he had done to deserve it, and he asked himself if he had wronged Rogondil in any way. Taking a deep breath and making his way over to the fire, Aragorn thought that it was time to find out what was wrong with his friend.

Upon reaching the flickering fire, he sat down on his bedroll and placed another branch on the fire. Rogondil did not even look up from his meal, and neither did he acknowledge Aragorn’s presence. He just continued eating, now and then taking up his water flask to drink some cool water.

Aragorn sat, and waited. He watched the rain pour down onto the plains around them, saw the thick grey clouds sail over the darkening sky. Soon, the sun set behind the horizon, and complete darkness settled over the hills. The only source of light came from the flickering flames, which cast an eerie glow over the walls and stones.

Rogondil finished his meal, but he said nothing, and so the stillness stretched until it became quite uncomfortable. From now and then the older ranger would shift his position, so as if he was uneasy; his face stayed downcast, his eyes never leaving the flickering flames before him

When Aragorn had the feeling that he could not take the quietness and the squirming of his companion any longer, he spoke into the stillness, “What troubles you, my friend?”

Rogondil seemed to be paralysed for a moment. He stopped all movement, and the only sound that could be heard, was the howling of the wind and the drumming of the rain on the stones.

Then, when Aragorn thought that the man would not answer his question, Rogondil spoke, his voice calm, “Nothing troubles me.”

“Do not lie to me, my friend. I have eyes to see, and I can see that something lies heavily on your soul.”

“Then your eyes deceive you.” Rogondil’s head lifted, and for the first time since days he looked his Chieftain in the eyes. His voice was no longer calm, but sounded annoyed and slightly angered.

Seeing the sparkle in his companion’s eyes, Aragorn took a deep breath and held out his hands in a placating gesture, “I did not intend to anger you, Rogondil. I was merely concerned. If there is anything you want to talk about, I am here for you.”

He had meant to came his friend with his words, but he was mistaken. Instead of the accepting answer he had expected, the other ranger stood agitatedly to his feet.

“You always think words can solve all problems. I do not need your concern. There is nothing wrong, and soon, soon there will be nothing anymore to worry about anyway. I…I need some fresh air.”

And with that, the ranger left the shelter and rushed out into the black night. Staring after the man, Aragorn was flabbergasted. What had he said to make his friend react that way? And even more pressing, what had happened to make Rogondil act like a stranger?

After long moments, Aragorn let his gaze fall to the flickering flames, as if he could find the answers to his questions in their red glimmer. But all he found were memories; memories of Rogondil and his little brother Amandil, their time with the rangers, and the shift in Rogondil’s behaviour.

Placing another thick branch on the fire to keep it burning, Aragorn wondered when he had first noticed that something was wrong with Rogondil. Had it been one year ago, or only some months? He did not know it, but he remembered the first time he had truly been astounded by the ranger’s behaviour.

It had been in the early spring, when the streams had just lost their ice cover and the trees had started to crane their branches towards the sun. He had send out a small group of to hunt a pack of wolves that had threatened a village near the Brandywine, while he himself had been to Rivendell to discuss the latest orc activities with Lord Elrond.

After a few days the rangers had found the pack and swiftly killed the beasts, and although the battle had not lasted long, Amandil had been bitten by a wolf. The wound had been cleaned and bandaged, but it had not healed as it should have, and so the wound had become infected.

When they had reached the rangers’ camp, Amandil had been burning up with fever, and he had been near death. Aragorn had not been present, as he had still been on his way back from Rivendell. He had reached the camp the night Amandil had fallen into a sleep, from which no one thought him to wake up again.

It had only been to Aragorn’s healing skills that the young ranger had survived the night, and after some days of fever, he had recovered completely. But where Aragorn had thought that Rogondil would thank him for saving his brother’s life, the man had accused him. Blamed him of abandoning his duties, and forsaking the rangers when they needed him.

Aragorn had been hurt by the words, but he had stored them in a corner of his mind, thinking them to be the words of a man, who was upset with the world, because he had nearly lost his little brother, the only family that was left to him.

Rogondil had not spoken about his outburst again, and so Aragorn had not pressed the matter. Indeed, he had nearly forgotten the incident. But now, in this dark night, with the wind howling around the ruins and the storm that raged outside, the words of Rogondil resurfaced in his mind.

