Disclaimer: I own nothing, Tolkien and New Line Cinema own them all. No profit was made from this story, which was solely written for fun.

Parth Galen, February 26 (mid-morning)

"I tried to take the Ring from Frodo," Boromir said, desperate to spread the ill news ere pain and loss of blood could stop him. "I am sorry. I have paid." His glance strayed from Aragorn to his fallen enemies; twenty at least lay there. "They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them." He paused and swallowed hard in a futile attempt to fight down another wave of pain that surged through his body.

A shadow fell upon his face. Blinking away clouds of mist that shrouded both his mind and his vision he saw Aragorn hunched over him, felt the other's hand upon his brow. Boromir closed his eyes against another onslaught of dizziness, but felt the hand move along the side of his face, past his jawline, until the fingers came to rest against his throat. Aragorn shifted position, then the hand was removed only to gently push aside layers of clothes and mail to assess the extent of his injuries. He could not suppress a cry as the Ranger's carefully probing fingers touched the long black shaft of the arrow that was lodged deep within his left shoulder. But the sudden flash of pain at least helped to clear his fogged mind, and when he felt Aragorn's grip tighten around the arrow, he gathered his remaining strength to speak again. "Leave it. It is over. I have failed. The world of Men will fall. And all will come to darkness. My city to ruin."

"No," Aragorn replied, "you have fought bravely. Few have gained such a victory." Then he resumed his examination, wincing in sympathy every time Boromir hissed or gasped in pain. At long last, he spoke again, "Your wounds appear severe but not fatal. But the arrows must be removed."

Aragorn sat back on his heels and fixed Boromir with a thoughtful gaze. Before Boromir could determine the reason for that probing regard, Aragorn broke free from his pensive mood with a minute shake of his head and a sigh, and said, "For now, we had better wait for the others, for I need some items from my pack to treat those wounds and I would not leave you alone right now." Again he paused, his brow wrinkled in thought. Whatever Aragorn had been contemplating, he abandoned the idea with another shake of his head and turned to Boromir with a comforting yet strained smile. "You might as well tell me what happened here while we wait. Which way did the Orcs go? And what became of Frodo? Where did he go?"

Boromir closed his eyes against confusion mingled with dizziness as the meaning of Aragorn's words sank in. He had been convinced that his end had come when a blow to his back had finished what an arrow to his shoulder and one to his side had begun: to bring him to his knees with such force that he could muster neither strength nor will to rise again, not even at the sight of Merry and Pippin being carried away by the Uruk-hai or the deadly arrow aimed at his head. The arrow had missed its target, thanks to Aragorn's intervention. The force of the blow and the weapon used to bring him down he had misjudged, though he felt terrible enough to believe his earlier assessment rather than Aragorn's assurance. Determined to find out whether Aragorn was convinced of his own words or had lied to a dying man as a means to offer comfort, Boromir opened his eyes and froze. An Orc loomed behind Aragorn, as if he had appeared out of thin air. Why neither he nor Aragorn had noticed his approach, Boromir could not tell, but the raised scimitar in his hand that was aimed at the Ranger's head left no time to dwell on the matter.

"Behind you!" Boromir yelled with all his remaining strength, but his warning was in vain. Helplessly he watched as Aragorn tried to dodge the descending blade. Though quick enough to evade the first blow, Aragorn stood no chance against the second. Still on his knees, he tried to reach his sword, but ere his hand could close around the hilt, the Orc's blade found its mark.

The flow of time seemed to cease as Boromir was forced to watch the wicked weapon descend once more. He was unable to move, unable to prevent the inevitable. No scream escaped Aragorn's lips, only a muffled grunt as the scimitar hit his shoulder with a bone crushing thud. The sheer force of the blow sent Aragorn sprawling, but he was not yet ready to admit defeat. Grabbing his sword with his left hand, he whirled around with a cry that spoke both of pain and anger, and buried Andúril deep in his opponent's chest. Boromir sighed with relief as the Orc fell dead from the blade ere the Ranger collapsed to the ground.

An eerie silence fell upon the clearing only disturbed by Aragorn's heavy breathing. Boromir stared at the back of the Ranger who still lay where his movement's momentum had carried him, not ten feet away. Boromir winced at the sight. Aragorn's elvish cloak was torn and already stained red with blood that was flowing freely from a gaping wound.

"Aragorn?" Boromir whispered, desperately wishing for the other to speak.

"I am here, Boromir!" came the muted reply, followed by the rustling of dry leaves as Aragorn slowly pushed himself up on his uninjured elbow, then struggled to his knees after a brief rest to fight down the pain and regain his strength. Boromir gazed at Aragorn in shock as the other sat back, his injured arm hugged protectively to his side, strands of sweat-soaked hair clinging to his face. A slight tremor ran through Aragorn's body, whether from pain, shock or the chilly breeze that descended from Emyn Muil and rustled the leaves overhead, Boromir could not tell.

"I am here!" Aragorn murmured once more, his voice rough with pain. He flashed Boromir a strained grin, then gripped his sword and shakily rose to his feet. Boromir eyed his companion's approach warily, unsure whether the other was fit to stand at all.

But Aragorn never reached him. After he had taken but a few steps in Boromir's direction, the sound of heavy feet rushing through the scrub let him freeze in his tracks. His eyes met Boromir's briefly and Boromir found his own fears mirrored in the other's face. Aragorn turned to face about half a dozen Uruk-hai. They were emerging from the surrounding trees, yelling in their foul tongue and quickly closing in on him. Again Boromir was forced to idly watch as Aragorn approached their opponents, straightening his back and raising his sword in a mock salute. Whence he took the strength, Boromir knew not, but he was determined to not let Aragorn fight alone a second time. So he grabbed his sword and tried to sit up but failed miserably. Overwhelmed by a sudden flash of pain in his side, he was forced on his back again. Dizziness clouded his senses and he briefly closed his eyes, waiting for the bout to pass.

The sound of clashing swords renewed his determination and he again struggled to rise. But his body betrayed him. He barely managed to catch a glimpse of Aragorn before the world around him swayed and unconsciousness claimed him at last.

Surrounded by Orcs, Aragorn was hard pressed dodging and one-handedly parrying blows that hailed down on him from every direction. He barely perceived Boromir's struggle, for it was but another blur of movement at the edge of his vision and too far away from the immediate threat to risk a second glance. An Orc fell with a strangled gurgle, his throat laid open by a backhanded slash. Aragorn blocked an uninspired yet forceful blow, but the Orc leaned into his blade with all his strength and they stood locked thus, glaring at each other. Fast waning strength and four Orcs at his back were reason enough for Aragorn to break their lock. So he stepped aside and let the Orc's blade glance off his sword. The sudden loss of resistance caused the Orc to stumble forward, which was all Aragorn needed to end his life with a blow to his back. But he was granted no respite, could hardly catch his breath as the air to his right sang with the approach of another blade.

He barely managed to avoid the blow, if only by diving out of the sword's path. The Uruk-hai's blade met but elven cloth, but he landed hard and his attempt to roll back to his feet was violently stopped by an Orc's iron-shod foot. A vicious kick to which he could offer not much resistance flipped him onto his back. Fierce pain shot through his shoulder as he hit the ground and his vision blurred from exhaustion and pain.

Aragorn tried to raise his sword to ward off the figure that loomed above him, but his move had already been anticipated, and the familiar iron-shod foot pinned his wrist to the ground, forcing his hand to abandon its grip on Andúril's hilt. "Giving up already?" the Orc sneered, shifting his weight to the foot that held the Ranger's wrist. With a snarl Aragorn swung up his legs, catching his captor between them and tried with all his might to topple the other. But the Uruk-hai was too heavy for Aragorn's desperate struggle to succeed. As if he were but tussling with an orcling, the Uruk-hai clamped huge, claw-like hands about Aragorn's ankles and pried his legs apart without effort, grinning in vast amusement all the while.

Under the cheers of his fellows, another Orc took hold of Aragorn's legs only to pin them down with his weight. "Now what will you try next?" the creature leered, revelling in the struggling Ranger's vain attempts to wriggle free from his grasp.

"All right, boys! You've had your fun! Uglúk and his guys will have reached Isengard by the time you've finished playing around!" a voice from the background barked.

Aragorn tensed as the angry snarls subsided, an indication that the Orcs were about to obey. A shadow fell upon him as the leader of the small party approached. Small yellow eyes flashed over him, then the hideous face twisted into a grin, baring yellow teeth. A foot shot forward and Aragorn's world exploded in a white flare of pain that rendered further thought impossible. A strangled cry escaped his lips and his world went dark.

"He lives!"

There was pain ... and a hand hovering above his mouth.

"What would an Elf know about a mortal's signs of life!"

A gentle touch to his throat, but the pain remained, became stronger even.

"In contrast to Dwarves, we Elves care about all things living, be they mortal or not! And even the Firstborn have to breathe as Boromir obviously does."

Fabric rustled, someone tugged at his clothing. Clasps were undone and the breeze chilled his bared skin.

"'Tis cruel indeed that creatures who spend most of their time singing to trees or gazing at stars are bothered with such trifles!"

The words that found their way through the blackness surrounding Boromir's mind made no sense at all. But they appeared somewhat familiar; annoyingly familiar.

"Were we not given the gift to breathe, we could never delight in the rich scent of a pine forest in the hot summer sun, or the smell of dew on the first leaves in spring, or ..."

A cool hand was slipped beneath his clothing, probing fingers made their way to the source of his pain.

"I just wish that Elves were never bothered with the burden of voices!"

Boromir desperately longed for the oblivion of unconsciousness, not only to escape the throbbing pain, but to rid himself of that pointless conversation he could no longer ignore. Being denied the peace that unconsciousness offered, the only option that would grant him at least temporary reprieve would be to open his eyes and tell those two ever bickering creatures to shut up!

Having made this resolve he tried to open his eyes, but his lids did not obey. His limbs felt leaden and he could not even gather enough strength to turn his head or lift a hand.

"Look at his eyes! He is awaking!" This was Legolas' voice.

So my actions have at least brought a change of subject! Boromir sighed.

"'Tis but wishful thinking!" came the gruff reply, and Boromir already feared to witness the beginning of another round of futile discussions about the faults and lapses of Elves and Dwarves. But his silent contemplations were violently interrupted by a searing pain as the probing fingers found their goal. Boromir could not stifle a cry, no longer pondering whether he had the strength for this kind of action or not.

"See, he lives! But he will wish he had not woken just yet."

Boromir opened his eyes and found the fair face of Legolas hovering above his head. The Elf removed his long white hand from beneath Boromir's tunic and graced him with a sympathetic smile. "I will have to cut out those arrows," he said and drew a small knife from his belt.

Boromir watched with trepidation as Legolas ran his thumb over the knife's edge to test for sharpness, then cleaned both his hands and the knife with water from Gimli's water-skin. The next minutes Boromir could not quite recall, for the need to remain still and silent took all his strength. Only when he felt a folded piece of cloth being pressed against his side did he open his eyes. He blinked, for the world was slow to come into focus, but gradually the worst of the pain subsided.

"Your wounds are less severe than they appear at first sight," Legolas assured, "but I would advice you against rising too soon."

"Yes, I know. Aragorn already told me that much," Boromir replied somewhat testily, but the memory of Aragorn brought back images of a fight, feelings of pain and helplessness and of guilt and shame. "Aragorn! Where is Aragorn?" he cried.

"I know not," Legolas replied, "we hoped you knew aught of his whereabouts. We heard your horn and tried to come to your aid, but became separated. Gimli and I were engaged in a fight with another pack of Orcs some way back. By the time we arrived, you were the only one we found. But we have not yet searched for any traces of the others ..."

"The Orcs took Merry and Pippin! I could not prevent it, there were too many ..." Boromir briefly closed his eyes to banish the memory of the Hobbits being dragged away by those foul beasts.

"But thanks to you their number is greatly reduced," Gimli replied with a grim smile, his glance straying over the slain bodies that littered the clearing.

"Alas, I did not slay enough!" Boromir sighed, "Aragorn arrived just in time to kill the one that threatened to take my life. I thought this was the last one that had lingered behind. But more of them must have lain in wait. For when Aragorn came over to care for my wounds, we were attacked once more." He stopped and took a deep breath ere he continued, "we were attacked by only one Orc at first. But he caught us unawares. Aragorn killed him swiftly, but not before he had taken serious hurt himself." Boromir paused again as the thought of Aragorn's pain-filled eyes tightened his throat. "He was granted only brief respite ere there came more. I know not their number, but there were too many for Aragorn to cope with. I would have come to his aid, but had not the strength. I failed; ere I could reach him I swooned. The last thing I remember is seeing him fall ..."

Boromir could speak no more. Disgust at his own failings tightened his throat. Not only had he failed Aragorn when the Ranger was in dire need of his aid, but had he not threatened to take the Ring from Frodo and thus delayed the Hobbit's return, they would have never split up at all.

Legolas' whisper interrupted his thoughts, "Aragorn cannot be dead!"

Boromir knew not whether the hushed words were even meant for him to hear or whether they were nothing but the Elf's plea that what they all feared might not have come to pass. For a moment, Legolas did not move, head bowed in grief, oblivious to the questioning looks of Man and Dwarf. Then he gathered his composure, squared his shoulders and raised his head. "If they had killed him, we would have come upon his corpse ..."

"They could have dragged him away in the course of the fight," Boromir said, shoving the nagging feeling of guilt away for a time. He did not like that very thought, but they could ill afford to dwell upon false hope. And pondering on Aragorn's fate brought those torturing feelings all too swiftly back to his mind.

Legolas nodded and, having made up his mind, swiftly rose to his feet, "Take what rest you can, my friend. Gimli and I will search this place. If Aragorn was as seriously hurt as you say, the fight could not have lasted long. And we do not yet know for certain what has befallen the Hobbits."

"Wait! There is more the two of you should know!" The threat of being left alone to this nagging feeling of guilt finally lent Boromir the courage to speak.

Elf and Dwarf turned on the spot.

"I," Boromir returned their puzzled stares, "I tried to take the Ring! 'Twas I who frightened Frodo away, who caused the Fellowship to break!" Boromir felt hot tears of shame and guilt burn in his eyes, but he did not fight them back. It mattered no more, for he had failed; not only Aragorn and Frodo, but Merry, Pippin, the entire Fellowship; even his father who had always held his eldest son in such high esteem.

"You did what?" Boromir was fairly sure that Gimli's incredulous shout could be heard all the way back to Lothlórien. Within the blink of an eye the Dwarf had turned and stomped back to where Boromir lay, his axe tightly gripped with both hands.

Hot rage glittered in the Dwarf's dark eyes, but Boromir watched Gimli's approach with odd detachment. After all he had done, he had forfeited his right to live. He had never truly feared death, at least he had firmly held to that believe in order to calm shaking hands and fluttering nerves at the sight of his foes during his first campaigns. Later, he had grown accustomed to facing his opponents without much thought as to the possible outcome of such encounters. During this day's skirmish, however, when the huge Uruk-hai's first arrow had hit home, he had felt something akin to relief at the prospect of going down fighting, never to face the consequences of succumbing to the Ring's lure. But Aragorn had shattered his hopes. To end his life now at the axe of a furious Dwarf would at least spare him further shame.

Boromir's glance caught Legolas' eyes. They no longer held the warm concern that had offered comfort to a wounded man, but cold wrath unveiled. "I am sorry!" Boromir sighed, "I wish I could undo what harm I have done." After a pause he added, "but I will not beg for life, for I deserve it not ..."

For a few heartbeats, nobody spoke. Gimli and Legolas towered over Boromir who met their killing glares calmly. Legolas stood taut like a bowstring, while Gimli impatiently patted his axe. At length, Legolas spoke, "Does Aragorn know?"

Boromir sighed, "Yes, I told him as much as I could in the short time we had."

"And what did he say?"

"He did not condemn me on the spot, if that is what you want to know," he replied, "but the Orcs attacked too soon."

Legolas relaxed. He placed a slender hand on the Dwarf's shoulder and turned to face Gimli. "Let him be, Gimli. He tried to take the Ring, but he did not take it. And he finally learnt that using the Ring against Sauron is not a path we may tread ... You did, did you not?"

Feeling the scrutinising stare of the Elf come to rest upon him once more, Boromir nodded weakly ere he averted Legolas' gaze. "I did learn! Oh yes I did, indeed! But at what a price!"

Legolas sighed, "What about Frodo, what did you do to him?"

Another pang of guilt rose in the pit of Boromir's stomach as the memories of a frightened Frodo crawling away from his grasp found their way back to his mind. Be Honest! After all you have done, at least be honest! he firmly told himself, then spoke aloud, "I would have hurt him, I fear, but he used the Ring to escape."

Legolas shook his head in disapproval. "What has been done, has been done! We cannot change that now," he said at last; then, turning to Gimli "After all, he was willing to fight to his death to save Merry and Pippin. And the knowledge of his failure makes him suffer enough already."

Patting Gimli's shoulder, Legolas turned to leave, but the Dwarf's growl caused him to pause. "I trust him no more than I would trust an Orc," Gimli hissed, "I still wish my axe to meet his neck."

Legolas sighed once more, "I understand you all too well, friend Gimli, but we should rather fight Sauron's allies than our own. I do not ask to trust him yet, but to stay your axe." Then, turning back to Boromir, he said coolly, "You have yet to regain our trust! But I feel that you will be needed still. By your people at least." And to Gimli he spoke, "Come on, my friend. Let us see if we can find aught of our friends. And you, Boromir, take some rest; if you can."

Boromir nodded wearily, and let his eyes follow the Elf and Dwarf as they began to scan among the corpses that littered the clearing and the surrounding forest for any signs of their missing friends. He did not struggle to stay awake as weariness and exhaustion clouded his mind, and sleep promised a relief from guilt and pain.

To be continued ...

A/N: The dialogue in the first two paragraphs is taken in parts from J.R.R. Tolkien: Lord of the Rings - The Two Towers: The Departure of Boromir, mixed generously with lines from the movie (the original text can be found on page 6 of the Harper Collins Paperback Edition from 1999).

This is my first attempt at writing fan fiction, and English is not my first language, so have mercy and don't feed me to the Balrogs if anything does not seem fit.

This story is an A/U story that sets off at the end of the first movie, though it is based on the books rather than the movie (as long as I can keep them apart in my head). And it is not only inspired by Tolkien's work but also by other A/U stories I read, such as
"Alda mi mornie" by Sternenlicht
"The captain and the king" by plasticChevy
"Lie down in the darkness, rise up from the ash" by Dwimordene
"Veiling of the sun" by Maggie
among others; most of them can be found at http://www.henneth-annun.net.

I intend to write the story parallel to the second and third book, but there will be parts of the books that will fit in my story unchanged, so I will not bother to copy those.

The story will be quite 'unpleasant' for some of our favourite characters, hence the rating, but not a senseless-torture-fic. On the other hand, Sauron's minions are not especially famous for their kindness after all. If you are offended by display of violence and torture, there are other stories you might prefer.

And last but not least: Constructive criticism is always welcome! And I won't be offended by hints to mistakes in my use of the English language, since I place commas somewhat at random for example. I can handle harsh critic as long as a civil tone is maintained. Flames, on the other hand, will be certainly ignored. So, read, have fun, and drop a review if you want!

fliewatuet
Last modified: Tue Jul 20 18:19:27 CEST 2004

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Parth Galen, February 26 (afternoon)

The sun had already disappeared beneath the tops of the trees when Boromir awoke. The pain in his shoulder and side had diminished to a dull ache, but shame and guilt still hovered at the brink of his consciousness. Opening his eyes, he found himself still lying at the edge of the clearing, that very place where first Aragorn and then Legolas and Gimli had left him alone. He felt a hint of panic rise in the pit of his stomach, a pang of fear that his former friends had abandoned him for his faults. Careful, so as to avoid any strain on his injuries, he struggled to a sitting position, but his clothes, stiff with dried blood, chafed at his wounds despite all his caution. It took several attempts ere he finally succeeded and even more time until the world stopped spinning around.

Before he could seriously consider any possible course of action, the sound of voices approaching the clearing forced him to focus on more urgent matters. For though he found his sword lying unsheathed by his side, he felt helpless and vulnerable, and doubted that he would be able to defend himself should any trouble arise. But his tension vanished as Legolas and Gimli entered the clearing, and he recognised the voices as those of his companions.

"So you are awake at last!" Gimli growled.

Boromir swallowed hard, not daring to retort the unspoken resentments in Gimli's remark. "Did you discover any traces of our friends?" he asked instead, carefully keeping a level voice in spite of the mixture of anger and shame that rose in his chest.

"Frodo and Sam must have taken a boat to the eastern shore," Legolas said, "for one of the boats is missing and Sam's pack as well. I doubt that anyone but Sam would burden himself with it. There were tracks of a boat having been pulled out of the water on the eastern shore. But they are already some hours ahead of us. If we wish to reach them before nightfall, we have to leave in great haste. Of Merry and Pippin we found only these." Legolas knelt down next to Boromir, and held up two knives, leaf-bladed, damasked in gold and red, and their sheaths, black, set with small red gems. "The Orcs took the Hobbits but feared to keep their knives, knowing them for what they are: work of Westernesse, wound about with spells for the bane of Mordor." He paused, absentmindedly caressing the elven-sheaths, parting-gifts of the Lady Galadriel to the missing Hobbits. "I will keep them," he sighed, "and hope against hope for a chance to return them."

"So the Hobbits are accounted for," Boromir said at length. "That leaves only Aragorn's fate still unknown."

"Where he fought last, we found only this shred of his cloak," Legolas said, revealing a small blood-stained piece of otherwise grey cloth. "But we found nothing else, neither his body nor any of his weapons, save his quiver and bow that he had left behind in our camp."

"So they took him as well," Boromir sighed, "but at least he lives."

"How can you be so sure of that? This would not be the first horde of Orcs to feast upon the remains of their defeated foes." Gimli replied with a shrug.

Boromir felt sick.

"But that does not explain why the Orcs discarded the Hobbits' weapons but took Aragorn's sword. Andúril is an ancient weapon of far greater lineage than the Hobbits' knives, and of far greater power at that. If the Orcs feared the Hobbit's knives, then why did they keep Andúril? Nay, my friend," Legolas turned towards the Dwarf, "Aragorn was still alive when he was taken, but he is in great peril."

Boromir was not quite sure whether Legolas' words were meant to give hope or despair, but as Elf and Dwarf remained silent, he spoke at last, "Well do we fear for him, and for the Hobbits: in the hands of Orcs, bound for Mordor! I dare not imagine what fate awaits them."

"A fate none of us would willingly share," Legolas replied. "But it seems that they are not bound for Mordor, at least not by the most direct route. For their trail leads west, not east."