Something was truly wrong with his friend, and sooner or later Rogondil would have to talk about it. But Aragorn knew that this day was not now, and that Rogondil would talk to him when he was ready. If he was ever ready.

So, Aragorn settled tiredly down on his bedroll and pulled his blankets around his body, but he could not shake off an uneasy feeling. He had a hollow feeling in his stomach, and every now and then his eyes darted to the open entry of the tower.

Rogondil had not returned yet, and Aragorn was not sure whether to be worried, or glad about the fact. Something was distressing the older ranger, and the more time he spend with him, the more his senses seemed to warn him.

Sighing deeply, Aragorn closed his tired eyes. There was nothing he could do in this Valar forsaken night. Perhaps the coming morning would bring some answers.

When Rogondil returned to the tower, he found that his Chieftain had fallen asleep, the blankets pulled around his form, and his face turned towards the fire to catch the warmth it emanated. For long moments he just stood there, gazing at the sleeping ranger. Then, a shudder seemed to race through his body, and he shook his head so as if to chase away an annoying fly. Placing another log on the fire, he settled down on his sleeping roll, and pulled his own blanket around him.

Within minutes, Rogondil was deep asleep. Had he watched his Chieftain a bit more closely, or not fallen asleep so fast, he would have noticed that Aragorn was indeed still awake. And that his hand rested on the worn hilt of his trusted sword, that was placed near his body.

TBC...


Chapter 2 - Traitor

Chapter 2: Traitor

Morning dawned cold and misty. The storm had moved farther east, leaving the hills dripping with water, and the ground muddy and unreliable. The sky hung full of thick grey clouds that promised another downpour, but so far no rain had fallen.

Fog had sneaked over the plains at the foot of the hills, and the world looked lonely and abandoned. No sound sailed through the air despite the distant rumbling of thunder, and not even the twittering of birds could be heard.

With the change of night to day, the rangers had packed up and left their shelter. Without looking back, they had made their way down the hill, leaving the Tower of Elendil, the ancient Elostirion, behind them.

For hours they searched the hills for any tracks, signs that might tell them of the wild men’s presence. To Aragorn’s disappointment, they found nothing. The rain of the last night had more likely than not erased all signs of the men, but nevertheless, so many men could not just pass by and leave no signs. A broken twig here, some disturbed stones there; had the men been here, Aragorn was sure that he would have found their tracks.

After hours of searching, Aragorn was sure that the wild men had not been in this region. And although the Tower Hills were high and wide enough to provided a good shelter and hiding place for a large group of men, there was no river near. And that probably meant that the men would not hide in the hills or near them.

Aragorn had thought about that before, but he had wanted to be sure. Now, he was convinced that the men were not here. This trip had been a waste of time.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to face his companion. Since their depature from the ruins of the Tower, Rogondil had not spoken more than three words. Actually, the man had been subdued and quiet, starring at the ground as if he had lost the most important thing in his life.

But what unnerved Aragorn the most, was that the man had not once looked him in the eye since their conversation the previous evening. Something was definitely wrong, and Aragorn had vowed to find out. But now was neither the time nor the place. Perhaps in the evening.

Therefore, as he turned towards Rogondil, he simply stated, “They are not here. And I doubt that they have ever been.”

He waited for the other ranger’s opinion, but Rogondil only stared at the ground, and then nodded slowly.

“Rogondil, I think we should head back to the tower, stay there for the night, and head out in the morning. If the weather stays as it is now, we should make it back to the camp in three days.”

Again, Rogondil only nodded. Thunder boomed in the distance, and Aragorn could see the horizon shimmer yellowy for a second. The storm that had assaulted them the last night was now raging in the East.

So, they wordlessly turned and made their way back the to ruins of the tower. Slowly, the fog that had already began to drift away and become thinner, grew more intense as night approached. It swivelled around the greened tree trunks and the high grass of the plains, giving the scenery a ghostly appearance.

The lands darkened around them, and the air became colder. Gusts of icy wind blew into their faces, and soon Aragorn’s hands had become stiff and cold. He wished nothing more than to reach the remnants of the tower, light a nice fire and have something warm to drink.

Suddenly Rogondil, who was walking in front of Aragorn, stopped in his tracks. Then, he crouched down, and examined the ground intently. Frowning, Aragorn sidled up with him and looked at the ground as well. As the light was already fading, he could see nothing more than brown mud, leaves and grass.

“Rogondil, what is it?”

A nervous voice, mixed with a strange undertone that Aragorn could not identify, answered him, “An imprint. Fresh, as it seems. Here, look for yourself.”

And with that, the broad shouldered ranger stood to his feet and made space for his Chieftain. Intrigued, Aragorn crouched down and let his eyes travel over the grassy ground.

Staring, he narrowed his eyes to see in the falling darkness. At first, he saw nothing. The mud was a little bit churned, but this was surely no imprint of a horse’s hoof, or a footstep.

Bending down lower and letting his fingers slide over the small dent in the ground, Aragorn tried to figure out what it was he saw.

Distantly, he was aware that Rogondil had stepped back a few steps, and that he had not said another word. His keen ears detected the sound of leather moving, but Aragorn did not consciously register it.

Still concentrated on the ground before him, he did not notice Rogondil step up behind him again. Neither did he see that the older ranger had unsheathed his sword, and was raising it.

Tracing his fingers over the imprint, Aragorn wondered what kind of animal made such prints. They looked strange, almost as if someone had just… dug his fist into the mud.

Suddenly, Aragorn heard metal swish through the air. With reflexes born from years of training, he threw himself to the side, only to land hard on some sharp stones. Twisting, he rolled over on the muddy ground.

Looking to the side, he saw that a blade was protruding from the ground where he had crouched not a moment before. Had he not thrown himself to the side, he would be dead now.

Lifting his gaze, he directly looked into the contorted face of…Rogondil.

Confused, Aragorn scrambled further way from the blade and the ranger. His hands scraped over rocks and stones, but he did not care. What was going on, what had just happened? Why was his companion attacking him?

But Aragorn got no time to dwell on this thought. With a grunt of anger and disappointment, Rogondil raised his sword, and started forward. His face was a grimace of hate and fury, so unlike the face of the man Aragorn knew.

With a mighty thrust, Rogondil brought the sword down on his Chieftain again. The blade sliced through the cold air, but Aragorn was faster. Rolling to the side once more, he avoided the blade.

Hastily, he scrambled to his feet and drew his own sword out of his baldric in a fluent motion. Readying his fighting stance, he positioned his sword before him, but did not attack. Instead, he fixed his stormy grey eyes on the ranger in front of him.

Rogondil was panting, but not from exhaustion, but rather anger. He flipped the sword in his hand, and a small sneer appeared on his face. Slowly, he took a step forward.

“So, this is how it will end, Chieftain.” He spit the last word as if it would burn his tongue and make him sick.

“Why?” Aragorn had not wanted to ask this, but it was the only question that made any sense to him. He knew somehow that he would not be able to convince Rogondil to not fight him; nevertheless, he wanted to know why his friend had turned against him.

“Why? I tell you why. You are not worthy to be our Chieftain. You are Chieftain by blood, not by deeds. Your decisions will get us killed one day, and I will not sit by idly and watch my friends die because of your foolish actions. I will not give you another opportunity to kill my little brother.”

And with that, Rogondil raced forwards, sword held high, ready to kill. Aragorn parried the heavy blow, twisted his body to the right and brought his sword down. Seeing his blow blocked, Aragorn took a step back, arched his sword high up and at the same moment pressed his upper body forward.

The movement caught Rogondil by surprise, and he yelled in pain as Aragorn’s blade cut his upper arm. But the victory was short lived. With burning eyes, Rogondil charged forward and his sword thrusts rained down on Aragorn.

Blocking a blow that was meant to behead him, Aragorn twisted his body to the side as another thrust was aimed at his right side. But the moment he moved, he felt his foot slip on the muddy ground, and he knew that he would not be fast enough.

Searing pain engulfed him as Rogondil’s sharp blade sliced through his side, opening a deep gash. Hot blood pulsed from the wound, flowing freely down his chest and leg. Cursing under his breath, Aragorn retreated hastily from his opponent, and stood defensively, panting against the pain. He did not dare to press a hand on the wound, for fear of Rogondil attacking him the moment he removed one of his hands form his sword.