"To the west you say?"Boromir wondered, casting a questioning look at the Elf. "What kind of Orcs did we face, Orcs that turn away from their Master though they are already that close to his realm?"

"That depends on their Master," Gimli said. "We found the remains of Orcs from at least three different tribes! There were small Mountain Orcs from the North, maybe even from Moria, and Orcs that bore the sign of the Red Eye. But most of them were of a different breed. They were unlike any Orc I have ever seen: huge, black, upon their shields they wore a mark shaped like a white hand, and a white S-rune marked their helms."

"We believe that these strange Orcs were bred and led by Saruman," Legolas added before Boromir could interrupt them with further questions. "And given their numbers they were obviously in command of the entire horde. So the Orcs are indeed heading towards their Master, but he resides in Orthanc, not in Barad-dûr. We ... discussed ... that matter to quite some extent." His sideward glance in Gimli's direction told Boromir enough about the nature of that discussion to be glad that he had been spared to attend their exchange. "The S-rune stands for Saruman, and his Orcs were in command. They are heading back to Isengard. That is the most reasonable answer to this riddle."

Boromir acknowledged the news with a curt, yet absent-minded nod, and waited for either Elf or Dwarf to provide him with some hints as to their intended action. Since the two of them had discussed the origin of the Orcs so 'thoroughly', Boromir was convinced that they had already made up their minds on which route to take. He himself was by now quite certain how to proceed, but he withheld any comment so as not to further tax his already fragile relationship to his remaining companions.

Yet Elf and Dwarf remained silent, and since Boromir was not one known for his excessive patience, especially not when the situation afforded a quick decision according to his opinion, he at last stated the obvious question. "And what is to be done now?" He was rather astonished as, instead of an answer, Legolas let his head drop with a sigh and Gimli's shoulders sagged as if he were burdened by a great weight.

When the Elf finally looked up again, his eyes were clouded with grief. Softly shaking his head as if to ward off an evil dream, he whispered, "I know not. My heart bids me follow the Orcs, yet we were sent forth to aid and protect Frodo."

"And we still have a fair chance of reaching Frodo and Sam if we leave now. As for pursuing the Orcs on foot, I know not ..." Gimli added.

"If we would follow Frodo and Sam, we would abandon Merry, Pippin and Aragorn to torment and death," Boromir said. "And I dare not follow the Ring," he added with a softer voice, "even if that would be the more appropriate choice. I fear to fall prey to its lure again." He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, ignoring the discomfort the careless movement caused. "Nay my friends," he whispered, "my path lies clear before me at last, and it leads to the west. I will follow the Orcs' trail as fast as I may, and hope that I will reach our friends before it is too late."

"Even if you would reach them in time, you are in no condition to free them, much less defeat the Orcs!" Legolas said. "Your wounds may not be fatal but you shed much blood nonetheless, and need rest to recover." The Elf paused briefly, then said, "Yet I appreciate your choice to not follow the Ring."

A pregnant silence followed that last remark and Boromir could only wait while Legolas seemed lost in thought, a far-away look in his eyes. Gimli regarded his friend closely, his usual impatience held firmly in check. At length Legolas seemed to have come to a decision, for a gleam returned to his eyes. Fixing first Boromir and then Gimli with his keen elven glance he said, "I, too, would rather pursue the Orcs than the Ring. No oath binds us to Frodo's fate, thanks to Lord Elrond's foresight. None of us could foresee what he would meet upon the road, indeed. So I choose to follow my heart."

"Where you go I will go as well, for a haughty Elf like you still needs a Dwarf to watch his back!" Gimli said, folding his arms across his chest. Boromir closed his eyes, fearing that this was the beginning of just another pointless argument between the two, but Legolas ignored the Dwarf's teasing remark, much to Boromir's relief.

"Then let us tarry no longer, for the light of day lasts but a few more hours," Legolas said, helping Boromir to climb to his feet. He steadied the Man as he started to sway slightly, but in response to the Elf's questioning glance, Boromir confirmed that he would be fine. He then sheathed his sword that Gimli had picked up and offered him somewhat hesitantly, but he could barely suppress a wince as the movement pulled at his wounds.

"This way then," Legolas called, and with a last glance at the carnage they left behind, the three unequal companions disappeared in the darkening forest, following the Orcs' trail.

Emyn Muil, February 26th (evening)

An almost inaudible whisper brushed like a gust of wind against his ear, hardly discernible among the yells and laughter of Orcs. The whispered request was repeated, a little louder than before, more urgent, and filled with a hint of anxiety. "Merry! Talk to me, please!"

Merry struggled to open his eyes but failed. Blackness clouded his senses once more and relieved him of the nagging pain in his head.

Pippin groaned in disappointment as he noticed that Merry's eyelids had stopped fluttering, and the other Hobbit again lay perfectly still. He called again, not heeding whether the Orcs would hear him or not, driven by the desperate wish to see his cousin awake.

"Shut up, little maggot!" one of their captors yelled, an ugly short and crook-legged creature with long arms that almost touched the ground. One of those long arms seized Pippin by the hair and dragged him to his feet. "The lads here are only waiting to tickle you with their whips and blades if you give 'em a reason!" he sneered, while Pippin desperately tried to shuffle away from his grasp. But the Hobbit's tied hands and legs prevented the success of such a movement.

"Take your dirty hands off the Halfling! They are to be brought back alive and as captured, no spoiling; that were our orders!" another Orc shouted. He was much bigger than Pippin's captor, and his skin was almost black. But his captor's reply to the reprimand was lost to Pippin, for the sudden release of the Orc's grasp had left him tumbling to the ground.

It took some time ere Pippin recovered his senses and again dared to open his eyes. His surroundings had not changed much since he had at first woken from a troubled dream only to discover that facing reality brought no relief. There were still Orcs sitting and standing all about him, laughing and yelling in their foul tongue. And Merry lay motionless on the ground next to him, a blood-stained rag bound across his forehead that proved a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin. His cousin showed no sign of waking.

Pippin lay still. The sun had already disappeared behind the slopes that rose to the west, and a cold breeze descended from the ridged hills. The cords that were tied about his wrists and ankles chafed his skin, and the growing numbness in his hands and feet was only increased by the chilly wind. To distract his thoughts from his own discomfort he strained his ears and listened to the Orcs. At first all he could discern were angry snarls and growls, among them the voice of his former guard, but once he got accustomed to the sound, he discovered that most of them were talking in the Common Speech.

"What good are those Halflings anyway? 'Takes but the flick of a whip to cut them in half!" their crook-legged guard snarled, accompanied by acknowledging cries. "Not even good for sport! But no, Uglúk, the great, commands! And we have to drag those little rats over the Horse-breeder's plains," he continued to rumble, "I wonder why we were bothered to catch them in the first place?"

"I heard that one of them has something of great power, something that's wanted for the War," another Orc said.

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's relieve them of their powerful weapon, and get rid of that nuisance on legs!" the first one demanded but was interrupted by what Pippin had by now learnt to be Uglúk's roaring voice.

"Our orders are clear!" Uglúk bellowed, "kill all but NOT the Halflings; they are to be brought back ALIVE as quickly as possible. The prisoners are not to be searched or plundered!"

The shouts and cries only grew louder in response to Uglúk's interference, and Pippin could not pick out any further snippets of the Orcs' quarrel among the ruckus. But the sudden clang of metal as swords were drawn left no doubt about the twist the argument was taking.

Pippin desperately wished he were able to cover his ears as the noise of the quarrel increased, as sword met sword, armoury and unprotected skin, and lifeless bodies hit the ground. He had seen enough bloodshed and slaughter to last him a lifetime, and his vivid imagination now added the missing pictures to the sound. With growing horror he realised that the cries grew louder and that fleeing Orcs were coming his way. He turned his head just in time to see his crook-legged guard come tumbling in his direction, a viciously curved dagger protruding from his back. Moments later the air was knocked from his lungs as the dead Orc landed right on top of him.

Pippin gasped and tried to wriggle free from the dead weight that threatened to crush him. He had almost succeeded in spite of his bound hands, when something sharp bit into the soft flesh of his hand. He barely managed to suppress a cry at the sudden sting, but on discovering the source of his latest discomfort a tiny spark of hope flickered in his heart. A small knife, carelessly shoved into the Orc's belt, had nicked the skin of his palm. With trembling hands he pulled the knife free, just in time, for one of the large menacing Uruk-hai approached, grabbed the troublemaker by his neck and heedlessly tossed his corpse away.

Pippin was just about to release the breath he had not known to be holding, when -- to his utmost dismay -- the Uruk-hai bent down and grabbed his chin with his huge claw-like hand. "You still alive?" the creature asked, and, satisfied by Pippin's hint of a nod, released the Hobbit.

Pippin did not dare move until the Orc was several yards away, all the while clutching the small knife in his bleeding hand. He then took another deep breath to calm his frayed nerves and carefully hid the knife in the sleeve of his coat.

Just as the quarrelling Orcs finally stopped muttering, shouts near the edge of the makeshift camp caught Pippin's attention. He craned his neck to get a better view of the source of the commotion and saw the Orcs crowd about another group of their kin that had just arrived.

When they approached the place where Pippin lay, the sight of a limp bundle, heedlessly flung over the shoulder of one rather large Orc, made him hold his breath. The figure was too large for either Hobbit or Dwarf, and when the Orc dropped it carelessly to the ground, Pippin caught a glimpse of a pale face framed by dark hair. Strider!

Pippin closed his eyes in dismay and tried to imagine what forces could defeat the Ranger who had not even faltered when confronted with the Nazgûl in full wrath. But his thoughts were interrupted by more yells and shouts as Uglúk came stomping along, suspiciously eyeing Aragorn's prostrate form. "Why did you bring one of the Whiteskins along?" he growled, kicking the unmoving body to emphasise his words. "Curse you, Borsúk! Even you can't be that dumb to mistake this one for a Halfling! Our orders were clear: kill ALL but not the Halflings."

"This might not be a Halfling, but neither is he an ordinary Man!" the leader of the newly arrived Orcs snapped back, "this was the leader of their group!"

"This one, their leader?" Uglúk yelled, rolling the unresponsive man onto his back with his foot. "He looks more like a beggar to me! The other one, the one who tried to defend the Halflings, he was of much higher rank than this!"

"You didn't watch them!" Borsúk replied.

"No, we did not!" Uglúk said, "WE followed our orders, while some cowards hid behind the trees!"

"We only followed your command! But I wouldn't be surprised if you'd already forgotten your own orders!" Borsúk shot back, straightening his back so that his head came -- almost -- level with his commander's. "We watched them, according to YOUR orders. And we made good use of what we learnt. This one was their leader despite his shaggy clothes! He may be clad like a vagabond but his face speaks of high blood. Even the noble one followed his lead. And you have not seen the sword he carried."

With these words Borsúk unslung Andúril in its elven-sheath from his back and handed it over to his commander. Uglúk dropped the blade as if burned and shot the other a killing glare. "How dare you make me touch that elvish devilry? This is worse to the touch than the Halflings' little pricks, and we left those behind for good reason!"

"No ordinary man bears such a weapon," Borsúk continued, ignoring Uglúk's wrath. "And he knows how to use it well: he chopped Lurz to pieces as if he was nothing. I heard rumour that the Great Eye believes that there is still an offspring of the tarks' kings lurking in Middle-earth. And if that tale is true, he," there followed another kick in Aragorn's ribs, which elicited a soft grunt from the Ranger, "is the one, mark my words!"

"Yea, the Great Eye did not forget the bastard that lopped off his finger, and hunts those of the same cursed blood," one of the smaller, crook-legged Orcs threw in. "Great will be the praise in Lugbúrz for those who hand him over!"

"Rumour also has it that one of the tark-kings' blood even stood against the Nazgûl. Twice, and not long ago," Borsúk said. "That same rumour has it that the one was clad in a similar fashion ..."

"Rumour! Nothing but rumour!" Uglúk snarled. "You would have us run into the Horse-breeders on a whim and some Isengard gossip?"

"It was the White Hand himself who told that tale," Borsúk replied. "If you'd listened more and shouted less, you'd know as well."

"If your heads hurt from all that thinking, just tell me, and I'll relieve you of them!" Uglúk shot back.

"Let's take him to Isengard together with the Halflings. The White Hand will judge him." Borsúk suggested, again ignoring Uglúk's threat.

But Uglúk was determined to have the final say in this matter. "I won't take the risk of running into the Horse-boys just because you stupid maggots want to haul a tark through the mountains! You rabble delayed us enough already with your tale of a lost king. Kill him now and kill him fast, or I will make an end to his miserable life myself! And to yours to keep him company."

"The White Hand will not be pleased if he learns what treasure you gave away," Borsúk hissed in response, and his voice became more menacing with the sudden drop in volume, "neither will the Great Eye. They might suggest that Uglúk needs to be relieved of his head, since it proved to be of little use when it comes to thinking."

"He slowed us already, and he will delay us even further. He is much heavier than a Halfling to lug around," Uglúk said, but somehow Borsúk's threat seemed to have touched a raw nerve. "Wake him up and make him walk! As long as he can keep our pace, he may live. I am Uglúk. I have spoken!"

Ice-cold water splashed into his face, snatching away what meagre comfort the waning remains of sleep mingled with evil dreams had offered. Aragorn found himself dunked into a stream almost down to his waist, a heavy weight firmly holding him down. For a panic-stricken moment he feared to drown and tried to squirm free from whatever held him beneath the water. In this he failed, but in response to his movements a hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and jerked him out of the icy stream. Drawing a gasping breath, he tried to recall when he had passed out, for he could still remember snatches of the Orcs' conversation about his fate yet knew that he would have avoided the unexpected bath had he but been awake.

But before he managed to get his bearings, his captor dropped him, not caring where or how he fell. Unable to break his fall with his hands securely bound behind his back, he hit the stony ground hard and almost lost his still weak link to the waking world again. After lying still for a while, waiting for the worst of pain and dizziness to abate, he dared to open his eyes. He carefully turned his head to get a better view of his surroundings, and the swirling images of huge, dark shapes looming above him in the growing darkness of the approaching night turned into Orcs as he slowly regained his senses.

"I see, our precious guest is awake at last," a huge Orc kneeling next to him hissed, blowing his foul breath right into Aragorn's face. Aragorn closed his eyes, choking down the rising nausea, but a claw-like hand jerked his head back by his hair and forced him to face his captor again. "You slept long enough, Whiteskin!" the Orc growled, grabbed the Ranger's arms heedless of his injuries, and lugged his captive onto his knees.

Aragorn's vision blurred at the sudden movement, and a sharp pain shot through his arms and shoulders. The Orc laughed at his obvious distress, and said, "I hope you are fit for our little walk? Now is the time to use your own legs!"

Aragorn stifled a moan at the prospect of being forced to walk on his own. Though dangling over the shoulder of an Orc for the last few hours had allowed him to regain some of his strength, it had not alleviated the pain. For now all he longed for was to lie down, since his current condition promised that anything else would be rather unpleasant at best. His cloak and shirt were dripping wet, providing little protection against the chilly wind, but the cold at least helped him to stay awake. His right shoulder hurt abominably, but this was not the only source of discomfort. His wrists were rubbed raw from the rough cord the Orcs had used to tie him up, his hands were almost numb, his muscles cramped, and he felt every bruise and bump he had sustained in the previous fight all the more.

When he had awoken for the first time after the fight and the Orcs had forced him to walk at the tip of a sword, some deliberate stumbles had made them believe him weaker than he actually was. But there had been no chance for escape. Hoping that the Orcs would meet with those that had taken the Hobbits captive, Aragorn had taken his chance. Feigning a swoon had not required much pretence, though remaining impassive at the Orcs' none too gentle attempts to prod him into rising again had been another matter entirely. Yet he had succeeded and an Orc had heaved him upon his shoulder. But this ruse would not work for a second time and Uglúk's earlier threat still rang in his ears.

That's quite a mess you got yourself into this time, he berated himself, but his self-reproach was interrupted as a second Orc knelt behind him and wrapped his arms tightly around Aragorn's chest, pinning the Ranger firmly against his own body.

Aragorn could not withhold a moan as the first Orc ripped down his jerkin and shirt, and the tearing fabric got caught in the deep shoulder-wound. Trying to take his mind off the pain, he let his gaze wander over the horde of Orcs that stood and sat all about. Not without satisfaction he noticed a dead Orc lying nearby and a few more at a short distance away. But his heart sank as he estimated the number of those that remained: at least hundred and fifty he counted, but there were probably more hidden by the lengthening shadows.

Dirty fingers that clawed and prodded at his wound, brought his attention back to his tormentors. "Aah, good old Glanúk knew how to deal a blow. A pity you hacked him up!" the Orc holding him jeered, while the other produced a small wooden box from a pack. The stench of its contents became almost unbearable as the Orc opened the small container. Deliberately dipping his finger in the dark stuff, the Orc graced Aragorn with his most unpleasant grin, then he slowly rubbed the stinking paste into the raw wound with much more pressure than was necessary. Aragorn had tried to steel himself against the pain, for he did not expect the Orc's treatment to be anything akin to gentle, but the sharp, burning sensation caused by the vile medicine proved to be more than he could bear. An agonising cry escaped his throat and was quickly drowned by the jeers and laughter of Orcs.

Pippin had listened to the Orcs' earlier conversation with growing dismay. Though most of the talk had made but little sense to him -- especially the part of kings and tarks -- the prospect of being forced to witness the slaughter of their valiant guide and friend tightened his throat. So he almost felt relief when Uglúk announced his final command and even hope when Strider finally stirred and was dropped where he and Merry lay. But the feeling of joy was a fleeting one, chased away by Aragorn's piercing cry that rang over the camp. Tears welled up in Pippin's eyes as he saw the Ranger collapse into a trembling heap once Borsúk, who had held him, had released his grasp after the Orcs had finished treating and binding his wound. Since Aragorn had endured the rough-and-ready treatment with an astonishing composure after his initial display of pain, Pippin was shocked even more at his sudden break-down.

"Hullo, Strider," he whispered, closely eyeing the Man who now lay curled up on his side. As the other lifted his head, albeit painfully slowly, he added, "It's good to see you awake."

Blinking open grey eyes dulled with pain, Aragorn whispered in reply, "And it is good to see you as well, Master Took." He swallowed to clear his throat as his voice cracked, then continued, "though the circumstances are somewhat lacking."

"What happened? Where are they taking us? Where are the others? What about Boromir? The last thing I remember is seeing him fall with arrows sticking out of his chest," Pippin went on, hoping to get an answer to at least some of the questions that had been swirling around in his head since he had awoken.

"Easy, Master Took. You ask many questions for a weary man to answer," Aragorn replied, an almost imperceptible smile curling his lips. "Boromir was alive when I last saw him. His wounds were grave, but he will live." The ranger paused briefly, resting his head on the ground. "I doubt that Legolas and Gimli have come to harm, at least if they managed to stay together. What became of Frodo and Sam I know not, but I advise you not to speak of them while there are Orcs around." Aragorn paused again as if the mere act of answering Pippin's questions had left him drained. "What about Merry?" he asked at length.

"Merry is here," Pippin replied, "but he has not stirred since I woke up. I fear he was knocked on the head." He let his voice trail off, casting a worried look in Merry's direction. The Hobbit and the Man both lay silent for a while, each lost in his own thoughts, each fighting his own fears and pain.

"But what about you?" Pippin reluctantly asked after a while, anxious at Aragorn's prolonged silence.

"I have had worse before," Aragorn replied at length without even opening his eyes, "I will be all right."

"Are you sure? You look terrible, you know." Pippin did not quite believe the Ranger's assurance, not after having studied the injured Man for quite some time now.

Aragorn knew that Pippin's concern was not unwarranted. He had had ample opportunity to study his body's reaction to various kinds of injuries to know that his wound was not to be taken lightly. Though he knew not with ultimate certainty what damage the Orc's sword had done to the tendons and nerves in his shoulder -- the lack of sensation in his hands and arms could as well stem from the tight bounds -- he knew that the sword had severed muscles and crushed the clavicle and that the loss of blood he had sustained would make travelling with the huge Uruk-hai arduous at best. But watching Pippin's worried face, his eyes almost pleading for him to confirm that everything would be fine, he finally answered, "I did not say I would be fine soon," and tried to give Pippin the most reassuring smile he could muster.

"They said they would kill you if you failed to keep their pace!" Pippin warned the Ranger.

"I know. I did not expect them to carry me all the way," Aragorn replied. "It will not be an easy journey, but I have still some strength left, though I may look otherwise."

Aragorn was well aware of Pippin's scrutinising regard. The Hobbit was more than worried, and not without cause. But he would not have Pippin distracted, for the Hobbit would need his wits and his strength. So Aragorn cast the Hobbit the most reassuring smile he could muster and hoped that it would be sufficient to appease Pippin's worries. His act seemed to work, for Pippin, seemingly convinced that Aragorn probably had much more experience with situations like this, let his curiosity get the better of him. "I listened to the Orcs talk when they brought you here," he said at last, "what they said did not make any sense at all. They talked about a king and tarks, maybe you can explain ..."

Aragorn inwardly cursed for having failed to maintain a calm facade, but a feeling of dread and ill foreboding had clenched his stomach at Pippin's last remark. Somehow that part of the Orcs' earlier conversation had failed to penetrate Aragorn's bleary mind, but ere he could answer the Hobbit's question, the sound of approaching Orcs interrupted their whispered conversation.

"So our brave tark seems to have regained enough breath for a little chat!" one of them teased, "then he surely has recuperated enough to walk on his own." The Orc that had spoken jerked Aragorn's head back by his hair while uncorking a flask with his teeth. He shoved the small bottle into the Ranger's mouth, leaving him no choice but to swallow whatever it contained. Aragorn choked and coughed as soon as the flask was removed, but the burning liquid was already on its way down his throat. He felt a hot fierce glow flow through him, warding off some of the chill and pain.

His fit of coughing had hardly abated when Uglúk appeared on the scene, planting himself in front of him. "Move it!" he bellowed, and ordered his subordinates to drag Aragorn to his feet with a wave of his hand. Being hauled to his feet by two Uruk-hai was not the most pleasant experience, but thanks to the burning concoction he had been given, Aragorn was able to stand, albeit a bit shaky. "You will run!" Uglúk declared, "if you cannot keep the pace, then ..." he finished the sentence with an explicit gesture, leaving no doubt about the consequences should Aragorn fail to obey.

All around him the Orcs rose to their feet, two of them seizing the Hobbits like sacks. Aragorn watched an Orc putting his head between Pippin's bound hands and drag his arms down until the Hobbit's face was crushed against his neck. But when the Orc bearing the Hobbit broke into a run, the crack of a whip and the sharp pain that followed brought Aragorn's attention back to his own guards, and he started to move.

To be continued ...

tark: 'man of Gondor' in the Westron jargon used by Orcs, derived from the Quenya word tarkil, used in Westron for one of Númenorean descent (see RotK, Appendix F, p. 513).

A/N: For those who want to know which parts are mine and which are Tolkien's, here are the parts I 'borrowed' (page numbers refer to the Harper Collins Paperback Edition of LotR from 1999):

"... two knives, leaf-bladed, damasked in gold and red", "the sheaths, black, set with small red gems.", "`... but feared to keep the knives, knowing them for what they are: work of Westernesse, wound about with spells for the bane of Mordor.`", "`I will take these things, hoping against hope, to give them back`" TTT, The Departure of Boromir, p. 8.

"`Alive and as captured; no spoiling. That's my orders!`", "`I heard that one of them has got something, something that's wanted for the War,...`", "`Kill all but NOT the Halflings; they are to be brought back ALIVE as quickly as possible.`", "`The prisoners are NOT to be searched or plundered:...`", TTT, The Uruk-hai, p. 48.

"He felt a hot fierce glow flow through him.", TTT, The Uruk-hai, p. 52.

"An Orc seized Pippin like a sack, put its head between his tied hands, grabbed his arms and dragged them down, until Pippin's face was crushed against its neck; ...", TTT, The Uruk-hai, p. 51.

fliewatuet
Last modified: Tue Jul 20 18:21:33 CEST 2004

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Minas Tirith, February 26, 3019 (night)

An old man trudged up the worn-down steps of the Tower of Ecthelion. His form was bent with grief, but his steps did not falter, and he did not stop until he reached the door of the Tower's topmost chamber. There he paused briefly ere he fumbled for the key that was safely hidden beneath the folds of his richly embroidered robe. With trembling hands, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, unlocked the door to his secret room under the summit of the Tower.

Some of the tension left his body once the door was safely closed behind him. Leaning back against the heavy wooden door, Denethor closed his eyes, glad that this day's work was finally done. Seldom had the Steward's daily tasks appeared as burdensome as they had since the faint cry of a horn blowing had echoed through the citadel. An ill foreboding had settled in his stomach when the sound had broken off all of a sudden, intensified only by Faramir's report that he had heard his brother's horn as well and shared his father's premonition about Boromir's welfare. But due to the Steward's rather tight schedule in these dark times, Denethor had spent the rest of the day trying to focus on the tasks at hand while floating between hope and despair, unable to substantiate either feeling with more profound knowledge about his beloved son's fate until late in the evening. Tired though he was, the queasy feeling that had been his constant companion throughout every meeting and appointment since late in the morning had finally driven him up Ecthelion's Tower where there waited the one thing that promised clarity: the palantír that he kept hidden in the secret chamber, one of the seven Seeing Stones.

Once he had re-gathered some of his breath and composure, he reopened his eyes and let his gaze rest on the pillar of polished black marble that occupied the center of the small, sparsely furnished room. The top of the pillar was covered with a piece of black velvety cloth, concealing a ball of about one foot in diameter. With a sigh, Denethor broke away from the sight of the hidden palantír and turned to a low table to his left instead. Pouring himself a goblet of wine, he mentally prepared himself to bend his thoughts to his realm's northern border whence the faint call of the Horn of Gondor had come. He savoured the rich taste of the wine for another moment ere he resolutely set the goblet aside and stepped into the center of the room.

Removing the cover revealed the palantír, candlelight reflecting on the smooth surface of the dark globe. Dropping the black cloth carelessly to the ground, Denethor stepped closer, willing the palantír to reveal this morning's events near Gondor's northern border.

Fire was the first thing Denethor saw as his mind was rapidly drawn into the stone, engulfing him in the images revealed. Ash rained down onto a barren landscape that was suddenly replaced by a fiery eye. This particular image was not new to Denethor, and he adjusted his focus away from the flame, further to the west. Dimly he beheld the huge statues of Isildur and Anárion in the distance, the silent sentinels that guarded his realm.

Moving his focus away from the Great River towards its western bank, he suddenly saw dark shapes, huge Orcs, a battle, and his son, Boromir, in its middle. A cold fist clenched his heart and took his breath, spreading chill throughout his entire body until he felt unable to move, as he saw an orcish arrow force his eldest to his knees.

"No! Not Boromir!" he cried, but as he focused his eyes and will once more to the battle, the pale unmoving form of Boromir, black arrows protruding from his body, was all the palantír revealed to him.

Denethor felt his knees grow weak, but just as grief threatened to overwhelm him, the image of a tall dark-haired man running among the hideous creatures that had murdered his son attracted his attention. He watched the lone figure that almost disappeared among the huge Orcs with growing surprise until the man turned his head to the side and Denethor could see his face; an image that burned itself forever into his memory.

Denethor staggered backwards and almost fell as he withdrew. Yet the image of that man among the Orcs kept swirling before his inner eye. The face that the palantír had shown to him appeared strangely familiar. And just as he stooped to retrieve the palantír's cover from where it lay on the ground, he remembered to whom this face belonged: Thorongil.

To be continued ...

A/N: I hope I got that palantír-thing right. In spite of reading the appropriate section in the Unfinished Tales I am still not quite sure about how these things work.

fliewatüt
Last modified: Tue Jul 20 18:21:45 CEST 2004

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. Muse: I feel I need a holiday, a very long holiday ...
fliewatuet: Noooo!!! But, obviously, my muse has at least granted me the honour of a brief visit ...

Emyn Muil, February 26, 3019 (night)

Gimli's mood was bad. Extremely bad. It was nearly as bad as it had been when he had learnt that an Elf would be a member of the Company of the Ring, and not just any Elf but none other than the son of that dreaded Elf-king of Mirkwood. But though his mood was that bad already, it still could get worse. Which it did: every time the Man trudging along the Orc-trail in front of him stumbled in the darkness. And Boromir stumbled more and more often as both his weariness and the difficulty of the terrain increased. And as if Gimli's foul mood was not bad enough already, every time Boromir stumbled what little hope he had that they would reach their friends in time dwindled even further.

We should have left him to rot amongst the dead Orcs at Parth Galen, a nagging voice inside his head exclaimed.

He was a part of the Company of the Ring, another voice reasoned. Gimli was tempted to pay more attention to the argument inside his head than to his surroundings; a fact that had already lead to several near-collisions with the tired Man in front of him. One part of him, fuelled by his bad temper, was more than ready to test his axe against the Man's neck, while the other part kept defending him. Gimli knew not how long the debate between what he had begun to call 'Gimli, the Enraged' and 'Gimli, the Reasonable' was going on, but it at least kept him occupied, and as long as Gimli, the Enraged was not getting the better of Gimli, the Reasonable, Boromir was safe from the Dwarf's axe.

There, he did it again! the enraged voice fairly shouted inside his head as Boromir lost his footing once more. A slight, clinking sound followed Boromir's attempt to regain his balance as his broken horn clanked against the hilt of his sword. I'd really like to know why he burdens himself with a broken horn! As if staying on his own two feet were not taxing enough, Gimli, the Enraged continued to rant, unwilling to forgive any weakness the Man showed.

At least he left that heavy shield behind, retorted Gimli, the Reasonable.

He would be dragging his shield along as well if the Elf had not shown the patience to convince him to leave it behind, Gimli, the Enraged shot back, while Gimli, the Dwarf silently thanked said Elf for his composure as well as for his ability to persuade Boromir in the end. As his father's son Legolas has had ample opportunity to elaborate his persuasiveness as well as his diplomatic skills for sure, Gimli thought, and he made good use of those skills today. Though without his elven stubbornness, I know not if he would have prevailed in the end!

Only hours earlier Gimli would have cursed everything living and dead at the very thought that there would be a time when he would cherish Legolas' pigheadedness; especially during the arguments they had had while searching for signs of their absent friends. Gimli sighed and shook his head at the memory. Whether it was grief, uncertainty, or the influence of some unseen power that had led to the two of them yelling at each other, he could not recall, but their 'discussion', as Legolas had politely named it, had been none befitting two friends.

They had made good progress at first and spotted the Hobbits' knives without much effort among the weapons of their foes that lay all about. But further scouring the vicinity of the place where they had found Boromir already led to their first debate. Puzzled by the westward direction of the Orcs' trail and by the vast difference of the slain bodies, both in shape and armoury, their exchange of ideas that might add up to some reasonable explanation escalated into a fully grown dispute within mere seconds. Why they had wasted time and breath over the precise origin of those Mountain Orcs, Gimli could and would not remember, but they had in fact spent several minutes shouting at each other whether those Orcs hailed from Moria or from some other place further to the north. They could have easily spent the whole day in that fashion had Legolas not pointed out that they would wake Boromir if they were to continue yelling at each other at the top of their voices. That remark only resulted in another outburst from Gimli, but after Legolas admitted that if Boromir did not deserve to rest he at least needed the respite, Gimli let the matter rest.

While they managed to agree that the knowledge of the exact origin of the northern Orcs would not help to bring back their abducted companions, the discussion of the nature of those larger Orcs again was a heated one. Gimli was convinced that the S-rune they had found on the huge Orcs' armoury stood for Sauron, while Legolas pointed out that Sauron never used the Elf-runes. Which led to Gimli arguing that Legolas was just defending his elvish pride, and that he was loath to admit that their praised Elf-runes were used by the Dark Lord. Which in turn led to some rather pointed remarks by Legolas concerning the nature of Dwarves, to which Gimli was tempted to add some comments on lofty Elves. So they ended up delving in age-old resentments, seemingly oblivious to any of the more recent events.

Gimli no longer knew which remark had finally ended their quarrel, but when each of them apparently had run out of further insults, they kept staring daggers at each other for another length of time until both of them blinked, almost simultaneously, as if breaking free from a spell or an evil dream. They continued to stare at each other, but an expression of confusion had replaced that of anger upon their faces.

It was Legolas who finally broke the silence. "There is still something evil afoot, though I cannot name it. The Orcs are no longer near, but we should not have yelled at each other the way we did; as if nothing has changed since we left Imladris."

A silent nod was all that Gimli could offer in response, for Legolas' remark had left the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end. And all of a sudden, everything fell into place. "Saruman!" he whispered, and, looking up to Legolas, found his suspicion confirmed in the Elf's face.

Once that riddle was answered and due apologies were exchanged, they resumed their search. Legolas soon spotted a piece of Aragorn's cloak with his keen elven eyes, but the search for any traces of their Hobbit-companions proved to be much more difficult. Not only were their footprints hard to discern among the trampling of the Orcs, but even at their campsite, where the Company had spent their last night together and where there had been many Hobbit-prints unspoiled by the presence of Orcs, it was well nigh impossible to determine to whom they belonged and how old they were. When Legolas announced that though he could see the prints he could not read them, at least not in the way Aragorn could, Gimli again lost his temper and lashed out at Thranduil's son. "Did you just tell me that though you are an Elf with all those superior senses and being Aragorn's senior for I don't know how many centuries, that this mere mortal Ranger would beat you when it comes to tracking down some Hobbits?" he yelled at the Elf, but immediately regretted the harsh words when he noticed the pained expression in Legolas' eyes.

"Yes, Aragorn could beat me at tracking," the Elf whispered in reply, head bowed as if to hide his embarrassment from the Dwarf. He remained silent then, letting his words sink in, before adding with a small smile, "though I would never have told him. And you know quite well that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is anything but a 'mere mortal Ranger'!"

Gimli felt relieved that the Elf had taken no offence at his outburst, and though curious as to how a Man could beat an Elf, refrained from any further inquiry. But as if sensing the Dwarf's curiosity, Legolas provided an answer nonetheless. "I have fair skills in tracking and hunting the evil creatures that haunt my home for I know them well; far too well for my liking. There the forest aids us in its own ways. But though I can see the tracks and discern the whispers of the trees and beasts here as well, they remain strange to me, for I have not often travelled and hunted outside Mirkwood's borders," the Elf explained, and, given the look on his face, confessing his limited skills to a Dwarf was no easy task for him.

Gimli took more than just one deep breath to keep his tongue in check and swallow the teasing remarks that had taken form inside his head but placed a comforting hand on the Elf's shoulder instead. Shaking his head he wondered why he had been so upset at the Elf's failure, why he had expected the other to provide an answer to all their questions. With a hint of dismay he realised that he had looked upon the Elf for guidance, he, Gimli, son of Glóin, a Dwarf! "Well should I be able to solve this riddle on my own!"

"My thoughts exactly," Legolas replied ere Gimli noticed that he had spoken his thoughts out loud.

"That I should be the one to do the thinking? I knew you would come to value the wisdom of Dwarves once you shed your elven haughtiness," Gimli replied in jest and, from the clear laughter that followed, had succeeded in lightening Legolas' mood.

"I fear I have to give a sample of my elven skills then," Legolas laughed at Gimli's exaggeration, "lest you burst with pride." Sobering as quickly as only an Elf could, his entire bearing changing from mirth to alertness, Legolas scanned their surroundings anew.

With resolve renewed the Elf soon discovered the missing boat and pack and even spotted the traces the Hobbits had left on the eastern shore of Nen Hithoel with his keen eyes. But as the consequence of the Elf's latest discovery dawned on Gimli, his mirth vanished with almost elven speed. "So our riddle is solved at last," he sighed. "Frodo and Sam have chosen the dark road to Mordor, and we should tarry no longer but follow."

"Aye, we should follow," Legolas murmured, his voice suddenly somber, almost sad. Though Gimli felt weighed down by the prospect of facing the road to Mordor as well, he feared that there were further reasons that had led to Legolas' sudden change of mood. For the Elf had sunk to his knees, staring blankly at an indefinite spot upon the ground, deeply lost in memories.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Gimli asked for lack of some more witty remark.

"Nothing." Legolas' reply was no more than a whisper, almost too low to reach the ears of the Dwarf. "'Tis just ..." Legolas made an attempt to continue, then let his voice trail off as if words had left him. Deep concern rose in Gimli's heart at the usually so eloquent Elven prince's sudden loss for words, concern that quickly replaced the last traces of annoyance at the Elf's earlier behaviour.

"What ails you, my friend? 'Tis not your wont to struggle for words like that."

"I know, Master Dwarf," the Elf answered, then lifted his head, revealing eyes that were clouded with grief. "But the thought of the other Periannath, and Aragorn, in the hands of those Orcs ..." Again words failed him, but Gimli waited patiently for the Elf to continue. "Far too often have I been forced to lay to rest those who had fallen into the Orcs' clutches; or rather what the Orcs had left of them." The Elf let his head drop again, the painful nature of his memories evident in his entire posture. "Alas, I have seen many a warrior meet his doom in battle, and though more than one had suffered terribly ere they were forever relieved of their pain, they at least left Arda in freedom, defending what they loved and cared for. But those who had been taken by the Enemy ..."

Legolas had to fight for control over raging emotions brought to the surface by the mere thought of what their captured friends might face. But after having taken several steadying breaths, he continued to speak, "I will never forget when we hunted a pack of Orcs that had attacked one of Mirkwood's border patrols. They had taken two captives; one of them was very dear to me. We reached them in time; that is the Orcs had not yet killed their prey, but both of their victims did not last long after we dispatched the Orcs. My friend died in my arms ..." Legolas remained silent for another while, then again searched Gimli's gaze and held it, as if drawing the strength to continue from the Dwarf's vivid dark eyes. "I dare not imagine what he had to endure ere we arrived. I fear that the same ordeal awaits our friends if we abandon them to their fate."

Gimli let the Elf's words sink in. He, too, had witnessed far too often what pain and torture Orcs would inflict upon Dwarves they had taken captive ere they granted their victims the mercy of death. Had I seen but one broken body in all my life, still would I fear for our friends, he berated himself for having forgotten the imminent peril their companions faced, how could I not see! Facing Legolas once more, he squeezed the Elf's shoulder in a silent gesture of comfort.

To Gimli's utmost surprise, Legolas actually laughed in response, though his laughter still held a tinge of sadness. Shaking his fair head he exclaimed, "Oh Gimli, what would I do without you? You offer me comfort for a loss I sustained long before you were even born!" Gratefully, Legolas caught the slightly embarrassed Dwarf in a tight embrace. Then, in an attempt to help Gimli overcome his puzzlement, he explained, "The long memory of Elves can be both a blessing and a curse."

Gimli cast Legolas his best 'I-will-never-understand-an-Elf' look, ere he changed the subject back to the problems at hand. "What shall we do then?" he asked, "I do not doubt that Merry, Pippin and Aragorn are in great danger. But what perils and horrors will Frodo and Sam encounter on their road to Mordor? We cannot let them travel that dark path alone!"

"Yet Frodo and Sam are no captives of Orcs!"

"But Aragorn is with Merry and Pippin. If there is a way to escape from the Orcs, Aragorn will find it."

"If there is a way," Legolas sighed. "The Orcs managed to defeat Aragorn and take him captive. I fear that he is severely injured and in no condition to dare an escape."

"All of our friends face one peril or another," Gimli said out of fear that their current debate would run in circles. "Unless we split, we will have to make a choice. No matter how dire that choice may be."

"No, Gimli, the two of us must stay together. I would not be parted from you."

"And whither, pray tell, shall we go?" Gimli asked, though not sure whether pushing the Elf would yield an answer anytime soon.

"I know not," Legolas confessed, casting a pleading look in Gimli's direction, "I only know that I would not be parted from you." Then, after both of them remained silent for a length of time, he sighed, "I wish Aragorn were here. He would know which path to choose."

"Aye, he would know," Gimli said. "But even for him, the choice we face would not be an easy one."

"Since Aragorn is not here, those speculations are futile," Legolas sighed, slowly regaining his former composure, "and since the sun is already sinking, we should come to some sort of conclusion soon. Let us return to Boromir, mayhap he can provide us with some further knowledge that may aid us in our decision."

"I would rather base my choice on my own knowledge than rely on the words of a traitor!"

But Legolas had anticipated a like response from the Dwarf. "I fully agree with you on that," he replied. "But since we have come to no conclusion so far, our knowledge seems to be somewhat insufficient. And though I was as shocked as you that Boromir actually tried to take the Ring, still I do not hold him a traitor. The Ring holds a power of its own and tries to instill the desire to wield it in those who are near. Did you never find yourself pondering on what deeds you might accomplish could you take possession of the Ring?"

Gimli was startled by Legolas' revelation. He had caught himself dreaming about restoring the glory of Moria with the help of the Ring just recently but had never deemed it possible that Legolas could have been likewise afflicted by the Ring's powers. "So you were drawn to the Ring as well?" he asked, still quite astonished.

Legolas merely nodded by way of an answer.

"But you never actually considered taking it from Frodo by force?" Gimli continued his inquiry, and, as Legolas shook his head in reply, pushed on. "Of course you never thought about taking it, neither did I, because we knew better! But why did Boromir not listen to Gandalf's or Lord Elrond's advice?"

"Boromir is a proud man. He is not used to follow the counsel of others safe his Lord and father. And he had never met an Elf prior to his arrival in Rivendell, so why should he trust them?"

"But that was four months ago," the Dwarf objected, somewhat surprised by Legolas' sudden defence of Boromir's actions. "He has got to know the Elves in Rivendell, he has got to know you! And Gandalf was no stranger to him for he had been to Minas Tirith before."

"Gandalf may not have been a stranger to Boromir, but Boromir knew him not, safe by name. And by what I know, his father never trusted Gandalf, so why should Boromir rely on his words?" Legolas continued his defence. "I also should remind you that you yourself were not willing to trust an Elf only weeks ago."

"I may not have trusted an Elf, still I could resist the Ring's call."

"You are a Dwarf, not a Man. You are different, mayhap more resilient to its power."

But Gimli was still far from convinced. "Yet Aragorn is a Man as well."

"But Aragorn knew more about the Ring's powers and dangers than Boromir; more than any of the Fellowship except Gandalf. He feared the Ring. And above all he feared to repeat Isildur's fault."

"Boromir is weak!" Gimli declared, stubbornly folding his arms across his chest.

"Nay, Gimli, I would not call Boromir weak," Legolas replied with a slight inclination of his head, "he merely sensed an opportunity."

Gimli cast the Elf a puzzled glance, but remained quiet when Legolas continued his explanation. "Both of us, you and I, know far too much about life in close proximity to the Enemy, about that feeling of helplessness each time another part of our home is lost to the darkness, each time we learn that another valiant warrior has met his end at the hands of our foes. But the burden we are accustomed to bear is light in comparison to what Gondor faces. They live almost eye to eye with the Dark Lord himself. They witness the rising of the Shadow every day. They can see the fires of Mount Doom! I do not resent Boromir's attempt to gain hold of a weapon that might defeat the Enemy. Even Isildur could not withstand the Ring, and he was one of the great Kings of Men and certainly not weak!"

"I yield!" Gimli finally exclaimed with a tired sigh, raising his hands, palms outward, in a placating gesture. "At least Boromir should have a better knowledge of the parts of Middle-earth we are about to travel than you or I. Mayhap there is a settlement or a garrison nearby where he or we could summon help," he then suggested, albeit grudgingly.

Legolas merely nodded in reply and rose from his kneeling position without further words. In silent agreement they gathered what supplies they would need to follow either path, then hid what they would leave behind along with the boats. With one last glance at their former campsite, they turned and returned to Boromir.

Gimli shook his head at the memory of this afternoon's events. One part of him was somehow glad that Boromir had managed to aid them with their choice, while another part was still more than annoyed at Boromir for having taken the lead in that decision. And his silent fears for Frodo and Sam were far from being resolved. But another misstep from Boromir forced Gimli to focus on the here and now. The Dwarf growled low in frustration and wondered just how long he would be able to endure the Man's clumsiness.

To be continued ...

fliewatuet
Last modified: Tue Jul 20 18:21:57 CEST 2004

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. In best Hobbit-fashion, I present this long overdue update as a birthday present to all of you who have not yet given up waiting for further chapters.

Emyn Muil, February 26, 3019 (night)

Hour after hour they had pursued the Orcs through dusk and through nightfall, following Legolas' tireless lead. They had walked mostly in silence as none of them had felt the desire to speak, and the soft noise of gravel grating beneath booted feet, and the occasional creaking and clinking of leather or armoury would have been the only audible evidence of their passing, were it not for Gimli's muttering and grumbling.

Boromir was well aware that Gimli's growls and his waning strength were related, but refused to give in to his body's demands and call for a pause. After this afternoon's rest he had been able to keep up with his companions surprisingly well, at least as long as they had marched through the trees and up the gentle slopes that led out of the vale of the Anduin. But he knew that Legolas had kept a gentle pace so as not to tax his limited strength. For that Boromir was grateful, but as soon as they had started to climb up the stony hills, fatigue made itself felt, and every step became more difficult than the last. A defiant stubbornness, fuelled by Gimli's barely suppressed anger, was all that had kept him on his feet throughout these past hours.