Sneering, the older ranger mocked him, seemingly undisturbed by his bleeding arm, “Not so strong now, are we? As I have already told you, you are not worthy to be Chieftain.”

Angered and hurt, Aragorn retorted hotly, “And who do you deem should be Chieftain? You?”

Rogondil lifted his eyebrows, and then shook his head, “No, not me. But Amandil. Amandil would make a great Chieftain. He ‘will’ make a great Chieftain, once you are gone. And then he will not have to go on dangerous and foolhardy missions any longer.”

“Rogondil, you cannot truly think that, Amandil…” but Aragorn’s words of reason were cut short as Rogondil yelled in fury and attacked once more.

Hardly being able to block the next blow, Aragorn brought his blade up just in time to avoid being severed in half. He parried and blocked, sliced and hacked. But Rogondil was a good fighter, and his years of training and experience made him a deadly enemy.

Ducking a mean blow that was aimed at his head, Aragorn pushed his sword forward, and was rewarded with a small grunt of pain as steel made flesh. Withdrawing his blade and retreating a few steps, Aragorn looked at his opponent.

Rogondil was breathing hard, the wound on his arm still bleeding. A red gash had opened on his chest where Aragorn’s sword had hit him, but the man’s face spoke of determination. Nevertheless, Aragorn tried to reason with him, as he did not truly wish to kill the man.

Panting himself, he brought out, “Rogondil, I do not want to fight you. Think of what you are doing. Think of you brother! What do you think Amandil would say to this? He would not…”

“Do not speak his name! You know nothing of him! And I will make sure that you will never get the chance to hurt him again!”

Lifting his sword high above his head, Rogondil charged forwards and brought his blade down with all his might. Barely lifting his own weapon in time, Aragorn blocked the blow. The force of it made his arms tremble, and he felt his feet slip under him.

The ground was still wet from the previous night’s rain, and the fighting had churned it and made is slippery. Pressing his feet into the mud to stop his sliding, Aragorn ignored the ache in his arms and shoulders. He could not loosen his block, or Rogondil’s sword would kill him instantly.

Grounding his teeth, he glared up at the older ranger. He was not willing to let this man kill him, not if there was a way to prevent it. And although the did not want to kill Rogondil, he would do it, if there was no other way.

Thunder growled in the distance, and a gust of wind rushed over the plains. Aragorn, still holding the block and trying to somehow get out of the situation, suddenly felt his feet slip again, and this time, he was not fast enough to compensate.

His right leg gave out from under him, and with a sound of surprise, he felt his body slide to the side. Unable to hold the block, he twisted his sword to the side and upwards, willing the other blade to slide harmlessly down his sword and to the ground.

But Rogondil seemed to have anticipated this. Grinning, he removed a hand from his sword hilt, and mercilessly brought it down on Aragorn’s already bleeding side. Screaming in pain, Aragorn felt himself loose his balance completely, and he fell to the slimy mud.

Hitting the ground hard, the air left his lungs with a whoosh. Blinking against the pain, he tightened the grip on his sword and instantly tried to rise to his feet. A booted foot stopped his motion, pushing him down on his back once more. Cold steel was pressed at his neck, forcing his chin upwards.

Aragorn looked up into the eyes of his former friend, a man who he had trusted. Trusted with his life, that the older ranger would now take.

Rogondil stared at his Chieftain without pity in his eyes. They were cold and dead, but in the depth glimmered fury and hate. He had set out on this mission to kill his Chieftain, and had he still doubted his plan the night before, no doubts were left now. He would end it, here and now. And then, he would return to his little brother and protect him until fate had made Amandil Chieftain of the Rangers of the North.

Sneering, Rogondil pressed his blade down harder, opening a bleeding cut on Aragorn’s disposed neck. Despite all that had happened only moments prior, Aragorn spoke calmly, almost pleadingly, “Rogondil, it does not have to end this way.”

“Oh, but it will. You will die, and then all will be as it should be.”

And with that, Rogondil removed his blade from Aragorn’s neck, lifted the sword high into the air, and let it race down again in a killing blow.

Aragorn’s eyes widened, and a part of him could still not belief what was happening, and how things had changed so abruptly. Until now, he had still hoped to get out of this situation, but now, as the blade raced towards him, he suddenly realized, that he might have been wrong.