Bereft of the wan light of the young moon that had left the night sky to glittering stars some time ago, Boromir could hardly discern the small and not so small obstacles that lay in his path. He cried out in surprise as a loose stone shifted beneath his foot, and ere he could adjust to the sudden loss of balance, he was already falling.

A strong hand caught his flailing arm while another braced his back, and though those hands could not prevent his inevitable fall, they at least helped to lessen the impact and lowered him gently to the ground.

"Master Elf!" he heard Gimli call, "our brave soldier has decided to take a nap!"

"I am not taking a nap!" Boromir hissed angrily, teeth clenched against the sudden assault of pain that flared through his body. "Just give me a moment ..."

"If we give you but a moment now, you will require more such moments ere the hour has passed," Legolas commented unmoved, startling both Boromir and Gimli by his sudden appearance, as usual, unannounced by any audible sound. "We will give you an hour, Boromir," the Elf continued, "but we will seek out a more sheltered place to rest."

Legolas' announcement was met with defiant looks from both Man and Dwarf. Neither of them was willing to suspend their hunt, if only for an hour. "But we cannot tarry," Gimli pleaded, "we will never reach those Orcs if we stop now!"

Boromir eyed Legolas closely, trying to gauge the Elf's mood, trying to determine whether he would be swayed in his decision. But Legolas merely stood, an image of calm, long hair and cloak gently flowing in the night's chill breeze, and let his gaze wander over the darkened slopes of Emyn Muil, ignoring the presence of Man and Dwarf as well as the latter's objections.

"Over there we will rest," he declared at last, pointing in the respective direction. But just as Boromir was about to voice his concerns as well, Legolas bent down and easily pulled him back to his feet, successfully silencing any attempt to complain.

With a sigh of relief Boromir carefully lowered himself to the ground once they had reached the relative shelter of a few large boulders that enclosed a more level stretch of the barren land. He closed his eyes as he eased his back against one of the unmoving rocks, relishing the diminishing pain as his strained muscles relaxed. Opening his eyes again, he found Legolas standing atop the largest boulder, giving their surrounding another scrutinising scan.

Satisfied with what he had learnt, the Elf left his vantage point and turned to Gimli who had followed in their wake. "I sense no immediate danger," he said to the Dwarf, "so we may risk lighting a fire, and I would bid you take care of that." After a pause, he added, "There is a stream not far away, just a bit further to the north. I would also ask you refill our water-skins while I see to Boromir's wounds."

With a nod, Gimli turned in search for water and suitable fuel, his earlier objections either forgotten or abandoned, while Legolas returned his attention to Boromir. Surprised that the Dwarf had refrained from further attempts to persuade the Elf to continue their hunt, Boromir said, "Gimli is right, we cannot tarry. I merely slipped on a loose stone, I do not need a longer rest, and you already looked after my wounds."

Boromir tried hard not to shrink from the intense elven stare that came to rest upon him instead of an answer, as if Legolas tried to judge his condition by piercing his flesh and bones with his eyes alone. Boromir had never been able to withstand that gaze for long, but just as he averted his eyes, something in the depth of that gaze struck him as odd, though he could not determine what had caused that sensation. So he again tried to meet the unsettling elven gaze to get a grasp on that fleeting feeling, but Legolas was already busy digging through the contents of his pack.

As if sensing Boromir's renewed attention, Legolas turned away from his task and said with a soft shake of his head, "Nay, Boromir, we will rest. And I will see to your wounds." He paused and sat back, his now abandoned pack slipping to the ground, then continued in a much softer voice, "I forgot that you are no Elf. I should have dressed and bound your wounds more properly ere we set off. I am sorry, but I am no healer, and little do I know how long a Man would need to recover from such an injury."

Boromir blinked, somewhat astonished, for this was not the response he had expected. But then he remembered that earlier sensation, and knew what had struck him as odd only a few heartbeats ago. Legolas' gaze had changed, indeed. Ever since he had admitted his failure this fateful morning, though Legolas had refrained from displaying open hostility like Gimli had done, his eyes had evinced cold indifference nonetheless. Now they held something akin to warmth and concern again.

Boromir swallowed hard, for the sudden gratitude he felt at that subtle change in Legolas' demeanour threatened to overwhelm him. As much as Gimli's barely concealed anger had grated on his nerves, he knew that he did not deserve any better, knew that he should be content that his companions had neither killed nor abandoned him, and a nagging little voice inside his head insisted that he had accomplished naught that would warrant Legolas' kindness.

Taking a deep breath to fight down the sudden turmoil of emotions, Boromir said, "You know that I would not have consented to that waste of time then, no more than I do approve of it now."

That said, Boromir leaned back against the boulder only to realise that he had not even noticed Gimli's return. Yet now, the soft glow and gentle warmth of a small fire drove away the darkness and the chill, and he could no longer deny the merit of Legolas' insistence to stop for an hour. He was tired, and sitting still brought an immense relief from his pain.

Boromir knew not how long he had stared into the flickering flames, how long he had allowed his gaze to follow their intricate dance. Shaking himself free from the fire's mesmerising attraction, he finally sighed, "I admit that I could use a few moments of rest," while he silently hoped that Legolas was right, and that the brief rest would grant them greater speed when they, or rather he, were ready to go on.

In the dim light that their little fire spread Legolas had retrieved a dark bundle from his pack. Boromir was surprised when he saw the tattered thing, wrapped in a battered piece of cloth, for everything he had so far seen from Legolas' possessions was kept neat and clean and in excellent condition. The contents of the bundle, however, belayed its tattered appearance. Unfolding it, Legolas revealed several neatly wound up bandages, some vials and jars, all of them labelled in a clear, decisive script, and a small case of black leather crafted by elvish hands. The latter contained a small knife, a pair of tweezers, needles, and an assortment of threads. Sitting back on his haunches, Legolas sifted through the vials, studying their labels as he went.

A frown wrinkled the Elf's brow as he picked up vial after vial, jar after jar. The frown deepened as he studied their labels again and again, and turned into a scowl when he set aside the jar he had held with a frustrated sigh. "Aragorn should have labelled his medicines with their use, not their contents," he growled. "Or can any of you tell me which ailments a salve made of 'wulfwyrt' would cure?"

Gimli chuckled at Legolas' frustration and Boromir was hard pressed not to laugh out loud.

"I would know, indeed, but solely by chance," Boromir said, barely containing his mirth, "I was introduced to its virtues by the Rohirrim when I suffered from the consequences of a rather painful encounter with the hind-hooves of that horse they lent me for my journey to Imladris." He paused, but could not suppress a wry smile at the memory of that stubborn dapple-grey beast and the rather troublesome start of their journey together, all those month ago in the stables of Edoras. "'Twas not love at first sight."

But the feeling of mirth was brief, dispelled all too quickly by the memory of their wet and painful parting in the cold waters of the Greyflood where his brave mount had stood no chance against the stream's powers, and Boromir himself had barely reached the safety of its northern bank.

With a sigh he shook himself free of those memories, and returned his attention to the Elf who seemed to have found something he had recognised and intended to use. For Legolas had set aside a jar from the rest of the bundle's contents, but not before thoroughly studying its label and taking a smell at the substance within. But the Elf was not yet satisfied and started his search anew.

"Maybe, with combined efforts, we could find what you are looking for?" Boromir offered when Legolas' wrinkled brow again spoke of growing frustration.

"I would be grateful," Legolas sighed. "For I fear that I shall need more than an hour to identify the use of these ..." he let his voice trail off, helplessly gesturing at Aragorn's collection of medicines that lay spread out before him. "Alas, to lose both Mithrandir and Aragorn during the course of this quest! I should have been prepared for that event."

"None of us could have foreseen that," Gimli said and laid a comforting hand on Legolas' shoulder, "none of us was or could have been prepared for what we met."

Legolas sighed and returned to the task at hand, accepting the comfort Gimli offered. With combined albeit superficial knowledge they then sorted through Aragorn's medical supplies until Legolas had finally picked out what items he thought he would need to tend to Boromir's wounds.

A short time later Boromir found himself lying flat on his back on a pile of outspread cloaks, chest bare and shivering in the chilly night air in spite of their small fire. He was relieved, for Legolas had assured him that his wounds showed no sign of infection, but the Elf had insisted on suturing them, claiming it would speed the healing. Boromir closely eyed the Elf who was preparing thread and needle. "Did you not claim to be no healer only some moments ago?" Boromir asked, trying in vain to mask his nervousness.

"Aye, I said that I am no healer and, indeed, I am not," Legolas answered without raising his eyes off his task. "Yet I am a warrior and have acquired some skills in treating injuries on the battlefield. But I could also leave this task to Gimli, if you wish, for as a renowned warrior on his own account he for sure possesses similar skills," the Elf added, not quite able to hide a mischievous glint that shone in his eyes.

Boromir growled. Having been forced to suffer Gimli's aid in shedding most of his garments as well as the Dwarf's none too gentle attempts to wash out his wounds and remove the dried blood from his shoulder, chest and side with ice-cold water, he was in no mood to put Gimli's skills with a needle to the test -- even should he turn out to be more experienced in its use than the Elf. Hoping to put an end to the ordeal that was to come rather sooner than later, Boromir announced, "I am prepared."

To be continued ...

fliewatuet
Last modified: Tue Jul 20 18:22:43 CEST 2004

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Emyn Muil, February 26, 3019 (night)

Boromir woke promptly as was a warrior's wont though Legolas had but lightly touched his shoulder. He felt embarrassed that he had fallen asleep at all, for he had intended to merely rest for a short while after Legolas had finished treating his wounds. But he had closed his eyes in relief when pain diminished and warmth returned once he had pulled on his clothes again and lay stretched out beneath a blanket by the fire. The oddly familiar scent of Gimli's pipe had wafted over their makeshift camp a little while later, and while he would have wrinkled his nose at that smell only weeks ago, it now raised fond memories of the first leg of their journey, before they had entered the darkness of Moria where Mithrandir fell, and before the lure of the Ring had grown too strong for him to truly find rest. Yet now memories of the Hobbits' laughter, of Aragorn relating stories of days long past became mingled in his exhausted mind, and the clear voice of Legolas singing softly to the stars above had eventually lured him to sleep.

But once awake his sense of duty prevailed over his desire to enjoy what small comfort his makeshift bed offered just a little while longer, and Boromir threw aside his blanket in the hope that the cool night air might help to shake off the last vestiges of sleep. He tried to sit up only to discover that his movements were severely hampered by the fact that he could no longer move his left arm. His memory of the cause for this latest predicament failed for the briefest of moments, but just as his momentary confusion threatened to turn into panic, a soft voice to his right chuckled, "See, the sling was not unwarranted! You would have delayed our departure by trying to rush it." And while Legolas gently slipped a hand beneath Boromir's clothing to test if bandages and stitches were still in place, Boromir remembered his lost argument with the Elf about the necessity to immobilise his arm so that his shoulder could heal.

Content that no harm had been done by Boromir's inconsiderate movements, Legolas helped him to sit, then handed him some lembas and a water skin. "Have some food and drink," he ordered, and patiently waited for Boromir to take the offered provisions.

Boromir, though he did not feel particularly hungry or thirsty at first, complied after a brief moment of hesitation, if somewhat irritated, for Legolas did not leave his side while he ate and drank, intent on watching him closely all the while. Yet the Elf seemed to have merely waited for him to finish his frugal meal, for as soon as he set aside the almost empty water skin, Legolas extended a hand and helped him to climb to his feet.

Boromir felt immense relief as the by now familiar dizziness he felt upon rising passed much more quickly than before. Encouraged, for he felt much improved, he was about to follow the Elf, only to find his path blocked by Gimli, bearing his sword.

Though the sword was still in its sheath, Boromir eyed Gimli not without apprehension, for he could not quite read the Dwarf's mood in the dark. After his initial fit of rage upon discovering Boromir's failure, Gimli had refrained from anything but verbal attacks, and, deep in the back of his mind, Boromir knew that the Dwarf would not endanger their chase by attacking one of his fellow hunters. Yet Gimli had given ample proof during their journey that a Dwarf's temper was not to be underestimated, so Boromir was determined to approach him with utmost caution.

Gimli stepped closer and Boromir tried to keep a level face, but when the Dwarf shifted his grip on the weapon, it took all of Boromir's self-control not to flinch. But Gimli had merely moved his hand away from the straps that would secure the sheath to Boromir's belt, something Boromir did not quite realised until the sword hung safely by his side.

Boromir cautiously released his breath, while he defiantly returned Gimli's indeterminable gaze that had come to rest upon him once the Dwarf was finished with his task. He could not quite shake off the feeling that Gimli was only too aware of the effect such behaviour had upon him, and that the Dwarf thoroughly enjoyed seeing Boromir struggle to maintain his self-control.

"You have shown more courage than I would have given you credit for," Gimli finally said, and Boromir was for once glad for the darkness, for it hid his somewhat dumbfounded expression. "I never would have let that Elf anywhere near me with a needle," Gimli continued, then stepped aside and motioned Boromir to move ahead.

Boromir could not quite suppress a grin at that last remark, and while heading to where Legolas waited somewhat impatiently, he called back over his shoulder, "Rather the Elf than you!" and his grin broadened as his pointed remark was met with a hearty chuckle instead of an insult.

On they went. Again Legolas led the small party, his keen gaze fixed upon the ground. Boromir watched his nimble movements not without envy, for though he felt refreshed by the short rest, the terrain had by no means become easier to climb as they neared the crest of the ridge they had been ascending all night. Judging by the muttering and grumbling that came from somewhere near his right elbow and that was not directed at himself for a change -- Gimli had called him many names during the night, but Boromir did not believe the Dwarf would call him 'flimsy tree-coddler' or 'pointy-eared mountain goat' -- the Dwarf shared his envy.

Boromir shook his head in silent amusement. He had been extremely annoyed when Gimli had resumed mumbling insults in his beard as soon as he had been forced to stop for the first time after their break. After all, scrambling through the dark rough highlands of Emyn Muil had not become easier with his arm tied to his chest. Yet he had been surprised to discover that he was not the sole object of Gimli's curses. And when the Dwarf closed up the short distance between them and reached for his arm in support, Boromir was surprised all the more. Though he had been more than reluctant to tolerate Gimli's firm grip upon his arm at first, reason had finally won over pride and he had gladly accepted the Dwarf's support.

And I need his help, Boromir admitted to himself, for now that they approached the crest, Gimli was all but pushing him up the mountain.

Raising his eyes towards their destination, Boromir could see Legolas had already reached the top of the ridge. With a mixture of dismay and relief he realised that the Elf's slim figure stood out dark against the sky, for the night was waning fast and already the stars were fading.

They had hardly reached the crest when Legolas urged them on. Though a bit winded from the ascent, Boromir did not object, for a cool wind had sprung up and he felt chilled even as sweat stood upon his forehead and trickled down either side of his face. The first glimpses of dawn could already be seen in the east even as they set off into the dark, winding valley below.

Boromir sat down with a tired sigh and Gimli followed suit. Only Legolas continued to scout their surroundings in a desperate search for the trail they had lost more than a mile ago, for the stony ground had not revealed the Orc-track, not even to an Elf. After a brief debate about the most likely course the Orcs would take, they had decided to follow the valley in a northerly direction, as of yet without any sign of their friends or their captors.

While Boromir and Gimli had taken the direct course, following the bottom of the stony dale, Legolas had scouted left and right, making sure they did not miss a trail hidden in a fold or gully. And when Boromir and Gimli had to wait for the Elf to return from examining an almost indiscernible watercourse that descended from the western slope and met the larger stream they had followed for some time, they had taken the opportunity to rest their tired legs if only for a few moments. Unwilling to break his companions' rest when he returned, Legolas had motioned them to remain seated while he continued his search.

Boromir and Gimli rested in companionable silence for a while, watching through half-closed eyes as the Elf walked to and fro among the boulders that lay strewn about and listening to the comforting murmur of the tickling stream nearby.

But all off a sudden, Legolas froze, then quickly crossed the short distance that separated him from another shadowy lump and bent down to examine it more closely. Both Boromir and Gimli started when Legolas turned the supposed boulder over without much effort, revealing what they had deemed an unmoving piece of rock to be a dead body.

Alarmed, the Elf's companions glanced about them, and saw with rising horror that the growing light of the approaching dawn turned more boulders and rocks into corpses. Dread settled in Boromir's stomach then, for though none of the dark shapes were hobbit-sized, each of them could well be the corpse of a man.

A quick glance at Gimli confirmed that the Dwarf shared his fears. Their eyes met and Gimli said, "I would rather take a look at those corpses myself. Who knows whether that flimsy stargazer can discern one mortal body from another." The Dwarf shot Boromir a measuring look and went on, "You should better stay here and rest. We have not yet left the mountains behind."

Boromir felt a surge of irritation at Gimli's words but had to agree that the Dwarf's concern was more than justified, though the last leg of their journey had been much less tiresome. But then, he silently contemplated, our path has led downhill for the most part. So he nodded his consent but added, after a brief moment of further thought, "but pray call me should you discover aught ..." He hesitated for another length of time, unsure whether he should elaborate upon which discovery he wished to be called, but abandoned the idea as he would have to name his fears. The hope to find their friends alive had driven them thus far after all, so he remained silent, lest his fears come true should he voice them.

Gimli regarded him closely, then nodded in understanding when Boromir remained silent, and scrambled to his feet to join Legolas in his gruesome task.

Yet the anxious minutes until Legolas straightened his back and indicated that their friends were not among the corpses with a shrug and a shake of his head brought no more rest for Boromir. So he wearily scrambled to his feet, cursing the stiffness of his muscles after the short break, and went to meet his companions so that he might learn about their discoveries.

"Only dead Orcs to be found here," Gimli called to him even before Boromir had reached the place where the Dwarf and Elf stood amidst several dead bodies. Boromir allowed his tense shoulders to relax at the news.

"At least this one was killed by his own kin," Gimli said as soon as Boromir had reached them, kicking the huddled form that lay next to him. "The dagger that ended his miserable life is clearly of orc-make."

"There are none of Saruman's Orcs among the dead, so I would wager a guess that we stand before the remains of a quarrel among them," Legolas added. "There are, however, still no footprints to be found that indicate which path they have taken." After a pause, the Elf sighed, "Since our earlier speculations have proven to be fruitful, I would suggest we continue following the valley and keep looking for tracks that may venture off to our left."

There was no need to question Legolas' suggestion, and after a brief glance at the slaughter the Orcs had performed among their own kin, the three companions set off again.

Their perseverance was rewarded but a little while later when Legolas, who had again walked some ways ahead, stopped, turned around, and called, "I have found their tracks at last!"

Eager to see for themselves what traces Legolas had discovered, Gimli and Boromir broke into a jog, something Boromir quickly regretted. By the time he caught up with the Elf and Dwarf, the last shadows of the night had all but faded and the world was bathed in the clear grey light of impending dawn. He could make out the traces of many iron-shod feet imprinted on a patch of grass by a small water-channel quite clearly, and motioned his companions to continue with a nod of his head.

About three hours later, they finally reached the crest of the western ridge of Emyn Muil. Before them the mountains plunged in a sheer drop into the grass-covered plains that stretched as far as the eye could see and beyond. Boromir was panting hard and bathed in sweat, for though Gimli again had steadied him whenever he had stumbled and had offered support when his own strength had threatened to fail, they had crested the hill much faster than the previous ridge, driven by a mixture of hope that had been raised by the new light of dawn, and fear that they might never reach their friends at all.

Exhausted, Boromir let himself sink onto a rock. While he slowly regained his breath, he let his gaze wander from the grey mountains that stretched far to the north to the sea of green at the feet of the cliff upon which they stood. A soft breeze stirred the grass, rippling its long shafts that swayed softly in the wind, yet Boromir frowned.

"Is aught amiss?" Legolas asked quietly.

Startled since he had all but forgotten his companions' presence for the moment, Boromir turned his head. "Yes," he said, "at least I think so." He paused for a brief moment, searching his memory. "This is the land of Rohan," he explained at last, "where the Horse-lords dwell. True and valiant are the Rohirrim, our allies of old." Boromir's frown deepened as he continued with a more pensive note to his voice. "I know not much about their customs, yet the part of Rohan that lies yonder, the Eastemnet as they call it, appears to be all but deserted. Neither horse nor man can I see, but there should be many herds and herdsmen about, even at this time of the year."

"Yet a horse has been near the foot of this cliff. It came from the south-west and returned by the same way," Legolas said, pointing to where only his keen elven eyes could make out the fading signs of a horse's passing amidst the tall grass. "Other than that, even I can see only those that we hunt."

The three companions stared at the empty plain in silence for a while, until Gimli spoke, "Since you seem to be familiar with these lands, Boromir, mayhap you know what mountains there are to be seen to the south?"

Boromir followed Gimli's gaze, though he was still unused to being addressed by the Dwarf in a less than hostile manner. There, in the bright light of mid-morning, still about thirty leagues to the south, shimmered the snow-tipped peaks of a range of mountains, a sight that almost took his breath away. "Aye, Gimli, I know those mountains," Boromir replied at length, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he tore his gaze away from the familiar peaks and turned to Gimli. "I know those mountains," he repeated, his voice more steady now, and a brief smile that spoke of pride and joy but also of sadness crossed his face. "Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains, they are called, and at their eastern end, beneath tall Mount Mindolluin, lies Minas Tirith, the White City of Gondor, my home."

A reverent silence followed Boromir's words as they all looked upon the glittering peaks in the distance. It was Legolas who broke it at last. "You could have turned south and returned to your people, for surely you must miss them after all the time you have spent abroad."

Boromir dropped his gaze with a sigh, absentmindedly rubbing his aching shoulder while he gazed at some point between his feet. He was unsure how to explain the deep yet indistinct feeling that his duty was not to return to his people, not yet, but to find his friends.

After remaining quiet for a lengthy amount of time, he raised his eyes to meet those of the Elf, and spoke, "I cannot return. Not now, not like this; with empty hands." Again, he let his head drop until it was almost level with his knees, and there was bitterness in his voice as he continued, "I set out to find the answer to a riddle; in that I succeeded, but to what avail? I had hoped to bring the sword of Elendil to strengthen the forces that defend Gondor. But thanks to my folly, Elendil's heir has fallen into the hands of the Enemy and his mighty sword with him. If I were to return, I would not only come empty handed, but in shame."

Legolas' and Gimli's eyes met over the bent form of their companion, and Legolas placed a comforting hand upon Boromir's shoulder. But Boromir was not yet finished. "And what would I tell my father, the Steward of Gondor, about my journey? That I have seen Isildur's Bane and almost repeated Isildur's error, thereby putting all of Middle-earth's free peoples at risk? That I have found the Sword that was Broken, Elendil's sword and the one entitled to wield it, hope unlooked for, only to lose both to the Enemy?" Boromir raised eyes filled with a pain that came not from his wounds but from the depth of his being first to Gimli, then to Legolas, though he knew that he could not expect an answer from either of his companions. It was he who had fallen to the lure of the Ring, so it would be he who had to face the consequences, painful as they may be.