He would die, here, now, and only with his murderer as witness; to be left in the wilderness to be savaged by the animals, forgotten to rot.

No! He was not willing to surrender, he did not want to die now. With sudden strength that he did not even realize he still possessed, he lifted his right arm, and brought his sword upwards and before his body. In the same moment he drew up his knees, and with a mighty push he kicked the legs out from under Rogondil.

The older ranger’s face contorted in surprise as he fell forwards. Steel met flesh, and an ear piercing scream filled the battle side. Rogondil landed heavily on Aragorn, pressing him to the ground, and then, stillness settled over the two unmoving rangers. Sluggishly, red blood flowed from under them, creating a puddle in the mud.

For long moments, nothing moved. The two men lay motionless on the ground, and neither of them made a sound, nothing steered. The distant rumbling of thunder floated through the air, followed by the lonely hoot of an owl.

Suddenly, the heap of tangled arms and legs shivered, and then Rogondil rolled to the side. With a wet thud he landed in the mud on his back, arms flayed to the side, mouth hanging open in a toneless scream.

Panting, Aragorn stared up into the sky. Night had fallen, and the darkness that surrounded him was nearly complete. Grey clouds sailed over the sky, and here and there the silvery moon shone through the veil. The light send its fingers to the ground, reflecting on the two blades that lay abandoned in the murk.

Both were tinged in red blood.

Grimacing, Aragorn pushed himself to his elbows, and then into a sitting position. Groaning in pain, he pressed his hand to his side, so as if it would stop the agony that pierced him. Red blood flowed from under his fingers, and trickled to the already stained ground.

Taking a deep breath, he turned and looked at the ranger beside him. Rogondil was dead. When the ranger had fallen forwards, he had found his end on the blade of Aragorn’s upturned sword, piercing his chest. But Rogondil’s sword had done its work as well.

Rogondil had intended to pierce Aragorn’s heart, but the cold steel had instead buried itself in his shoulder. The blade had not gone through, and due to the fall of Rogondil, it had not stuck. But the gash was deep and bleeding heavily.

Shivering slightly due to the coldness of the night and the shock of the fight, Aragorn sat in the mud, head hanging down.

What had happened? Why had Rogondil done that? And why did it have to end that way?

Numerous questions filled his head, but he knew that there was no time to answer them now. The pain in his side and shoulder was overwhelming, and he knew that he needed to clean and bind them, if he wanted to make it through the night.

But not here, not in this place. Everything inside of him called to leave, to run and not look back.

Scrambling to his knees, and then his feet, Aragorn took up his sword and pack, and without looking back, he left the site and walked into the night.

Tbc...


Chapter 3 - The End?

Chapter III: The End?

Aragorn had not the strength and will power to reach the tower of Elendil. Therefore, he walked as far as his tired legs carried him, and then sank down to the wet grass. The thoughts that had tumbled through his mind shortly after the fight had ceased racing, and all he felt was a numbness, that seemed to come from deep inside.

He knew that he would have to confront the thoughts, the questions, but he was thankful that his mind had decided that it was too early yet. Sighing as he sank down, he felt tiredness claim his limbs.

Fatigued, he closed his eyes. He was so tired. But no, not yet, he could not sleep yet; his wounds needed cleaning, and he would have to light a fire to keep him warm. Opening his eyes to nearly complete darkness, Aragorn started to search his pack for the things he would need.

Cleaning the shoulder wound would be much more complicated than the wound at his side. Therefore, he began with the latter, cleaning the wound with some water from his flask, and then binding it tightly. The light from the moon was too weak to attempt stitching it.

When he pulled his cloak from the shoulder wound, he could not suppress a moan of pain. The dried blood made the clothing stick to the flesh, and pulling made the injury bleed more fiercely. Setting his jaw, Aragorn continued nevertheless.

To his relief, the injury was not as deep as he had feared, and so he cleaned it and bound it as well as he was able to with only one hand. Shivering, he searched his pack for firewood, but what he had left had become wet during the fight.

Sighing, he tightened his bloodied cloak around his shoulders, leaned back against a boulder and closed his tired eyes. Instantly, his hurting body claimed its rest, and within moments, Aragorn fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.

°°°°

It had not been easy to dig the shallow grave, despite the softness of the ground. But without any tools, and with only one good hand, it had taken Aragorn nearly the whole morning to do so.

Covering the dead ranger with his cloak, Aragorn had lain him to rest in the grave, and sealed it off with earth and stones. Now he stood over it, the sword of Rogondil in his hand. The blade was still shining red with his blood, but Aragorn did not care.

A gust of wind caught his hair and for a moment, Aragorn thought to hear the growling of thunder in the distance. It seemed the storm had not vanished yet, Rain was not far away, the air heavy with moisture. Mist had gathered on the plains, and a bodiless coldness seemed to have covered the lands.

For long moments Aragorn just stood there, the sword in hand, staring down at the nameless grave. His face was pale, and his eyes held a shimmer that had never been there before. Frustration, anger, disappointment…and hurt.

Suddenly, he sighed deeply, shaking his head. Slowly, he lifted the sword, and then rammed it into the ground at the head of the grave, where it quivered a moment, and then stood still.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Aragorn let his head hang. Then, his sad voice filled the air, void of any hate or anger, but full of regret.

“It should not have ended this way, my friend. I do not know what drove you, but it must not have ended this way.”

He shook his head once more. A sigh left his lips, but then he took a deep breath, and a change seemed to go through him. Aragorn lifted his head, his eyes looking at the grave and the sword, and with a voice that belonged to the Chieftain that he was, he recited the well known words of farewell.

“Where there is life, there is death,

but from shadow a light can be born.

Your journey ends here, in earth and dust.

But after you have rested,

You shall hear his call, and wake in Mandos’s Halls.

The road goes on behind the circles of this world,

And that is where we shall meet again,

When I have reached my journey’s end.

Until then, namarie.”

The words sounded hollow in his own ears, and he knew that right now, he did not truly mean them. But, he felt that, even so Rogondil had betrayed him, the man deserved to hear the ritual words of the rangers. For long moments he stood in silence, and then he added in a whisper,

“I will look after your brother. I will protect him with my life and death, as I promised to do when I took up the place of my father as Chieftain.

As I would have done for you.

Fare well.”

Giving the nameless grave in the wilds of nowhere a last glance, he turned away, and left the place of death and pain. He knew that he would never come back to the Tower Hills, and the famous towers of Elendil.

°°°°

For days he had travelled, not rushing his pace, but neither slowing it purposefully. The rain had started to fall the moment he had left the grave, and it had not stopped for the rest of the day. But to Aragorn, it had not mattered. He had not felt the cold water on his skin, or the wind that had assaulted him.

He had walked and walked, never looking back, but not looking forwards either. When night came, he had slept, with morning he had set out, and when he had felt his legs tremble under him, he had given in and rested.

Now, only a few leagues away from the ranger camp, the blissful numbness that had until now covered his mind, had fallen away. With the realization that he would reach the camp in only a few hours, all emotion that he had buried with Rogondil in the wilderness, came crashing down. It made him stumble and gasp for breath. He had to stop, he could not go on.

Sitting down on a boulder, Aragorn stared at the lands before him. All looked so peaceful, so quiet and still. There seemed to be no trouble, no doubt, no pain. But Aragorn knew better. His heart ached with his wound in unison, and he realized that he did not know what to do. For the first time in his life, he truly did not know what to do.

What should he tell the rangers?

And what should he tell Amandil, Rogondil’s little brother?

It was hard enough to lose a dear friend, but to lose a brother, the only family member that was left…

What would it do to Amandil when he heard of his brother’s death? And a death by the hand of his Chieftain no less?

What would Amandil say when he found out that Aragorn had killed his brother? That he man he looked up to had murdered the only person in the world that loved him unconditionally?

Aragorn felt a shiver go through his body, and he had to close his eyes. He could no longer gaze upon the peaceful scene before him, as his heart broke in his chest.

What should he do?

When Aragorn had taken up his father’s place and had become Chieftain of the Dunedain, he had sworn an oath. He had sworn to do all in his might to protect his men, whether by his life or death.

The rangers looked up to him, they followed him without question, and he knew that they would give their lives for him; that some even saw in him the King that they wished to one day claim the crown of Gondor.

Sweet Eru, he had sworn to protect his men, not kill them! By the Valar, what had he done?