"You mean not to return, then?" Legolas asked quietly.

Boromir replied with a bitter laugh, "Oh no, I mean to return, Legolas, I mean to. I could not stand to live anywhere but in Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard." He raised his eyes to the distant mountains, and said, speaking more to himself than to his companions, "How much I miss the White City; the sight of the Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze, being called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets ..."

Boromir's gaze remained fixed upon the White Mountains, but his eyes were clouded with both longing and grief. After a few moments he seemed to break free from the despair, and only a profound sadness remained. "I will return," he whispered, "and face my lord and father ... and my brother as well." He swallowed hard, then averted his gaze from the familiar shapes in the distance and met his companions' eyes with a grim yet determined smile. "I will return, but not before I can offer some means of hope to my people."

"Then what are we waiting for? The sooner we set off, the sooner we can return to your people," Gimli said, shaking Boromir out of his dark mood with an amiable pat to the back that left the Man slightly winded.

"They are my people, not yours," Boromir murmured, though he was more than grateful for Gimli's support. "As much as I would cherish your aid, you are by no means obliged to fight our war."

But Gimli would have none of it. "This is not Gondor's war alone. To turn away now that we have travelled so long and so far together would be an act of cowardice I would detest in any of my people," the Dwarf said emphatically. "But we have spent too much time with idle chatter already. The Orcs will not wait."

"Aye, they won't," Legolas sighed, his keen gaze roaming over the wide plains once more. "Fourteen leagues, maybe more, lie between us and our friends."

Boromir cast a last glance at the White Mountains, then wearily rose to his feet. "Then we shall tarry no longer," he said and fell into line behind the Elf once more.

The sun had not yet reached her peak when the three companions left the mountains behind and stepped upon the grass of Rohan. The air was warm and smelled of spring, and the Orcs' trail was no longer hard to find, for they had left a broad swath of trampled grass that was impossible to miss. The three companions walked on swiftly, refreshed by the warmth of spring and the wholesome smell of growing things as if from a night's rest.

Only a little while later, Legolas stopped in his tracks and motioned Gimli and Boromir to do the same. "A Hobbit broke away from the main group!" he called back to his companions, before he turned to follow the trail that led off to his right.

Legolas did not venture far off the main track, then dropped to one knee, and rose only a few moments later. When he returned to Gimli and Boromir, his shoulders sagged as if a sudden weariness had befallen him.

"Alas, the Hobbit who managed to escape was caught again all too quickly," the Elf said, "but at least he left behind a token to any that might follow." Legolas held up a thing that glittered in the sunlight: the leaf-shaped brooch of an elven-cloak. "Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall," he sighed at last. "Now we at least know that one of the merry young folk is still alive and has his wits about him. Let us hope that he did not pay too dearly for his boldness."

To be continued ...

A/N: Again, I borrowed some of Tolkien's words. The page numbers refer to the Harper Collins Paperback Edition of LotR from 1999:

"Then Pippin cried aloud, for the Tower of Ecthelion, standing high within the topmost wall, shone out against the sky, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, tall and fair and shapely, and its pinnacle glittered as if it were wrought of crystals; and white banners broke and fluttered from the battlements in the morning breeze, and high and far he heard a clear ringing as of silver trumpets." (RotK, Minas Tirith, p. 10)

"... He held up a thing that glittered in the sunlight. It looked like the new-opened leaf of a beech-tree, fair and strange in that treeless plain.
'The brooch of an elven-cloak!' cried Legolas and Gimli together.
'Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall,' said Aragorn. 'This did not drop by chance: it was cast away as a token to any that might follow. I think Pippin ran away from the trail for that purpose.'
'Then he at least was alive,' said Gimli. 'And he had the use of his wits, and of his legs too. That is heartening. We do not pursue in vain.'
'Let us hope that he did not pay too dearly for his boldness,' said Legolas. 'Come! Let us go on! The thought of those merry young folk driven like cattle burns my heart.'" (TTT, The Riders of Rohan, p. 19/20)

fliewatuet
Last modified: Tue Jul 20 18:23:16 CEST 2004

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Emyn Muil, February 26, 3019 (evening)

Aragorn almost stumbled into the large Orc in front of him as he stopped on the crest of the hill when the company was called to a halt. All around him Orcs and Uruk-hai plopped to the ground in small groups, laughing and joking in their cruel tongue. Aragorn stood still for some moments, rooted to the spot, still trapped in that trance-like state that had allowed him to keep up with his captors while preventing him from recalling much of the gruelling march later. His mind still had to register that he was no longer forced to walk, no longer had to focus his eyes upon the uneven ground beneath his feet so as to avoid missteps that could easily prove disastrous, and no longer had to force his thoughts away from the fierce pain in his shoulder and the dull ache in his head that had grown worse as the hours had worn on.

A slight tremor ran through his aching body, but as he stood shivering in the chill of the evening, the fog that had entrapped his mind seemed to float away on the breeze caressing the barren hilltops, and he finally managed to shake himself free from his stupor. Once awareness returned, his quivering legs threatened to buckle beneath him on their own account, and he dropped to his knees while he could still control how he landed and let his weary body sag against a boulder at his side.

Though the vile draught the Orcs had given him but a few hours ago still burned fiercely within his stomach, Aragorn felt all but spent yet too exhausted for the moment to worry overmuch about this testimony to his poor condition. He eased his throbbing head against the boulder, but the coolness of the stone brought little relief. A flare of pain shot from his shoulder down his back and arm as his bound hands caught on a hidden protrusion of the rock and the incautious movement jarred the shattered bones in his shoulder without warning, reducing his world to one of sheer pain and agony.

He knew not how long he knelt there, shivering with pain and cold upon the barren ground, while he could do little more than draw one gasping breath after another and hope for the pain to abate. Minutes stretched into hours of raw agony that was slow to fade. Incoherent fragments of thoughts and memories flitted through his tired mind, too swift for him to get a hold on one to cling to so as not to drown in the raging sea of his own misery.

For a few heartbeats he embraced the idea of simply remaining upon the ground once his captors were about to leave and hope that Uglúk's earlier threat, or promise, had not been an empty one. But then instincts honed by years of toil and hardship took over, and he braced himself against these treacherous thoughts. There was too much at stake, and he could not abandon Merry and Pippin to their fate at the mercy of Saruman and his Orcs. You failed to prevent their captivity in the first place, after all, he sighed, and a pang of guilt surged through him. Not for the first time the memories of his failings that very morning returned to haunt him, and the nagging little voice that was his conscience whispered: had you but been fast enough to answer Boromir's summons ... had you but kept the Fellowship together ... had you but been less distracted by Boromir's wounds ...

Ai, these thoughts lead nowhere, he berated himself and barely withstood the urge to shake his head to rid himself of the taunting voice within. I have not yet reached the end of my endurance, and neither the end of my wits! he reminded himself with grim determination. Yet the longing for rest and relief from the pain remained as he gingerly lifted his head and forced his attention back to his captors and the surroundings so that he might learn what he could about any possible way to escape.

Careful, so as to avoid another inconsiderate move and not alert his guards to his silent inquiry, he glanced about. The snow-tipped peaks of a distant range of mountains glittered pale in the moonlight, many leagues to the south. Gondor! he sighed wistfully, but could not quite suppress a sad smile as, unbidden, his thoughts wandered back to those days when he had lived beneath the White Tower of Ecthelion, had even called Gondor his home, and not only to quell further enquiries by curious minds as to his ancestry.

Not without effort of will Aragorn drew his eyes away from the south, for he could ill afford to become overpowered by the deep longing that filled him at the sight of the mountains and the thought of the White City where he hoped his long years of wandering and disguise might come to an end. Trying to focus on the path they would most likely tread instead, he turned his eyes to the west and north, taking in the land that lay stretched out beneath the looming cliff upon which they rested. It was veiled by a thick impenetrable mist, cast in a ghostly light by the sinking sickle of the moon. He wondered if rescue lay hidden beneath the white shroud when the distraught neigh of a single horse was carried up the mountains, drifting lazily upon the wind. Shivers ran down Aragorn's spine as the lone whinny broke off, leaving the soft whisper of the wind the only comforting sound among the ruckus of the Orcs, and he knew with frightening certainty that there was no succour to be found upon the plain below.

He drew in a shuddering breath, fighting down the sinking feeling of despair that threatened to take a hold of him. The mere thought of what measures Saruman might take to gain whatever information he sought, filled Aragorn with dread.

Yet an inconspicuous glance in the Hobbits' direction told him that they were hardly fit for a flight. Merry had still not woken and Aragorn himself had not the strength to bear him, impaired as he was by his own injury. Pippin might be fit to walk on his own legs, but without any food Aragorn doubted that the Hobbit would be able to keep up a run for more than a short length of time. And they would have to cover quite a distance to reach some amount of safety, maybe even as far as the Entwash, given the feeling of emptiness that clung to the plains below. But first, they would have to break free from the Orcs or, better, slip away unnoticed ...

Raised voices of Orcs, and of Uglúk in particular, interrupted Aragorn's futile exploration of their slim chances of escape a short while later. Curious about the cause of their debate yet eager to hide that curiosity, he let himself sag back against the boulder and closed his eyes, expertly maintaining the image of a man wallowing in his own misery as he crouched there, bound and bleeding upon the stony ground, while he strained his ears and listened closely to what had caused Uglúk's latest outburst.

"The scouts have come back at last," an Orc reported.

"Well, what did you discover?" Uglúk demanded.

"Only a single horseman," one of the scouts answered, then added with a barking laugh, "but he won't get far. They squeal like pigs when shot!"

"Did you make sure you killed him?"

"He fell off his horse and did not rise, but if we'd bothered to check, we wouldn't be back already."

"You fools! The horse-boys are as tough as the meat of their mounts! If he's still alive he'll raise the alarm. The cursed horsebreeders might not hear of us by morning, but not long after. Now we'll have to leg it double quick."

Aragorn cautiously re-opened his eyes. With hope, however slim, renewed he regarded Uglúk who hovered over Pippin and whispered something into the Hobbit's ear.

A knife appeared in the Uruk-hai's fist, and Aragorn could do nothing but watch and wonder whether he could reach the Hobbit quickly enough to protect him from the impending attack. When Uglúk merely cut the coarse ropes around the Hobbit's legs and ankles, however, it took Aragorn no small amount of self-control to not give away the sudden feeling of relief.

Like Aragorn before, the Hobbit was treated with the Orc-draught since his legs refused to support his weight at first, and Aragorn winced in sympathy. When Pippin remained standing at last and even flashed the Ranger a brief but determined glance, Aragorn returned that look with a hint of a smile.

A scream cut short his brief respite from worry, and Aragorn let the sound guide his eyes to make out its cause in the darkness. Merry was writhing in Uglúk's grasp while another Orc smeared the stinking medicine onto the Hobbit's head-wound, which only served to increase Merry's protest, much to the watching Orcs' delight. But once Uglúk forced his flask between the Hobbit's teeth and forced him to swallow the vile liquid, they quickly lost their interest as Merry's defiance returned with his strength and he stood as the bonds about his legs were removed.

So glad was Aragorn to see Merry standing under his own power that he failed to notice Uglúk's close regard. A wicked grin crept over the Orcs' ugly face when the Ranger returned his gaze, and Aragorn could not quite suppress a shiver. Eyeing the Uruk-hai captain warily, he hoped that the need for speed would overcome the Orcs' desire for sport and he would be spared any further ordeal. Yet it seemed as if his wish would not be granted; Uglúk rose and approached. "You are by far too curious, Whiteskin!" he growled, "On your feet!"

Without taking his eyes off the menacing creature in front of him, Aragorn struggled to comply. Carefully he gathered his legs beneath him and staggered to his feet with the awkward grace of a new-born foal, swaying precariously as he did so.

Aragorn was not quite sure whether it was rage or merely disappointment that briefly flickered over Uglúk's face. Yet he could not confirm his fleeting suspicion, for the Orc captain turned around and bellowed, "Krúpak, Ushrogh, Breshnik! Guard the tark! No fooling around with him, unless he causes trouble!"

While his minions hurried to follow his command, Uglúk again fixed cold threatening eyes upon the bound Ranger. But Aragorn merely returned that look, allowing a hint of weariness to show through the carefully schooled facade he maintained so as to provoke neither Uglúk nor his newly assigned guards and give them a cause to vent their twisted delight in violence upon him.

Only when one of Aragorn's guards stepped between his captain and his charge did Uglúk turn away and disappeared among the crowd. A few moments later his voice rang over the camp again as he ordered his band to get moving.

With relief Aragorn stepped upon the soft grass of Rohan. Midnight was still about an hour away and he feared that they would not rest before dawn, yet hoped that the march over the grassy plain would be less exhausting than the arduous trek through the mountains. He still could feel the bruises left by the iron grip of one of his guards upon his arm, and not without chagrin he had to admit that the quick reflexes of that guard had saved him from a painful and most certainly fatal plunge down the cliff.

Now that he was no longer forced to pay close attention to where he placed his feet, Aragorn risked a quick glance over his shoulder, hoping that he might spot the Hobbits. But before he could make out their small figures among the massive shapes of the Uruk-hai, the Orc in front of him started to move again, so he fell into step behind him, for he was not too eager to give his guards a reason to use their whips upon his back.

It took Aragorn quite some time to adjust his movements both to the quickened pace the Orcs with their long, loping strides had set and to the hindrance his bound arms and his injury proved for running. He had hardly found his own rhythm, which would neither cost him too much strength nor aggravate the sword cut more than was unavoidable, and was just about to let the monotony of his strides lure his mind away from the cruel reality of the nightly march, when a sudden commotion drew his attention back to his noisome company. Angry shouts rose from the darkness behind, and from the corner of his eye he could see several dark shapes darting off from the main group and disappearing into the night.

"That's none of your business! Get moving!" a coarse voice behind him hissed, followed by the crack of a whip and an angry sting as its leather thong bit into his cheek, leaving a trail of sticky wetness in its wake, just beneath his eye.

Aragorn's brief flash of hope that one of the Hobbits had managed to escape was quickly quenched by yet another crack of a whip, a stifled cry and Uglúk's angry shouts, and before long the band of Orcs was running again at great speed.

The night grew on, midnight came and went, and the stars above were heading westward, but Aragorn hardly noticed their passing. Sweat stood upon his forehead, strands of hair clung to his face, but he could feel the night grow cold as dawn approached.

The tension among the Orcs seemed to wax with the growing light, and as the rising sun cast her first pale rays over the rim of the mountains they had long left behind, the smaller Orcs made their discontent heard. Yet Uglúk did not announce a break, much to Aragorn's dismay, but used his whip to restore the deteriorating discipline among his band. So the glorious sunrise passed behind their backs unnoticed as they were forced to hurry on.

But even the whips of Uglúk and his lieutenants could not keep up the speed they had kept while darkness had lasted. The northern Orcs in particular did not relish the sweet caress of the sun that already spoke of early spring and had gradually slowed the pace of the entire company. Their decrease in speed was hardly enough to allow Aragorn to recover from the nightly exertion, but it was at least sufficient for him to notice the change at all. Now that he was no longer as hard pressed as before, he felt quite confident that he might persevere without a break for a few more hours.

While the slackened pace had lifted his spirits, it also allowed Aragorn to focus on less mundane matters than to simply stay upon his feet, and he idly wondered how the Hobbits with their much shorter legs fared, now that they were, most likely, forced to run as well. Surely, they would not face the same threat as he did, should their strength falter -- it seemed, after all, as if the Orcs had orders to deliver the Hobbits more or less alive -- but the Orcs would not volunteer to carry them. With the fear about the Hobbits' welfare the nagging feeling of failure returned, but this time he managed to quell the taunting voices, and vowed with renewed determination that he would see to an end of the Hobbits' torment.

So he let not only his mind wander in search for a means of escape, but his eyes as well, though he could hardly catch a glimpse of the surrounding lands above the heads of his guards. But vast and empty grassland was all he could discern. Though he knew about the futility of his attempt to make out tracks or traces of more friendly folk that might inhabit these plains, the continued absence of any such hints only increased his already palpable frustration.

About noon he had given up any hope for escape while they were on their way, for they stood no chance to outrun these creatures, and other than to disappear from plain sight, there was no place to hide for miles to come. With the rising intensity of the sun, his thoughts had started to run in circles, one futile idea chasing another, while hope for a respite, however brief, was shattered again and again by the cracks of Uglúk's whip.

As the sun started her descent towards the west, every memory of the strengthening if burning effect of the orc-draught had vanished, and Aragorn knew no longer what forces kept him running. Sweat burned in his eyes and trickled down his back, though he was certain that there was more than mere sweat that was plastering his torn shirt against his skin. His lungs hurt with every gasping breath he took, as did his shoulder. He had long abandoned any attempt to figure out a plan for flight, or even to keep track of the passing landscape, for the task of setting one foot in front of the other was taxing enough.

When dusk came the smaller Orcs recovered their vigour, the threats of Uglúk and his lieutenants that had kept them running became less and less, and the company again picked up in speed as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. Aragorn knew that he could not stay upon his feet much longer. Marching, running without break and worse, without water, for more than twenty hours was taking its toll. His throat was parched and every gasping breath he took threatened to end in a fit of coughing that could easily throw him off balance.

The night was dark, for the moon was shrouded by thick clouds, and still the Orcs kept running. Even the flicker of a thought about the Hobbits' plight was no longer sufficient to break through Aragorn's misery. He stumbled more and more often, for the terrain had changed. Though the land was still flat, stones and small rocks littered the ground, almost imperceptible signs of the downs that rose but a few miles away to the north.

Aragorn barely managed to keep his balance as his foot caught again on one of the hidden obstacles. Not for the first time his faltering steps were met with a biting pain as his guard's whip curled around his body, and, like before, the sting at least served to jerk him back to awareness, if only briefly. He knew that he would not last much longer, at least not without a brief respite. But Uglúk drove his company on and on without mercy.

Aragorn had lost all sense of time, he was only aware of the darkness that surrounded them still. His arms and back stung, for his guard had used his whip more and more often as Aragorn's strength waned. He was no longer running but stumbling at best, hardly able to lift his feet, and when the ground rushed up to meet him, he could but twist to his side instinctively so as to protect his injured shoulder.

The impact was jarring nonetheless, and he knew that any attempt to struggle back to his feet was futile. He felt the whip descend onto his back with increasing ferocity, but instead of bringing him back to awareness, it only served to summon the comforting blackness more quickly. He no longer felt its stinging pain, and the angry voices surrounding him were drowned in the rushing in his ears as consciousness fled.

To be continued ...

A/N: There are, again, some passages that belong to Tolkien; the page numbers refer to the Harper Collins paperback edition from 1999:

"'The scouts have come back at last,' said an Orc close at hand.
'Well, what did you discover?' growled the voice of Uglúk.
'Only a single horseman, and he made off westwards. All's clear now.'
'Now, I daresay. But how long? You fools! You should have shot him. He'll raise the alarm. The cursed horsebreeders will hear of us by morning. Now we'll have to leg it double quick.'" (TTT, The Uruk-hai, p. 51)

fliewatuet
Last modified: Tue Jul 20 18:23:34 CEST 2004

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. Just a reminder: This story is rated R for reason. This chapter contains some gory stuff. You have been warned.

On another note: I have revised the previous chapters. The changes mostly concern some medical issues and I have tried to smooth out the flow of the story (and break down some of my overly complicated sentences). So if you no longer remember what this story was about thanks to my ten months pause in writing, you might want to check out the old parts first.

Eastemnet, February 27th, 3019 (night)

"Strider, no!"

Yells, shouts and the overwhelming stench of sweating Orcs penetrated Merry's dream -- for a dream it must be, or rather a nightmare. He dimly recalled being forced to run for a night and a day and another night, only to be picked up and carried now and then, whenever his strength had failed entirely. Then, without warning, he fell, and there was pain and the taste of damp grass and earth in his mouth, small stones digging into his arm and knee, and Merry knew for sure that he was no longer dreaming. Yet neither whip-crack nor Orc urged him to rise. The reason for their sudden stop he could not discern, for all he could see was dark trampled grass beneath him and the thick legs of Orcs around him with feet shod in crude-fashioned boots that stomped impatiently.

"Strider!"

This was no Orc-voice. Merry looked around, yet he could see nothing but Orcs in the darkness. Ahead, where the shouts were loudest, torchlight flickered in the cold night-air and most Orcs peered intently in that direction, their hideous features contorted by the dancing shadows. The bulky figure of Uglúk pushed its way through the crowd, lashing left and right with his whip whenever the others did not give way quick enough. Merry sensed an opportunity. With the Orcs around him either too distracted by whatever had caused the commotion or too eager to rest their tired legs, none payed their prisoner much heed. Shaking off the last cobwebs of dark and evil dreams, Merry scrambled to his feet, as quickly as his bound hands and wobbly legs allowed, and scurried off after Uglúk.

Yet his intention did not go unnoticed. Shouts rose behind him, clawed hands grabbed at him, and dark shapes closed in on him so as to bar his way. But Merry was a Hobbit and quick on his feet, darting hither and thither, a small shadow flitting through the throng of Orcs. But he could not evade them forever. The thong of a whip curled around his legs, and for the second time that night he tasted dirt.

"Strider! Wake up! They'll kill you!"

Wide awake in spite of his fall, Merry would have shot to his feet when his mind choose to recognise the voice at last, but an Orc had him pinned. Pippin! Merry struggled, hard, against the hand that held him down, but other than eliciting raucous laughter from the Orcs who stood nearby, his struggle was in vain.

"Strider!"

Another of Pippin's heart-wrenching cries pierced the night-air. Merry was close to despair, unable as he was to come to his cousin's aid, and found himself short of begging to be released. Just then the Orc holding him down grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and jerked him to his feet.

From his new position Merry could make out the source of the flickering light: a single torch, stuck in the ground near the center of a tight circle formed by jeering and hooting Orcs. But he still could not see Pippin. Merry tried to peek around the huge creature in front of him but found his shoulder held in a vice-like grip that did not allow for much movement. Merry's impatience grew. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of his guard yet was met with nothing but an evil sneer in reward. Again he turned his attention to the center of the small circle. This time he found his sight unblocked, and his breath caught in his throat. Next to the torch was Pippin, huddled protectively over the prone figure of Strider, sheltering the unconscious Man from the angry lashes of Uglúk's whip while trying to shake him awake.