Deep down, Aragorn knew that he had acted in self defence; that Rogondil would have killed him mercilessly, and then left him in the wilderness to rot. But still, had he not killed one of his men? One of the rangers that he had sworn to die for?

Shuddering, he let his head fall into his hands. Why had this happened? How had it been possible to come so far?

What had he done wrong? Where had he lost Rogondil? When had the man ventured off from the path, and onto an unknown road? Why?

Shaking his tired head, Aragorn took a deep breath. He would find no answers to this questions, as the only person that could give them, was laying dead in a nameless grave near the Tower Hills.

And it would not help Aragorn to dwell on things that he could not change anymore. He knew that he would have to confront the reasons behind Rogondil’s betrayal, one day. But not this day.

This day, he had to answer another question. What to tell Amandil?

Should he tell him the truth? That his older brother had tried to kill him? That he had betrayed all Amandil believed in; the rangers, their duty, their loyalty…their Chieftain?

Could he tell him all that, and then tell him that he –Aragorn- had killed his brother? That it was his fault that Amandil was left alone in this world, without family to lean on?

Should he tell him that he had not only killed his brother, but dug his grave as well? That he had left him in the middle of nowhere to become cold and stiff, to slowly rot and fall away? Should he tell him that it had been him who had taken the most precious that he possessed away?

Could he tell him?

Could he?

Aragorn closed his eyes tightly, pressing the balms of his hands into them, as if that would stop the onslaught of emotions.

Could he? Was he able to do that, and live with it, day after day? For the rest of his life? Would he be able to bear Amandil’s accusing eyes? And furthermore, would Amandil be able to stand the truth?

He did not want to acknowledge the answer, but he already knew it.

No, no he could not. It would not only shatter Amandil’s young heart to hear that, but his own as well. Amandil loved his brother dearly, he would not be able to fight through this. It would be hard enough as it was.

No, he would not tell him, could not.

So he stood, lifted his head, and determinedly set out again. And although he had decided what to do, and was convinced that what he was about to do was for the good of all, he could not shake the feeling that whispered in the back of his mind: Coward.

°°°°

“Aragorn!”

Halbarad’s voice echoed off from the trees around him, and Aragorn looked up from the path. There before him, a small group of rangers had emerged from the trees and bushes that lined the path, bows ready, arrows notched.

Stopping in his tracks, Aragorn met Halbarad’s gaze, and then looked away for the shortest of moments. But it was long enough for his second in command to sense that something was not right. And to come to the realization that Rogondil was not merely a few steps behind Aragorn, but that he would not come.

Walking the few steps to his Chieftain’s side, Halbarad scanned Aragorn from head to toe, taking in the bloodied cloak, torn tunic, muddy boots and pale face.

Gently, he took the pack from Aragorn’s shoulder, “Let us get you to camp, and into something clean.”

Aragorn only nodded, and together they made their way to the campsite, leaving sad looking and whispering rangers behind.

°°°°

“I need to talk to Amandil, Halbarad.”

“Sure, but let me take a look at your wounds first.”

Anticipating that his Chieftain and friend would reject the request, Halbarad was surprised to see Aragorn nodding. Frowning, he led his friend to his tent, opened the flap, and ushered Aragorn in.

Sitting down, and taking a deep breath, Aragorn could not bring himself to look at Halbarad. There was still so much that raced through his head, and now that he was back in the camp, the decision that he had made not so long ago seemed…doubtful.

Distantly, he heard Halbarad leave the tent, then a hushed conversation. A moment later, Halbarad re-entered.

“Let me see to your wounds.” And without waiting for approval, he began to help Aragorn out of the worn cloak and tunic. Upon seeing the injuries, he glanced questioningly at his Chieftain, but Aragorn only shook his head tiredly.

“I should speak with Amandil first.”

Nodding, Halbarad did not ask any more questions, spoken or silent, and began to swiftly but gently clean the cuts, spread some healing salve over them, and then bind them with clean linen.

But Aragorn knew what Halbarad was thinking. There wounds had not been caused by crude blades of orcs, or rusty swords of thieves, but by a sharp and well cared for blade.

When the last bandage was in place, Halbarad handed a clean tunic to Aragorn and stood to his feet.

“I have send for Amandil. He was on a hunt for the evening meal. He should be here any minute. Shall I send him in, when he arrives?”

Aragorn thought about that, while he pulled the tunic over his head. Then,

“Yes, please.”

Halbarad nodded, and left the tent without another word. Had Aragorn looked up in that very moment, he would have seen the pity and understanding in his friend’s eyes. Emotions that were not only directed at Amandil.

°°°°

The young ranger had heard rumours when he arrived back in the camp, but the man that had come to fetch him had not been able to tell him what was going on.

Amandil entered the clearing where the camp was set up, and immediately he noticed the tension and sadness that hung heavily in the air. While walking to one of the fires, where he saw Halbarad standing, he felt eyes staring at him. Watching him. What was going on?

Upon reaching Halbarad, Amandil greeting him, but when he saw the eyes of the other ranger, he instantly felt his heart jump into his throat. What had happened?

Taking a step towards the younger ranger and putting a comforting hand onto his shoulder, Halbarad told him, “Amandil, Aragorn wants to talk to you. He is in my tent.”

Amandils’s eyes lit. The Chieftain was back? Then where was his brother? Suddenly, a hollow feeling settled in his stomach, and he had to take a deep breath.

He felt Halbarad squeeze his shoulder gently, but firmly, “Go, Amandil. He will answer your questions.”

And with that, Amandil turned and walked stiffly to the tent that he knew to be Halbarad’s, but before he entered, he closed his eyes briefly. Then, he resolutely shoved back the tent flap, and stepped in. The flap fell back behind him, and he vanished form sight.

°°°°

They had talked long. For some hours they had talked, before Amandil’s tears had dried, and the voiced had become quiet. Rubbing his eyes with his sleeve, Amandil sighed deeply.

“So, he did not die alone?”

Aragorn shook his head, and answered gently, “No, he did not die alone. I was with him when he drew his last breath.”

Amandil nodded, “Then it is well. I am sure he was proud, dying with his Chieftain by his side. And with his sword in hand.”

Aragorn could not reply. A big lump had formed in his throat, and he was not able to say more. And truly, what should he have said? More lies, however well meant they might be? No.

So, he only nodded his head, sighed, and closed his eyes. The last hours had been draining, and he felt exhausted. The weight that seemed to press down on his shoulders had not lifted with telling the tale, and deep inside Aragorn still doubted his decision.

Suddenly, Amandil stood to his feet. Glancing up at the young ranger, Aragorn stood as well. Smiling sadly, Amandil gesture behind him to the tent flap.

“I think I…need some time to myself. To remember…and mourn.”

“I understand. Please, Amandil, if there is anything that I can do to help you, let me know. I am here for you, should you need me.”

And Aragorn meant what he was saying.

“Thank you, Chief.” And with that, the young ranger left the tent to mourn for his lost brother.

Suddenly, his legs seemed unable to carry his weight any longer, the world spun before his eyes and he trembled all over. What had he done? Why had he lied to the boy?

Breathing heavily, he let himself sink down onto the field bed again. He placed his elbows on his knees, and let his weary head fall into his hands. Oh, he was so tired. So very tired. Slowly, his breathing clamed, and the trembling reduced itself to a shiver.

Coldness befell him, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down, close his eyes and sleep. Sleep and sleep until he forgot what had happened, until he forgot what he had done. But he knew that he could not sleep yet.

Aragorn was dimly aware that another person entered the tent, and pulled the flap closed completely, so that no light could enter. He heard the person rummage for a moment, and then felt a blanket being wrapped around his shivering form.

The bed shifted as Halbarad sat down beside him. The ranger did not say a single word, but Aragorn knew why he had come. Minutes passed in stillness, but when another shiver raced through Aragorn’s body, Halbarad spoke.

His voice was gentle and understanding, “Tell me the truth, Aragorn.”

Aragorn knew that what he told his friend would reach no other ears, and, oh, by Elbereth, he needed to tell someone, to be assured that he had done nothing wrong, that his decision had been the right one. And even if Halbarad would condemn him for what he had done, he…he needed to tell someone. So, he took a deep breath, and began to lift the weight that was pressing down on his shoulders. And perhaps, perhaps he could find some sleep after that.

But he knew that he would find no rest. Not yet.

The End.
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