But Pippin's attempts to rouse the Ranger were of no avail. Even as two Uruk-hai stepped forward at a flick of Uglúk's hand and pried the screaming and kicking Hobbit away from his charge, Aragorn did not so much as twitch. To Merry's growing horror, the two Orcs roughly shoved Pippin towards their leader, and Uglúk closed one of those huge clawed hands around Pippin's throat. Without effort he lifted the struggling Hobbit off the ground with one hand, while shaking out his whip with the other. "Now that was a stupid thing to do!" Uglúk snarled, "Cute, but stupid. The tark's fate is none of your business. You cause nothing but trouble, rat! I'll teach you a lesson." With those words, Uglúk tossed Pippin away from him and raised his whip.

"Pippin! No!" Merry called, but the hooting and clapping of the Orcs drowned out his desperate shout. Twice the cruel leather thong cracked ere Merry managed to break free from his guards' grasp and throw himself between Pippin and the whip. Pippin lay on the ground, stunned, his bound hands raised in defence. Tears had left wet tracks in the dirt that covered his face, but there was still a hint of defiance left in his eyes.

A shadow fell over Merry as Uglúk stepped closer. Turning away from Pippin, Merry found the menacing creature towering above him, much too close for comfort. "You're as much of a nuisance as the other one!" Uglúk growled. "Seems you've had too much time for rest. But I won't forget. Payment is only put off."

Merry knew not whether to feel dread or relief at Uglúk's words. He did not dare imagine what 'payment' Uglúk had in store for them, but if Pippin would be spared any further lashes for now, he would not complain.

Uglúk straightened and let his glare sweep over his minions. "Finish the tark, we're leaving!"

Merry froze. Entrapped in a state of shock he looked to Pippin, who was at the verge of tears yet already climbing to his feet, the recent punishment forgotten. Before Pippin could give Uglúk further reason to use his whip, a smaller Orc stepped out of the circle of onlookers and growled, "We've done nothing but run since the night before. Give us a break! The tark could use one as well. Then he'll be fit for some sport later on. That's more fun than a quick kill."

The suggestion was met with affirmative shouts from every direction, but Uglúk would have none of that. "Silence!" he bellowed and lashed out at the smaller Orc. His minions cowed before him, discontent clearly written on their hideous faces, but none dared to oppose Uglúk openly. "Silence, you rabble!" Uglúk repeated, slowly turning around, subduing each of the surrounding Orcs with his menacing glare. A vicious grin contorted his features as he in turn regarded his subordinates, the cowering Hobbits and the unconscious Ranger. Revealing a mouthful of yellow jagged teeth in a wicked mockery of a grin, Uglúk turned to Merry.

"You!" the Orc-captain sneered, pointing a clawed finger at Merry, and Merry could not help but flinch under the penetrating gaze. "If you manage to get the tark back on his feet, he'll live. And no tricks!"

Merry tried hard not to cower before Uglúk's menacing presence, while fighting to get his frantically racing thoughts under control. Still wondering about Uglúk's sudden decision to spare the Ranger's life, an idea flashed through Merry's mind. Before his sudden burst of courage vanished, he said, attempting to sound as innocent and honest as he could, "If I am to help him, I'll need my hands free ..."

Uglúk gave a barking laugh in reply. "Nice try! You're a smart one, ain't ya? But old Uglúk won't fall for that." With a pat on the cheek that left the Hobbit reeling, Uglúk shoved Merry in Aragorn's direction.

Merry hardly managed to maintain his balance and came to a halt just a step short of stumbling into the prone figure on the ground. With a sigh he dropped his gaze and let his eyes sweep over Aragorn. His heart sank. Aragorn lay unmoving, his head turned to one side, his face pale beneath dirt and sweat and blood, and his eyes tightly shut. But what worried Merry the most was the stain that spread from Aragorn's right shoulder down to the middle of his back, glistening dark and wet in the flickering torch-light. Merry went to his knees, trembling hands tentatively reaching for the Ranger, searching for a sign that the Man was still alive.

A soft moan reached Merry's ears as he brushed away some sweat-soaked strands of dark hair so as to get a better look on the source of all the blood that covered Aragorn's face. Encouraged by the reaction, however weak, he bent down and whispered, "Strider, can you hear me?"

Another inarticulate groan was all he received by way of an answer, but Merry would not give up yet. "Strider, you must be on your feet in a little while ... or they'll kill you!"

A cough shook Aragorn's body and he grimaced with pain. "... let ... me," was all Merry could understand of the mumbled reply. Hesitantly, he reached for Aragorn's injured shoulder, but ere his fingers could even touch the blood-stained cloak, Aragorn's eyes flew open. "Merry!" the Ranger's voice was raspy, but more intelligible than before, the grey eyes alert. "Are you well?"

Merry sat back on his heels, astonished and somewhat irritated at Aragorn's response. He had to swallow twice to find his voice. "Strider!" he hissed. "I can't believe it. You ask me if I am well?"

Aragorn closed his eyes again, but a hardly discernible twitch of the corner of his mouth gave away his silent amusement at the Hobbit's sudden outburst. Merry sighed, his irritation forgotten, and said, "I am well, as well as the circumstances permit. It is you I am worried about."

"I must admit that I have felt better ..." Aragorn murmured.

Merry gave a snort in reply, then became serious. "You are bleeding, and badly by the look of it."

"I feared as much," Aragorn sighed, then fell silent as if lost in thought. Finally he said, "Could you take a look at the wound and tell me what you see? It is most likely not a pretty sight, but I cannot assess the extent of the damage by feel alone."

Merry nodded by way of an answer, not caring whether Aragorn could see him or not, and shuffled closer to the prone Ranger. Again he reached for Aragorn's shoulder, but the result was what he feared. Unresponsive as his fingers were due to the tight bonds, his attempt to brush aside Aragorn's cloak ended in his useless hands clumsily tearing at the fabric. His eyes stung with helpless tears as Aragorn barely managed to bite back a cry of pain, his face contorted into a mask of agony. Merry glared at his bound hands as if his eyes alone could undo the coarse rope. The apology he was about to utter died in his throat as frustration turned into anger. Throwing caution to the wind, he turned to Uglúk and yelled, "I cannot help him like this!" raising his bound hands accusingly.

Uglúk stepped closer. "I said, no tricks!" he sneered.

"This is no trick! How am I to help him without the use of my hands?"

Uglúk hesitated for a moment, then let his yellow eyes sweep over the assembled Orcs who regarded the scene closely, always eager for some entertainment. His eyes came to rest on Pippin and an evil grin split his face. He pulled the younger Hobbit close with one hand while drawing a knife with the other only to press it against the Hobbit's throat. "I won't take any chances. One wrong move and this one suffers."

Merry swallowed hard, then looked up to meet Pippin's eyes. Pippin seemed pale yet tried hard to appear brave and even flashed Merry a timid smile. Merry gave a short nod in reply, a silent acknowledgement of Pippin's willingness to play Uglúk's game as well as a promise to do what he could for Strider. Then he stretched out his hands to an approaching Orc who severed the bonds with a jagged knife.

But Merry had not anticipated the pain that the sudden release brought forth. He doubled over as the blood rushed back into his aching fingers. A cheer went through the crowd of Orcs, a cheer that Merry hardly noticed. "Breathe!" a quiet voice to his left whispered. "Embrace the pain and let it flow through you. It will be easier to endure and vanish as quickly as it came." Aragorn watched him from the corner of his eyes, and his soothing voice had the desired effect. Merry drew a steadying breath, then straightened his back and wiped away the tears that had somehow sprung to his eyes. He flexed his fingers to test their strength and set to work.

His jaw set, Merry peeled away the layers of blood-stained and torn cloth as gently as he could, marvelling all the while that Aragorn managed to remain still. The dirty rag the Orcs had used as a makeshift bandage stuck to the wound, and Merry could not force himself to simply rip it off. He closed his eyes in frustration and forced his roiling emotions to calm. "I need water," he said at last, trying to sound as composed as he could, "and bandages."

The cheer running through the crowd did not surprise him but that one of Uglúk's lieutenants approached almost immediately did. The creature bowed in a ridiculously exaggerated gesture and dropped a water-skin and a small wooden box in front of Merry. "That'll have to do. You'd better hurry, we won't wait for the entire night!"

Merry accepted the proffered items with a submissive nod, then examined the wooden box. He closed the lid almost as soon as he had opened it, for the pervasive stench immediately gave away its contents. With a sigh he set it aside. He had no intention to use the vile Orc-medicine on a friend. Then he opened the water-skin, sniffed at its contents, then took a sip of the water to judge its quality. Its smell was stale but the taste fresh enough so he poured some of it onto the crude bandage, trying to ignore the subtle stiffening of Aragorn's shoulders.

The bandage would not come off without effort. In the end Merry managed to remove it without Aragorn crying out loud in pain, though he knew that the Ranger suffered. Once revealed, the source of Aragorn's agony did not look as repulsive as Merry had feared. The Man's entire shoulder, from the joint to the neck down to the shoulder-blade, was caked with blood and the gruesome details of the wound were not discernible in the dim light. So Merry picked up the torch, ignoring the minute movement of the knife that touched Pippin's throat, and stuck it into the ground where it would shed more light onto Aragorn's injury.

"What do you see?"

"Blood. Let me see ... there is blood ... and some more blood ... and the remains of that Orc-medicine."

"Tear off a piece of my cloak. Then use some of the water and clean away the blood ... Then describe the wound to me."

"But that'll hurt!"

"Just try to make it quick. I will be able to bear the pain."

Merry nodded, again not sure whether Aragorn could see it, and obediently followed the Rangers instructions as best and as gentle as he could, ignoring the occasional hiss and the quickening of the other's breathing.

"It looks rather ugly to me ..." Merry said at length.

"Would you care to elaborate?" If there was a hint of annoyance in Aragorn's voice, it was not discernible, for his reply was barely more than a croak.

Merry ignored his question but picked up the water-skin instead. Helping the Ranger to drink was an awkward endeavour, for Merry had neither the strength nor the intention to move him. Once he had managed to manoeuvre Aragorn's head and the water-skin into the right positions, the Ranger swallowed the cool liquid greedily and Merry was relieved to see some colour return to his face.

"Do you want some more?" Merry asked as he tilted the skin upright so as to let Aragorn catch his breath.

"No, not now," Aragorn replied, "maybe later, if there is enough water left. You will need most of it to clean the wound."

"But I have just cleaned it!"

"You have wiped away some blood and cleaned the vicinity. In order to really clean the wound itself and to prevent infection, you will have to rinse it thoroughly," Aragorn said sternly, but then continued in a softer tone. "First tell me what the wound looks like. Is it still bleeding?"

"Yes, it is. But not much." Merry tentatively reached for the wound and gently probed the darkened spots that spread from what seemed the deepest part of the cut towards the neck and shoulder joint. He jerked back his hand as Aragorn winced at his probing touch. "There are dark marks here, here and here." Merry cautiously brushed his fingers against the other's skin to indicate the position of the marks.

"Bruises, most likely, unless they feel hot to the touch."

"No, they don't, but they are almost black."

"That is nothing unusual. What about the wound? How deep is it? Can you see whether it is clean?"

Merry swallowed ere he wiped away some blood that had oozed from the cut so as to get a better look. "It is quite deep, but not a clean cut."

"That was to be expected. The Orcs' blade was not too sharp, or I would have bled to death some time ago."

Merry grimaced at Aragorn's rather emotionless assessment of his situation but then focused back on the task at hand. He bent low over the Ranger's body and continued his examination. Nausea churned his stomach and tightened his throat as he discovered something white among the raw flesh, and he had to swallow twice ere he could speak. "There ... is something white ... seems to be shards of bone ..."

"Where?"

Merry swallowed again, then carefully brushed his fingers over the afflicted part. "Here ..."

"How many?"

Merry tried to take a closer look but had to turn aside as his stomach threatened to betray him. His vision blurred. The Orcs were delighted at his obvious distress, but their laughter was drowned out by a sudden ringing in his ears. "Merry! Put your head down! And breathe!"

Somehow Aragorn's voice managed to penetrate the haze of dizziness and nausea, and Merry followed his command without thinking. Slowly his vision cleared and the tightening of his throat vanished. "Take a sip of water, that will help," came the gentle instruction and Merry did not hesitate to comply.

"I am sorry, but ..."

"There is no need to apologise, Merry. I should not have asked this of you."

"And who else would you have asked?" Tears stung in Merry's eyes as shame and helplessness threatened to overwhelm him. He had always deemed himself strong, but in situations like this, he would gladly relinquish responsibility to someone more knowledgeable, more experienced in handling such matters. Yet there was no other to help him. Pippin, though brave, was not an option and Strider was in no condition to help himself. If Boromir were here, he would know what to do. But the memory of Boromir, driven to his knees by crude orc-arrows, opened an abyss of despair as deep and dark as the chasm of Khazad-dûm. It would have swallowed Merry whole had not Pippin's voice suddenly pierced his misery.

"Merry!"

The cry was cut off as Uglúk pressed the knife closer to Pippin's throat and bellowed, "Now get going! I won't wait for all eternity!"

Merry glared at Uglúk both for the needless reminder and for the harsh treatment of his cousin. Then he turned back to Aragorn, took a deep breath and resumed his task. "There are two large shards and a couple of smaller ones," he said to Aragorn, though his voice threatened to falter.

"You need not continue, Merry, if you do not feel up to the task."

"I feel better already and Uglúk is getting impatient. What shall I do now?"

"The collar-bone is broken, but there is not much that can be done about it now. If the bleeding is as light as you say, it should be no more trouble than the broken bone. Just rinse the cut with plenty of water, then apply some of that orc-medicine to it. If you could cover it with a reasonably clean piece of cloth, I would be grateful."

Merry nodded and reached for the water-skin, but stopped in his movements as Aragorn spoke again, "Just one more thing, Merry. The treatment will hurt ... I might not manage to remain still all the time ... I might even swoon. But please do as I told you!" Aragorn met his eyes squarely so as to emphasise his words, though his head was still tilted awkwardly to one side. "Do not use all of the water. Should I swoon, a few splashes should be enough to rouse me."

His jaw firmly set, Merry set to work. More than once he wished he could close his eyes and block his ears, though Aragorn fought hard to neither move away from his ministrations nor scream. The Orcs jeered and hooted in delight, and Uglúk grinned, content that his minions were thoroughly entertained during their rest and did not feel compelled to quarrel among themselves.

Before long, Merry was finished and ripped off a large piece of cloth from his undershirt to bandage Aragorn's shoulder. The rest of the water he held out for the Ranger to drink, and Aragorn swallowed eagerly. "What about your other wounds?" he asked at length.

"Nothing more but scratches," came the weak reply, but Aragorn did not protest as Merry brushed away strands of hair and examined the cut on his cheek. Merry was just about to test his luck and turned to Uglúk to demand more water, when a hissed command stopped him.

"Wait!"

"What?" Merry whispered, returning his attention to Aragorn.

"I thank you for your help, but now you must listen to me!" Aragorn said. "I know not whether an opportunity will present itself, but should you see the slightest chance to flee, then do it! Take Pippin and make southwards. At the feet of the White Mountains the Rohirrim dwell, they will help you and protect you."

"But what about you?"

"Worry not, I will accompany you if I can, but they will guard me closer than Pippin or you. Neither of you must reach Isengard! Do you understand?"

Merry felt despair rise again at Aragorn's urgent words, but he nodded nonetheless if not really convincingly.

"Merry, I do not disregard your courage, but you do not know what awaits us at Isengard and neither should you. Believe me when I say that I would rather face Saruman and his dungeons alone ..."

Aragorn's words were cut short by the crack of a whip and Uglúk's bellow, "Enough of this chatter! Bind the rat and get the tark back to his feet! We are leaving."

Merry caught one last pleading look from Aragorn before rough hands dragged him away and the Orc-camp exploded in a flurry of activity. His hands were bound again. Orders were shouted and he again was surrounded by Orcs. Pippin and Strider were no longer in sight.

To be continued ...

A/N: Thanks to Lyllyn for patiently answering my questions concerning medical issues as well as catching the odd typo, and to Amanda for the beta-reading. You have both been a great help! Another special thank goes to Marigold for choosing this story as her "Pick of the Week". I hope there was enough Hobbit-bravery in this chapter for all you Hobbit-lovers out there.

Also I owe you all my profound apologies for the long delay. Fortunately, my PhD-thesis can no longer serve as an excuse: it is finished (go me!)

But now for the long overdue answers to all those lovely reviews you sent during the last ten months. I am still amazed at the sheer number of people who left reviews, and I am really sorry that I could not get this chapter written sooner.

Next chapter: The Flight, hopefully soon at a fanfiction site near you.

fliewatuet
Last modified: Thu Aug 12 01:17:09 CEST 2004

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Outside Fangorn, February 28th, 3019 (night)

"Wicked man won't get us, gollum, gollum," the slick, slimy creature hissed, writhing like a thing possessed in Aragorn's grasp. But he could not restrain it. Whether it was the creature's nauseating stench or its unrelenting resistance, Aragorn could not tell, but his hands had lost all of their usual strength. Though he tried with all his might to maintain his hold upon the slippery thing, he could but watch as Gollum squirmed inch by inch out of his weakened grasp until, with a final pull and a wriggle, the wretch came free. Snarling, Gollum lunged at Aragorn. Sharp teeth sank into his shoulder and he felt a cry build in his throat at the sudden pain, yet only a strangled moan came forth. He reached for Gollum to free himself from the decrepit creature, but found himself unable to move, as if he were restrained by invisible bonds that would neither break nor budge.

Panic gripped him, a helpless fear at being trapped. But then something wet brushed against his face, and his eyes opened on their own accord. Gollum was gone and so was the nightmare, though it left his heart racing in its wake. Aragorn took a long breath, the chill night-air chasing away the last remnants of the dream though the pain in his shoulder still lingered.

He glanced about. It was night and pitch-dark, and he found himself lying on the ground, dampness seeping into his clothes, wet grass brushing against his cheek and nose. For the briefest of moments he wondered how he came to be sleeping unprotected against the chill of a winter night, and he shifted ever so slightly in a vain attempt to move to a more comfortable and less exposed position. Yet he found the minute movement hampered by tight bonds about his wrists and legs, and unwelcome memories came rushing back at him: memories of the reason for the throbbing pain in his shoulder and for the dull ache in his legs, back and head, testament to utmost exhaustion.

Aragorn released a shuddering breath and let his head drop back to the ground. At least the cool, wet grass helped to soothe the persisting ache between his temples, and he lay there for a long while, unmoving, reflecting upon the events of the previous two days. He knew it had not been within his power to avoid or end their predicament, but it rankled him nonetheless that the simple act of remaining upon his feet had required all his strength and attention, and that he would have failed to keep up with the Orcs' gruelling speed ere noon had the second day of their enforced march been as strenuous as the first one. But their pace had slackened; they had even stopped once, before dawn, and had been given food, disgusting though it was. Much to Aragorn's surprise, Uglúk had even insisted that he be given the Orc-draught whenever he had so much as stumbled. That, and Merry's treatment the night before, had allowed him to persevere, though it had been a close call. As soon as Uglúk had called for his minions to set up camp for the night, just outside Fangorn forest, Aragorn had literally collapsed where he stood and had managed to stay awake barely long enough to reassure the worried Hobbits that he would be fine come morning. Though for the moment, with the night's icy chill permeating his bones and his nerves still wrought up from the after-effects of a nightmare, he was no longer so sure.

Aragorn shivered as a cold breeze swept over their campsite, and he tried to draw up his knees as far as he could to preserve a little warmth. His cloak was trapped between his arms and back, useless against the damp chill of the night, and he clenched his teeth to keep them from clattering. His meandering thoughts returned to his nightmare and to Gollum, and he idly wondered about Gollum's presence in that dream. The wretched creature had haunted his dreams more than once - not surprising, given the gruesome fifty-day march he had undertaken the year before to deliver Gollum into the safekeeping of the Wood-elves. But he was rarely plagued by nightmares when he was as exhausted as he had been this night. He could not quite shake off the feeling that there was more to the dream than just overwrought senses. Something felt wrong, even now that he was no longer trapped in the twilight world of the nightmare. But he could not yet determine what it was.

He again raised his head to better scan his surroundings. The night was as dark as a tomb. The sky was shrouded by thick clouds that blocked the light of both moon and stars, and the Orcs had set no watch-fires. Bereft of sight Aragorn strained his other senses to discover what had unsettled him so that such a nightmare had penetrated his almost death-like sleep.

The first thing he noticed was the fresh and fragrant smell of the night air. It smelled of dew, of wet grass and damp earth rather than of Orc. The beasts' nauseating stench was not really gone but less intense than he had expected. So there were no Orc-guards close and hope rose in Aragorn's heart, dispelling the last remnants of sleep. But other than that, something else did not feel right. And then he heard it: a faint murmur, then a hiss, then silence again. Again, there was a sound, and this time he recognised it as the voice of an Orc. Yet no Orc answered but someone with a higher and clearer voice. The noise he made sent shivers down Aragorn's spine, and he no longer wondered about his nightmare. Gollum, gollum, someone hissed. The voice had been Pippin's, of that he was sure, but he could not fathom why Pippin would act that way.

Determined to discover the reason for Pippin's strange behaviour, Aragorn set his jaw, drew his bound legs beneath him and began to crawl towards the source of the noise. It was a tedious endeavour, inching forward with legs and arms tightly bound, ever careful not to jar his injured shoulder while avoiding to give away his approach by the faintest sound. But Aragorn would not have survived the long years in the Wild if not for his ability to move stealthily, no matter how dire the circumstances. Painfully slowly he approached his goal, until he was close enough to catch a glimpse of furry feet and the figure of a crook-legged Mordor-orc looming above them.

"Have you got it - either of you?" Aragorn heard the Orc snarl.

The Orc had yet to notice Aragorn's presence, focused as he was on his business with the Hobbits. What his intentions were Aragorn could only guess, but he would not wait to find out for sure; already the Hobbit lying closest to him tried to squirm away from the Orc's prodding and probing fingers.

"I doubt Uglúk would approve of this," Aragorn said, his voice rough from sleep and exhaustion but loud enough to carry far through the silence of the night.

His words had the desired effect. The crook-legged Orc froze in his movements, only to turn with a snarl a heart-beat later. He was upon Aragorn in a flash, a hideously curved knife clenched in his fist. "That's none of your business, tark!" he hissed, and Aragorn found himself eye to eye with the Orc as a clawed hand grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and lifted him off the ground without effort. Putrid breath assaulted his senses, and jagged steel, colder than the night-air, kissed his throat.

"Tarks!" The Orc dropped to one knee and pulled Aragorn closer. "What is it with you that you always have to meddle, always have to stick your pale noses into affairs that are none of your business. Tarks! Ever so fearless. Ever so brave!" The Orc all but spat those last words, pulling Aragorn to an almost sitting position. "Until your sorry carcasses fall into our hands, that is. Then it's just begging and whining and screaming ... no more pride ... no more dignity!"

Aragorn's head was knocked backwards as the Orc tossed him back down without warning. He could not brace himself in time and hit the ground hard. Colours danced before his eyes, and as if from a great distant, the Orc's voice hissed, "We'll wait and see what'll become of your pathetic bravery once you are brought before the Great Eye!"

Aragorn knew not what happened next. Flashes of colour turned into lightning then into streams of molten flame surrounded by darkness blacker than a starless night. Cold dread gripped him, a naked fear he had never experienced before. It clenched his innards and sent shivers down his spine that he could neither suppress nor hide. Then his vision cleared, though his senses still reeled from the blow and whatever he had just seen.

"Grishnákh! Get your dirty hands off the prisoners!" a voice yelled out of the darkness, startling Aragorn. "I told you before, they are not to be spoilt, searched or plundered!"

"The Halflings maybe, but not the tark!" Grishnákh spat back, hauling Aragorn up by his collar again and renewing the pressure of the knife against his throat.

Aragorn tried to draw a steadying breath - not an easy task with Grishnákh's fist almost choking him. He kept his eyes fixed on the Orc in a feeble attempt to hide just how unsettled he was, for he could not yet fathom what he had just experienced. But the Orc looming above him, the knife that bit into the skin below his jaw and the enraged Uruk-hai captain that stood behind him left little time to ponder whether he had merely suffered from the after-effects of a blow to the head or if the foresight of his bloodline had revealed a grim outlook of what fate held in store for him.

Whatever the case he could not dwell upon it, could ill afford the distraction. He stood little chance against Grishnákh should the Orc seek retribution for his interference, and he was unsure whether Uglúk would risk another fight among his Orcs for the extra prisoner's sake. But then Uglúk had allowed Merry to tend to him the night before, had allowed him to eat and had forced Orc-draught down his throat ever so often. He seemed quite determined to deliver this prisoner alive as well.

"The tark will be brought before the White Hand for judgement. If he suffers so much as a scratch, you will carry his stinking carcass all the way to Isengard," Uglúk bellowed, his huge figure towering above Aragorn in the dark.

"You wanted to kill him yourself not so long ago," Grishnákh hissed. "How come you pity him all of a sudden? Or has that underling of yours managed to sway your decision?"

"My reasons are not to be questioned!" Uglúk replied. "Least of all by some filthy Mordor-maggot."

Grishnákh shot to his feet, dropping Aragorn in the process. Aragorn groaned as he hit the ground again. Though better prepared than the first time, the impact jarred his aching bones nonetheless, and he fought hard to maintain his focus upon the quarrelling Orcs around him.

"What's your business here anyway?" Uglúk demanded.

"Just making sure the tark and those maggots don't fancy any stupid ideas ... with none of your precious Uruk-hai around as guards." Grishnákh snarled.

"The prisoners are spent," Uglúk said, and heaved a heavy-shod boot in Aragorn's ribs by way of demonstration. Aragorn curled in upon himself reflexively, trying in vain to stifle a moan. "I'd rather have my lads rested for the last leg of our trip than tiring them out watching the prisoners sleep."

"This one doesn't look spent to me," Grishnákh shot back. He dropped to his knees and resumed his iron grip about Aragorn's throat. "Just look at his eyes! I've seen more of them tarks than any of your precious Uruk-hai ever will. You can see it in their eyes whether they are spent or not. And believe me, this one still has a trick or two up his sleeve. I caught him crawling around in the dark."

Aragorn was hard pressed not to snort at Grishnákh's rather inventive account of events. But further interference on his part would be more than futile and earn him nothing but more bruised ribs, so he held his tongue.

"If it is as you say, then I thank you for catching him in time," Uglúk replied, the tone of his voice cold as the night. "I'll send some of my lads to watch over the prisoners and leave you to your rest. We still have a long way ahead of us."

Aragorn released a silent breath as Grishnákh let go of his throat, stood and stalked off into the darkness with one last, killing glare at Uglúk.

"Lugdush!" Uglúk called into the night.

In answer to Uglúk's summons a second Uruk-hai appeared at his shoulder a short time later, and Uglúk continued in a voice almost too soft for Aragorn to hear. "See to it that the prisoners are guarded at all times. Make sure they don't make a run for it. And keep the Mordor maggots away from them! Especially Grishnákh, that old fool."

Lugdush disappeared, but Uglúk remained, regarding Aragorn closely with eyes that seemed to glow with a sick yellow light. "Grishnákh is right. You are more resilient than one of the Horse-boys, even more resilient than the tarks I've known. Maybe Borsúk was right after all, and there is something special about you," Uglúk said, almost to himself. Then he straightened and turned around, watching Lugdush approach with three fellow Uruk-hai in tow. "The White Hand will know," Uglúk murmured with a last glance at Aragorn, then strode off into the night, leaving the task of instructing the guards to his lieutenant.

Aragorn tried to relax, but that proved to be a futile task even though both Uglúk and Grishnákh were gone and their new guards had seated themselves some ways away, posing no immediate threat. The encounter with Grishnákh had left him wide awake; he was shivering in earnest now, and though he had hoped that the cold would eventually dull the pain of his wounds, it only served to cramp already tense muscles. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on something, anything that would distract him from his misery. He almost wished they were moving again; that at least would help to warm his chilled bones. But Uglúk had not seemed to be in a particular hurry. So all Aragorn could do was bide his time and hope for sleep to eventually claim him.

At long last, his thoughts started to drift. Arwen's face appeared before his mind's eye, and he lost himself in the memory of her fathomless gaze.

No nightmare penetrated his dreams, but he woke nonetheless in the cool hour before dawn. At first he thought that the icy chill had deprived him of the meagre comfort of sleep, but then he felt a distant tremor, a faint trembling of the earth and remembered dreaming of horses. Pressing one ear to the ground, he listened closer. At long last he heard it: a faint rumbling, a distant thunder like the sound of many hooves eating away the vast miles of the Riddermark. Hope rose in his heart; help was near, at last.

There would be no more sleep for him that night. Aragorn lay on his side, unmoving, though he longed more than anything to roll onto his back to relieve his aching hip and arm and rid himself of the kinks in his neck. Yet he knew he would regret it. Not only would the dull ache of his injuries flare to new life, his bound arms would grow completely numb if he were to lie upon them, and, worst of all, he would attract the attention of the three Orc-guards, who sat a short distance behind the sleeping Hobbits and talked quietly among themselves. So he tried to draw upon the patience that life among the Elves in the House of Elrond and long years of hunting the Enemy had taught him.

Darkness faded, but the rumbling of approaching horses grew ever louder, now that he knew what to listen for. Aragorn glanced cautiously about. The Orcs seemed oblivious to the threat, yet it was but a matter of time until they, too, would notice. Aragorn did not like the thought of what might happen then. Most likely Uglúk would hasten their departure. Once they entered the forest, they were safe from the horsemen, for the Rohirrim rarely ventured there. Should Uglúk decide to stay, then battle was certain, and Aragorn dreaded the very thought. Bound and helpless as he and the Hobbits were, it was most likely that they would be caught between the hammer and the anvil, or rather beneath the horses' hooves.

Aragorn grew ever more restless. He chafed to act. But with the Orc-guards close and alert, there was little he could do to precipitate their freedom, at least nothing that would allow him and the Hobbits to escape and remain alive.

If only the guards would leave or fall asleep! The majority of the Orcs lay quite some distance away, and watchers stood in a rough circle around their camp. Were he free of his bonds and rid of his guards, it would not be an impossible task to slip through the ring of watchers. Hidden by the long, green grass of Rohan, they would be almost invisible in the grey light of early dawn. Then they would follow the Entwash and meet with the approaching riders. If riders they were and not just unsuspecting herdfolk. Aragorn sighed. He could not be sure. The distant tremor that stirred the ground spoke of great urgency, of a determination to reach some goal. But he had seen Rohirric herdfolk handle their herds often enough to know that they could be as resolute as an éored riding out for battle.

Alas, neither his bonds nor his guards were gone, and he could not lose himself to idle speculation. Yet he would neither wait for the Orcs to break camp nor for battle to find them. They could find shelter with the Rohirrim, no matter whether they met with herdfolk or Riders. But they had to get away from these Orcs! Already dawn was near, and soon Uglúk would order their departure.

Mayhap he could outwit their guards in some way. Just as Aragorn turned his thoughts upon the matter, the guards fell silent, but other Orc-voices could be heard. A cautious glance revealed Uglúk and one of his lieutenants, standing at the edge of the camp, staring in turns at the lands through which they had come and at the dark forest that lay yet before them. So the Rohirrim had been noticed. Shouts rose among the Orcs; one by one they sprang to their feet, crowding around Uglúk for guidance. Even the watchers left their posts to gaze to the South-east, and then, at long last, their guards rose as well and went to join their comrades.

Aragorn could hardly wait for the Orcs to get out of earshot, then hissed, "Merry! Pippin! Wake up!"

The Hobbit lying closest stirred first, but Aragorn had to call twice more before he received an answer.

"Strider, what's wrong?" Merry asked sleepily, then gave, much to Aragorn's astonishment, a hearty yawn as if he had spent the night in a comfortable bed, not upon the cold and damp grass on Rohan's border.

"We must flee! Now!"

Merry sat up, regarding Aragorn with a blank look as if wondering whether the Ranger had taken complete leave of his senses. Shaking his head as he came to the conclusion that Aragorn had obviously meant what he said, he held up his bound hands accusingly. "Good idea, but how do you think we shall do that?"

"We must get rid of those bonds, and quickly! The Orcs are occupied elsewhere, Riders are approaching. We have not the time for discussion!"

"Riders?" Merry looked around, confused. "Where?"

"They are still beyond our range of sight, but the ground speaks of their approach. They are about ten leagues away, I would guess, but advancing fast. The Orcs know they are coming. We must get away. Now!"

"There's nothing I'd rather do ..."

"Do you have something sharp on you, a belt-buckle, a brooch, anything that might serve to undo our bonds?"

"Let me see ..."

"Merry! We do not have the time for jests."

"Confound it, Strider!" Merry hissed back. "If I had a clue about how to get rid of these things, I would have said so. I hoped you had a knife hidden somewhere, you being the Ranger and all that ... "

"I had one, but the Orcs must have taken it away while I was unconscious," Aragorn sighed. "I'm sorry-"

"No need to apologise," Merry's face had turned serious again, "I know what's in store for us."

Aragorn sighed, "No, Merry, you have no idea. And you should be grateful for that."

Aragorn tried in vain to suppress a shudder. An uneasy silence fell between them as Aragorn fought down thoughts about the threat of Saruman and his Uruk-hai so as to better focus on the predicament at hand. But time was running short. No elaborate plan would help them now. "Without tools, our fingers will have to do, though I fear mine are of little use at the moment."

"That's at least worth a try. I can't reach my knots, but maybe I have more luck with yours," Merry said. He rolled onto his stomach and inched over to where Aragorn lay.

Before long, Aragorn felt cool fingers brush against his wrists, then a tug at the ropes binding his hands. There was more tugging, its ferocity increased and he had to grit his teeth to keep quiet. But the ropes would not come loose. He rolled onto his stomach so as to give Merry better access, but to no avail. Aragorn's hope fell as Merry withdrew his hands, muttering curses under his breath.

"Maybe you and Pippin can crawl away regardless of your bonds ..."

"Merry! Strider! What are you up to?" Pippin suddenly piped up around a yawn.

"Trying to get rid of those ropes!" Merry answered tersely, attacking Aragorn's bonds with renewed ferocity.

"Oh, that should be no problem," Pippin said. "I have a knife."

"Pippin!" Merry groaned. "Why didn't you tell us about it? Where did you get it?"

Aragorn chuckled softly at Merry's barrage of questions. "Peace, my friends. We will have plenty of time to discuss our failings and the origins of that knife once we are safe. Now, Master Took, if you would?"

With much deliberation, Pippin sat up, then shook his bound arms before him until a small knife fell upon the ground at his feet.

"Pippin! Hurry!"

Aragorn felt both the urge to laugh and groan at Pippin's sleep-befuddled efforts, but suppressed both and cast an anxious glance over his shoulder instead, making sure their captors were still safely occupied. By the time he returned his attention to his Hobbit companions, Pippin had managed to pick up the knife and held it out before him so that Merry could sever the bonds about his wrists.

Aragorn sighed as first Merry, then Pippin hissed sharply when blood rushed back into their newly freed limbs. There was nothing within his power to ease that moment of agony for either of the Hobbits, and seeing them bite their lips and hold their breaths only reminded him that he would be next. He did not relish the thought of having to move at all, but already Merry set the knife against the rope around his wrists.

"Strider?" Merry asked, and, feeling the Hobbit's hand tighten upon his forearm, Aragorn murmured, "I am ready," before apprehension of the ordeal could delay him.

Fortunately Merry had the presence of mind to hold down his injured arm, for Aragorn knew not whether he would have had the strength to keep it still as pain and dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. Darkness clouded the edge of his vision and stars danced before his eyes as blood rushed back into his hands and fingers and spasms wracked the cramped muscles in his arms.

"Strider?" Pippin's tentative voice broke through his misery, and Aragorn cautiously turned his head to meet Pippin's concerned gaze.

"I shall be fine, Master Took, worry not," he murmured, then drew in a deep breath and rolled over onto his back. For a moment he feared to faint, or to cry out, as searing pain shot up his arms, numbed his entire right side and robbed his breath, and as his world tilted and began to spin. He did not notice that Merry severed the bonds about his legs, and he could not tell how long he lay there, trapped in his agony. As he opened his eyes at length, he met two pale faces, drawn and dirty from their ordeal, regarding him with open worry.

"Are you all right, Strider?" Pippin asked, studying Aragorn's face anxiously while hugging himself tightly against the morning chill.

"Yes, Pippin. I will be fine. There is no need to worry," Aragorn replied, carefully flexing his right forearm and his fingers to assess the extent of damage the Orc-sword and the tight bonds had wrought.

"But you are in pain," Pippin insisted, and one look into the Hobbit's face was enough for Aragorn to know that Pippin would not be fooled by lame excuses.

"Yes, I am. And I would be worried were it otherwise," he said. "Having my arms pulled back eased the pressure on the broken bone a bit, and I have to accustom myself to the change. But I feel much improved already," he added, though his words did not sound convincing even to his own ears.

"Do you want me to look at your shoulder again?" Merry asked.

Aragorn shook his head. "No, Merry, we have no time for that." With a grimace he sat up, clutching his arm tightly to his chest. Another spike of pain surged through him and another bout of vertigo gripped him, and he closed his eyes, annoyed at how weakened that wound had left him. The sound of ripping cloth reached his ears, and before long he found his arm secured in a sling. "Thank you, Merry," he whispered, as the Hobbit gave the knot at the back of his neck one final tug.

Aragorn drew a deep breath, set his jaw and shoved all thoughts about pain and discomfort firmly to the back of his mind. He could not allow his injury to distract him anymore. One quick glance around revealed all he had to know. The entire Orc-horde had gathered near the south-eastern fringe of the knoll on which they had spent the night. Their attention was still fixed upon their approaching foes, though Aragorn doubted they would continue to stare to the south-east much longer, for dawn was coming, and by the way Uglúk had earlier stared at the forest, he seemed to be expecting something or someone to come from there. Already wisps of clouds to the east were painted blood-red as the sun crept up to the horizon. The time to act had come!

"We do not have much time, so listen closely," he said to the Hobbits who knelt expectantly before him. "Head west from here, then make for the river. The banks are steep and will hide you from sight; the water will conceal your tracks. Stay low, draw your cloaks around you and use the hoods. The elven cloth will help you to hide in plain sight. Wait until the battle is over or the Orcs are gone. Then either hail the Rohirrim, if there are any, or follow the river to the south. There you should meet with friendly folk who will see to your safety. Do not enter the forest, unless there is no other choice..."

"You are not coming with us?" Merry asked, and Aragorn did not fail to notice that Pippin moved unconsciously closer to his cousin.

"No, I will not. I will retrieve my weapons and head south from here, follow the river and join the Riders ere they attack."

"I mean no offence, Strider, but I doubt you are fit for a fight," Merry stated, arms folded before his chest.

Aragorn smiled at the indignant posture of the young Hobbit. "I do not mean to fight. But knowing the number of one's foes and the weapons they have at hand can be crucial in a battle." He paused for a moment, pondering whether the Hobbits should hear the drawbacks of his plan as well. But chances were that they would have to find their own way back to safety, though he hated to admit it.

"There is more that you should now," Aragorn added at length. "There is a small chance that those approaching riders are not warriors but normal herdfolk. If that should turn out to be so, I mean to warn them off and ask them to send for aid. The Orcs will come looking for us, once they find us gone, and they will find a track to follow that will not lead in your direction." The way Merry swallowed and Pippin's eyes widened at his words were proof enough that the Hobbits understood the gravity of their situation. "You must stick to our plan, no matter what you may see or hear!"

"Why don't you just come with us?" Pippin asked in a meek voice.

Aragorn sighed. He had expected the question, after all. "The fringes of the forest offer better protection, but it lies upwind and the Orcs have an excellent sense of smell. They can smell fresh blood over quite some distance even if the wind is as light as it is today. If we part ways, I have a chance of drawing the Orcs away from you rather than the other way round."

"But what if they catch you?"

Pippin's worry was so obvious that Aragorn laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Better they catch me alone than all three of us. And if they do, they will face a formidable foe."

"As formidable as you were when they caught you?" Merry threw in.

Aragorn had to swallow hard to not let anger come in the way of reason. "I was taken by surprise then. That will not happen a second time," he answered, more testily than he would have liked.

"I am sorry," Merry sighed, shoulders sagging. "I guess you know what you're doing."

"Not always," Aragorn replied with a crooked grin, which seemed to ease the gloomy mood for a moment. A wan smile softened Merry's dirt-streaked face and Pippin wiped his dripping nose and leaking eyes with a resolute swipe of his sleeve.

But as quickly as the cheerfulness had come, it vanished, and Aragorn saw only sad understanding in Merry's eyes. "Time to say goodbye, isn't it?" the Hobbit asked at length.

Aragorn nodded, ignoring the queer tone that had entered the Hobbit's voice. "Yes, we must hurry. But we will meet again." Aragorn held Merry's gaze for a while and clasped the Hobbit's shoulder.

As he turned to Pippin, the younger Hobbit all but flung himself at Aragorn's neck. "Careful now, Master Took," Aragorn chided softly as he returned the embrace. Pippin stepped away only reluctantly, unobtrusively wiping his eyes. "Go now," Aragorn said, just as the sun rose like a fiery ball, casting the plains of Rohan in a clear, blood-red light.

With one last glance the Hobbits turned away from him, pulled their hoods above their heads and quickly vanished in the long grass of the Riddermark.

With a deep breath and a silent prayer for the Hobbits' safety, Aragorn turned around. Already the Orcs were cursing the bright sunlight, and he knew he was running out of time. While he had lain awake he had spotted Borsúk who had carried Andúril throughout the day. The place were he had rested lay only a relatively short distance away and nowhere near the current gathering of Orcs.

He drew up his hood and rose to his hand and knees, cursing under his breath as another bout of dizziness assailed him and the ground swayed dangerously beneath him. Ignoring the rushing of blood in his ears, he forced muscles, stiffened from two days of marching and a night's rest into cooperation and carefully picked his way through the Orcs' camp to Borsúk's abandoned resting place.

He had covered about half the distance when he froze in his tracks. The indistinct mound before him gave a loud snorting sound and turned around. Aragorn cursed himself for having failed to notice the sleeping Orc. But beneath the threadbare, patched up blanket and with the hideous assembly of clothes and armoury that the Orc wore, Aragorn was not really surprised that he had mistaken the creature for a pile of packs and gear in the slanted light of the rising sun.

He allowed himself to relax as the Orc's breathing evened out again and continued his way towards his goal, closely scrutinising the scattered belongings of the Orcs as he crawled along on hands and knees. His heart beat faster. There, between the Orcs' packs, lay Andúril, its elven sheath glittering in the morning sun as if the Valar had lit a beacon. Hope leapt up in Aragorn's heart like a bright flame, banishing all thought of weariness and pain. Swiftly he picked up the sword and the belt attached to it, rose to his feet and stole away from the Orc camp as silently as a whisper of the wind.

He scrambled down the steep banks of the Entwash only a short while later, but already his heart hammered loudly in his chest and sweat stood upon his brow. The joy for his newfound freedom was not sufficient to ease all hurts. He could not afford to linger long in this hiding place, but neither could he afford to rush his flight, for his strength would not last long. So he knelt down by the river's edge, splashed water upon his face, rinsed the rope burns that marred his wrists and quenched his thirst with the icy liquid. With some effort he managed to fasten his belt, and immediately felt more confident with the familiar weight of the sword at his hip. In his belt-pouch he found a waver of lembas, which he quickly washed down with some more water.

Revived by the cold water and the elvish waybread, he left his hiding place and made off south-east, heading towards the morning sun and ever following the swift-flowing Entwash. For the most part he walked in the water, slipping on slick, well-rounded rocks, his feet growing numb from the icy stream. But he made swift progress in spite of the slippery ground, for he did not take care to conceal his tracks. On the contrary, he made sure to leave footprints upon the soft soil of the water's edge every so often and did not hesitate to reach for the undergrowth to steady himself when he lost his footing. Whenever the river bank dropped low enough to catch a glimpse of the Orcs assembled on the slope of the knoll, he looked back, noting with satisfaction the growing distance and the fact that they still seemed oblivious to the absence of their captives.

But he had known all along that their disappearance would not go unnoticed forever, so the outraged yell did not catch him by surprise though he flinched with the knowledge that battle was upon him. A familiar flash of excitement mingled with apprehension surged through him as he left the cover of the river bank, fought his way through the brambles that grew along the stream and broke into a run as soon as he stepped upon the open plain. His plan seemed to work, the yells behind him grew louder as soon as the Orcs had caught sight of him. If only his strength would last until he reached the riders.

Running with one arm strapped to his chest was an awkward endeavour, even with the rush of battle coursing through his veins, but he must not falter. The Hobbits' safety depended on how much time he would buy them, and the thought lent him strength, helped him to block out pain and exhaustion for now. But the Orcs were gaining on him. Their yells grew louder, and before long an arrow skidded to a stop in the long grass beside him. He picked up speed, though he knew not how long he could maintain it. For now it kept him out of the range of the Orcs' arrows. If only the Riders would arrive, Aragorn thought between glances over his shoulder and up ahead, but the morning sun, still low in the sky, blinded him, obscuring what lay ahead.

He heard another arrow drop to the ground behind him, and he tensed in anticipation of that final blow between his shoulder blades, of that last flare of pain, but nothing happened. Maybe he could outrun the Orcs after all? Another glance over his shoulder revealed that that was but wishful thinking. The Orcs' lack of aim was not caused by the distance but rather by the light of the sun blinding them more than it did Aragorn. At least they were still on his heels, they had neither abandoned him to search for the Hobbits instead nor caught up with him yet. Relief washed over him but was shattered by a sharp blow to the thigh that tore his left leg from beneath him.

To be continued ...

A/N: Thanks, AmandaK, for beta-reading and catching all those phrases I obviously fell in love with and repeated over and over again.

Next chapter: Meetings and Partings (featuring Boromir, Legolas and Gimli)

I won't make any promises as to when it will be finished, but I've set up a livejournal at http://www.livejournal.com/users/fliewatuet where you can pester me for updates. I might even post a preview once in a while ...

fliewatuet
Last modified: Sat Nov 20 18:40:36 CET 2004

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Eastemnet, February 30th, 3019 (afternoon)

Boromir stood panting, hand braced against one knee, blinking away sweat that trickled into his eyes. He would have cursed both his lack of stamina and Legolas' insistence that they divert from the Orc-track and scale this particular hill, but he had not enough air left to do so. His lungs burned, his wounds stung from sweat soaking the bandages and the strain of many days' travel across Rohan; and their prey was farther ahead than ever.

At least they had made it this far together. Throughout the four days that lay behind them, Boromir had more than once pleaded with his companions to go ahead and not wait for him to recover from spells of dizziness or from muscles cramped with fatigue. Instead, whenever he had been overcome with weariness, Legolas and Gimli had insisted he lay down for a short rest, had offered him lembas and water and patiently waited for his meagre strength to return. The guilt and failure that always gnawed at him had made those enforced rests impossibly hard to endure. Yet he had had no other choice but to swallow his pride, accept his companions' aid and move on as soon as he could.

Boromir sighed as he slowly regained his breath. At least the effort of climbing the hill - it was smooth and bare and stood by itself, most northerly of the downs - was rewarded with a wide view. Though the afternoon sun was barely visible behind the layers of mist and cloud that had risen from the Wold throughout the day, Boromir could make out the dark smudge of a huge forest in the distance. He knew that the southernmost peaks of the Misty Mountains lay there as well, but they were invisible to his mortal eyes. Invisible as well was any sign of their quarry.

"Your eyes are keenest, Legolas." Boromir turned to the Elf who stood still as a statue, gazing into the distance. "What do you see?"

"A large group of riders approaches fast; one hundred and five, yellow of hair and bearing bright spears."

"Riders of Rohan," Boromir murmured, and for the first time in days something akin to hope lifted his spirit. He strained his eyes to make out the horsemen in the distance, but upon the grey and formless landscape he could only discern the broad swath of trampled grass left by the passing orc-horde. "Keen indeed are the eyes of the Elves, for I can see naught."

"They come riding down the orc-trail," Legolas replied. "Less than three leagues away. They will be here within an hour."

"And the Orcs?" Gimli asked. "Where are they?"

"I cannot tell. They seem to have vanished from sight," Legolas said with a soft sigh, his eyes distant. "But smoke rises from the edge of the forest, from a huge, smoldering pile. It is certainly no forest fire and too large for a camp fire."

Though he had known all along that they stood little chance to ever catch up with their prey, the real hopelessness of their quest, the knowledge that they had truly failed their friends hit Boromir hard that very moment. He dropped his gaze and stared at the ground to compose himself. Taking a few deep breaths, he summoned determination and banished all thoughts about their friends' fate firmly to the back of his awareness. He would not believe Aragorn and the Hobbits dead until he had seen their cold corpses.

"Our hunt might have failed," he said, his voice grim. "Mayhap others have succeeded. Let us greet those riders and hear their tidings."

To his surprise, his companions seemed rather hesitant. Gimli's brow was wrinkled by a frown, and Legolas looked troubled. "Is this a wise choice?" the Elf asked. "Did not Mithrandir question the loyalty of Rohan?"

Boromir could not quite suppress a snort. "Not all who are wary of Mithrandir's counsel are counted among our enemies. My father, the Steward of Gondor, is not too fond of Mithrandir's meddlings either."

Legolas merely cocked his head at Boromir's words. At length he admitted, "Little do I know about this land and the Men who dwell here."

"I have crossed this land less than a year ago," Boromir said, unwilling to give in to his companions' reservations. "They welcomed me as a friend, gave me provisions and even a horse for my journey to Imladris. I have no reason to doubt their loyalty."

"Then I will follow your counsel," Legolas said after some contemplation, "and bow to your judgement."

Down the northern slope they went and halted a little above the hill's foot. There they sat down upon the faded grass, wrapping their elven cloaks about them to ward off the damp chill that had descended upon the land along with the mist.

They did not have to wait long. A grin spread across Boromir's face as he could make out the tall figure of the foremost rider and the crest of a white horsetail flowing from his helm. Ignoring the wary looks of his companions, Boromir rose, threw back his cloak and called, "Hail Éomer, son of Éomund! What tidings from the North?"

After a moment's hesitation, the foremost rider raised his spear, and, with a speed and skill that never failed to astonish Boromir, the entire group checked their steeds and came to a stop. Boromir made his way down the last few yards of the hill-slope, Gimli and Legolas close behind. As they approached, the leading horseman leapt off his horse and gave his spear into the hands of another rider who had dismounted as well.

"Boromir, son of Denethor," he called. "Too long has it been since I last saw you, and this is the place I least expected to meet you again."

"And it is good to see you, too, Éomer," Boromir said with a laugh as he stepped up to clasp Éomer's outstretched arm in a warrior's greeting.

"Had you not hailed me, I would not have seen you. And I hardly recognised you," Éomer said while he let his eyes roam over Boromir and his companions. "Strange are your garments and strange your companions. " His gaze came to rest upon the arm Boromir still wore in a sling. "And you are wounded."

"But not seriously so. My wounds are but a painful nuisance and healing well," Boromir replied. He could not quite keep the mirth out of his voice: seeing Éomer standing there before him, in flesh and blood, a man he knew from what seemed another lifetime, was like coming home unexpectedly. Recalling his manners, he turned to Gimli. "This, Éomer, is Gimli, son of Glóin, a Dwarf from Erebor. You would not want to meet the sharp end of his axe. And this," he turned to Legolas, "is Legolas, son of Thranduil, an Elf from distant Mirkwood. He is one of the most skillful archers I have ever met."

"You went to find the answer to a dream and return in the company of legends." Éomer looked at the Elf and Dwarf in awe. "Yet when your horse returned to us, we feared you lost. Alas, that we are in haste, for you must have quite a tale to tell. And I would like to know how you came by those strange garments. Are they of elvish make?"

"I hope we will find the time for you to hear our tale in full," Boromir said. "For now, know that I found Imladris and set out for my home in a company of nine. We passed through the mountains and through the elven realm of Lothlórien, where we were given these cloaks."

Éomer looked at them with renewed wonder, but his eyes hardened. "Is there indeed a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell?" he asked. "Few escape her nets, they say. These are strange days!" His voice turned cold and his eyes narrowed. "If she let you go, she has turned your hearts, maybe." He turned a hard stare suddenly upon Legolas and Gimli.

Gimli stepped forward and planted his feet firmly apart. His hand gripped the handle of his axe, and his dark eyes flashed. "Let me warn you against foolish words, horsemaster," he growled. "You speak evil of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought, and only little wit can excuse you."

Éomer's eyes blazed, and his men murmured angrily, and urged their horses closer. Boromir felt Legolas stiffen beside him. "Peace, Gimli!" he said, hoping the irate Dwarf would not take offence at what he was about to say next. "As you can see, Éomer, she did turn our hearts, indeed, or at least the heart of our Dwarf." His words held a levity he did not quite feel. "Or have you heard of a Dwarf defending the honour of an Elf?"

Éomer's wariness did not leave him, and his close scrutiny made Boromir feel more than a little wary himself. Gone was the feeling of familiarity, and he wondered how seamlessly their friendly talk had turned to the worse. "Éomer!" he tried once more, hoping to make the other see sense. "We passed through her realm and were treated as guests should be treated: kindly and with honour. The Lady of the Golden Wood does hold a power that no other Elf I have met on my journey can match. I was against entering the Golden Woods myself, yes, and will not deny that I still cannot fully understand her ways. Yet we were neither ensnared nor threatened in any way, but given shelter, provisions, gifts and such counsel as she could give."

But what she had seen in his thoughts, Boromir did not say.

Éomer remained doubtful, but at length he spoke. "I would believe you, Boromir of Gondor, for the sake of the old alliance between our realms, but I know not whether I can still trust you."

"The Men of Minas Tirith are true to their word!" Boromir all but snapped, fighting hard to restrain his anger, though he was glad for it, for it repelled the nagging feeling of guilt. "And none can change that, neither Elf, Wizard, Man, Dwarf or even the forces of the Black Land! But what about you, Éomer, son of Éomund? Whom do you serve? Can I still trust you?"

"What is the meaning of this, Boromir?" Éomer asked, eyes narrowed, an edge to his voice that cut like a knife. The angry murmur among his men became louder.

"I mean to know whether you are friend or foe of the Enemy. Rumour has it that Rohan pays tribute to the Dark Lord in Mordor."

"I serve only the Lord of the Mark, Théoden King, son of Thengel, as you should know!" Éomer snapped back. "We do not serve the Power of the Black Land, but neither are we yet at open war with him. But there is trouble now on all our borders; we are threatened. And you would do well to tell me what you are doing in our land."

"Peace, my lord Éomer, Boromir," Legolas spoke for the first time, and all eyes were upon him at once. "Let us not fall for lies and rumour spread by the Enemy. I, for one, am willing to believe that Rohan does not serve the Dark Lord." He fixed Éomer with his intense gaze that few mortals could endure, as if challenging the other to defy his words. "As for our purpose in your fair land: we are hunting Orcs."

"I admit to knowing little about your people, Master Elf," Éomer replied, ignoring the amused whispers that spread among his riders. "But you seem to know little of Orcs, if you go hunting them in this fashion. They were swift and well-armed, and they were many. You would have changed from hunters to prey, if ever you had overtaken them."

"I have hunted Orcs since your forefathers were young," Legolas replied, and Boromir marvelled at the calmness the Elf kept in his voice, for he himself was still seething with barely suppressed anger. "We do not hunt them in this fashion out of choice: they took captive three of our friends."

Éomer looked the Elf up and down with a mix of awe and puzzlement on his face. "These are indeed strange days," he muttered. "But now I would hear your tale in full." He turned his attention back to Boromir.

"This is neither the time nor the place to speak openly of all I learnt on my journey north, Éomer," Boromir said in as calm a voice as he could muster. "But open war lies before us, before all the free peoples of Middle-earth. Now that you know of our need, I ask for your help, or at least for tidings. What can you tell us of the Orc-host that held captive our friends?"

"That you need not pursue them further," Éomer said. To Boromir's eyes he seemed weary. "The Orcs are destroyed. One of my scouts was almost killed by them when they came down out of the East Wall. But he warned me, three days ago at nightfall. He reported that some Orcs bore the white badges of Saruman. So suspecting what I most fear, a league between Orthanc and the Dark Tower, I led forth my éored, men of my own household; and we reached the Orcs yesterday at noon, on the borders of the Entwood. There we surrounded them, and gave battle. Fifteen of my men I lost, and twelve horses alas! For the Orcs were greater in number than we counted on. Others joined them, coming out of the East across the Great River: their trail is plain to see a little north of this spot. And others, too, came out of the forest. Great Orcs, who also bore the White Hand of Isengard: that kind is stronger and more fell than all others."

Éomer squared his shoulders, and there was pride in his gaze. "Nonetheless we put an end to them."

"And our friends?" Boromir asked, though he already feared the answer.

"We found none but Orcs."

"But that is strange indeed," Boromir said. "Did you search the slain? Were there no bodies other than those of orc-kind? Two of our friends would be small. Only children to your eyes, unshod but clad in grey. The third was a man, tall and lean, taller even than I am. Dark-haired and grey-eyed, and he was wounded: he took a sword-cut to the shoulder."

"There was no man, and neither were there Dwarves or children," Éomer replied. "We counted all the slain and despoiled them, and then we piled the carcases and burned them, as is our custom. The ashes are smoking still."

"We do not speak of Dwarves or children," Gimli said. "They were Hobbits."

"Hobbits?" Éomer asked. "And what may they be? It is a strange name."

"A strange name for a strange folk," Gimli answered. "But these were very dear to us."

"You know of the words that sent me north," Boromir added. "They spoke of the Halfling. These Hobbits are Halflings."

"Halflings!" Éomer laughed, but he could not quite keep the astonishment out of his voice. "Halflings! But they are only a little people in old songs and children's tales out of the North. Do we walk in legends or on the green earth in the daylight?"

"I thought they were but legends as well," Boromir said simply. "But I learnt my share about legends. And as Gimli said, they are very dear to us."

A rider approached Éomer and spoke urgently to him in his own tongue. Éomer looked pensive, then nodded, and gave a short reply. The rider returned to his waiting comrades and spoke a few words. Soon they drew off and left Éomer alone with the three companions.

"Time is pressing," Éomer said. "But you have not told all. Will you not now speak more fully of your errand, so that I may judge what to do?"

"We set out from Imladris many weeks ago," Boromir said. "To our company belonged Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir and bearer of the Sword that was Broken and is forged anew. His errand was to go to Minas Tirith with me, to aid our people in the war against the Enemy. But the rest of our company had other business. Of that I dare not speak now. Mithrandir, or Gandalf the Grey, as he was named in the North, was our leader."

"Gandalf!" Éomer exclaimed. "Gandalf Greyhame is known in the Mark: but he no longer holds the favour of Théoden King, so be cautious when you mention his name. He has been a guest in this land many times in the memory of men, coming at will, after a season, or after many years. He is ever the herald of strange events: a bringer of evil, some now say."

Boromir could only nod at those words; too familiar were the complaints about Mithrandir's unpredictable appearances. He swallowed down a sudden pain, a longing for the white walls and solemn halls of his home, and the well-known voice of his father that filled them. But it was Éomer's voice that reached his ears, and Boromir forced himself to listen. "... Until last summer we counted Saruman our friend, but Gandalf came then and warned us that sudden war was preparing in Isengard. And once more his counsel proved just. Saruman has since claimed lordship over all this land, and there has been strife between us for many months. He has taken Orcs into his service, and Wolf-riders, and evil Men, and he has closed the Gap against us, so that we are likely to be beset both east and west. But Théoden did not listen to Gandalf's warning."

"Mithrandir will give warnings no more," Boromir said. "He fell into darkness in the Mines of Moria."

"That is heavy tidings!"

Silence followed the revelation, only broken by the sigh of the soft breeze coming from the north-east. Boromir again felt a grief he had not deemed possible only weeks ago. How this journey had changed him. Next to him, Legolas and Gimli stood still.

At length, he cleared his throat. The Enemy would strike regardless of their grief. "Aragorn led us after Mithrandir fell. After we left Lothlórien, we followed the Great River until Parth Galen and the falls of Rauros. There we were attacked by the same Orcs whom you destroyed. There the sword of Elendil and its bearer fell into the hands of the Enemy."

"I take it that this Aragorn was a worthy man."

"Aye, that he is," Boromir paused. "He is one of the best swordsmen I have ever met and a valiant comrade at that. Alas, he is not invincible. I proved to be his undoing." Back was that overwhelming sense of failure, shame and guilt that ever hovered on the brink of his awareness.

The warmth of a hand placed upon his back brought him back to the present, and he became aware that Gimli spoke to him. "This is no more your fault than it is mine, or the Elf's. But all those could-have-beens and would-have-beens will neither help him nor us but distract us all. Alas, five days of pursuit in vain-"

"Five days?" Éomer said, raising an eyebrow in astonishment. "You have left the falls of Rauros but five days ago and have come this far on foot?"

"We had no other choice," Boromir said.

"Forty leagues and five in five days, and injured at that! 'Tis a deed that should be sung in many a hall. Hardy are the men of Gondor! And the Elves and Dwarves," Éomer added hastily with a wary glance at Gimli.

Boromir sighed. With memories of Aragorn's desperate fight newly awakened, he did not feel like he deserved Éomer's praise. But this was neither the time nor the place to recount that part of his tale in full, and Boromir was relieved when Éomer spoke again, unaware of his unease.

"But now, Boromir, what would you have me do! I must return in haste to Théoden. I rode north without the king's leave, and in my absence his house is left with little guard. It is true that we are not yet at open war with the Black Land, and there are some, close to the king's ear, that speak craven counsels; but war is coming. We shall not forsake our old alliance with Gondor, and while they fight we shall aid them."

"Then help us find our friends," Boromir said.

"I am sorry, Boromir, but you will not find your friends on the North-borders, and I cannot spare a company on such a hopeless quest. We have been too long away. We are needed south and west."

"Yet our friends are not behind. We found a clear token not far from the East Wall that one at least of them was still alive there," Legolas spoke. "But between the wall and the downs we have found no other trace of them, and no trail has turned aside, this way or that, unless my eyes betrayed me."

"Then what do you think has become of them?"

"Who can tell?" Boromir said. "They may have been slain and burned among the Orcs; but that you say cannot be, and I refuse to believe that they are dead. I can only think that they were carried off into the forest before the battle, even before you encircled the Orcs. Can you swear that none escaped your net in such a way?"

"I would swear that no Orc escaped after we sighted them," said Éomer. "But we did not reach the forest-eaves before them, and they awaited us in numbers. Yet no living thing broke through our ring once it was closed. What happened before that, I cannot tell."

"Then we have need of haste all the more," Boromir said, "for their peril is more dire than ever."

"And what would you do should you find them and the Orcs that carried them away?" Éomer asked. "You are wounded, Boromir, and must be weary. Will you not come with me to the king's house? There are spare horses as you see. In Edoras you can rest, and once you are healed there is much work for your sword to do, if you will aid us ere you return home. The Captain of Gondor would be a strength indeed to the Sons of Eorl in this evil tide. There is battle even now upon the Westemnet, and I fear that it may go ill for us. We could also find a use for Gimli's axe and the bow of Legolas, if they will pardon my rash words concerning the Lady of the Wood. I spoke only as do all men in my land, and I would gladly learn better. Do I hope in vain that you have been sent to me for a help in doubt and need?"

"I am willing to forgive your foolish words, for now," Gimli said, "and my axe desires to cleave some more Orc-heads, yet we cannot desert our friends while hope remains."

"And I am not free to do all as I would," Éomer said as if in apology. "It is against our law to let strangers wander at will in our land, until the king himself shall give them leave, and more strict is the command in these days of peril."

"But I am no stranger!" Boromir said heatedly, "and I vouch for my companions."

A hand on his arm prevented him from saying more. "Éomer is right, Boromir," Legolas said softly. "You are wounded and weary. Why do you not ride with him to his home and seek rest there and speak for Gimli and me before his King. If Éomer would lend us horses, we would stand an even better chance of finding our friends and freeing them ..."

Éomer fell silent for a moment, then he spoke. "We all have need of haste," he said. "My company chafes to be away, and every hour lessens your hope. This is my choice. Come with me, Boromir, and speak to Théoden King. Mayhap he will heed your advice where he refuses to hear mine." He turned to Legolas and Gimli. "To you I will give horses, and I only ask that when your quest is achieved, or is proved vain, you return with the horses over the Entwade to Meduseld, the high house in Edoras where Théoden now sits. For I would much desire to see that axe and bow wielded against our foes."

"I will come, Éomer," Boromir said with a sigh. If he could aid their friends by enabling Legolas and Gimli to move unhindered and with greater speed, then he would not stand in their way. Turning, he made to follow Éomer to where his riders waited, fighting disappointment.

Éomer's orders that spare horses were to be given to the Elf and Dwarf were met with many dark and doubtful glances; but only one of his riders dared to speak openly.

"It may be well enough for the Captain of Gondor," he said, "but who has heard of a horse of the Mark being given to a Dwarf?"

"No one," said Gimli. "And do not trouble: no one will ever hear of it. I would sooner walk than sit on the back of any beast so great."

"But you must ride now, or our friends are truly lost!" Boromir said.

"Come, you shall sit behind me, friend Gimli," Legolas said. "Then all will be well, and you need neither borrow a horse nor be troubled by one." To everyone's relief, Gimli agreed.

A great dark-grey horse was brought to Boromir, and the rider who led it helped him mount. "Hasufel is his name," said Éomer. "May he bear you well and to better fortune than Gárulf, his late master!"

A smaller and lighter horse, but restive and fiery, was brought to Legolas. Éomer introduced him as Arod. Legolas asked the Riders to take off saddle and rein. "I need them not," he said, and leaped lightly up, and to everyone's wonder Arod was tame and willing beneath him, moving here and there with but a spoken word: such was the elvish way with all good beasts. Gimli was lifted up behind his friend, and he clung to him, not much more at ease than Sam Gamgee in a boat.

"Farewell, and may you find what you seek!" Éomer cried. "Return with what speed you may, so that we can ride to battle together."

"We will come when we may, but we will come," Legolas said.

"The matter of the Lady Galadriel lies still between us, after all," Gimli said. "I have yet to teach you gentle speech."

"We shall see," Éomer said. "So many strange things have chanced that to learn the praise of a fair lady under the loving strokes of a Dwarf's axe will seem no great wonder. Farewell!"

"Farewell, my friends," Boromir said at last, his eyes wistful. "Ride with all speed." There was more he wished to say, but words failed him, and Éomer already sat astride his horse. With one last glance at the strange sight of the Elf and Dwarf on the saddle-less horse, he turned to follow Éomer.

And so they parted. Very swift were the horses of Rohan. When after a little while Gimli looked back, Boromir and the company of riders were but small specks in the distance, and the land around them became once more devoid of any living thing. Gimli sighed. So now it was just the two of them, all that was left of the Fellowship: an Elf and a Dwarf.

And stuck on the same cursed horse at that, Gimli thought as an unpredictable leap of said horse flung him forward, straight into Legolas' back, so that he had to tighten his hold upon the Elf's waist in order to maintain his seat.

"There is no need to crush me," Legolas said over his shoulder, mirth in his voice. "Arod will not let you fall."

Gimli gave a grunt to tide over his embarrassment. "I believe you no more than I trust that horse. He just tried to toss me!"

The wind blew Legolas' clear laughter to Gimli's ears, and the vastness of the empty land became at once less oppressive. "He merely leapt over a small hollow in the ground. Had he tried to toss you, he would have succeeded."

"I may be but a Dwarf and no rider, but he will not get rid of me so easily."

"You bounce upon his back like some ill-fastened piece of baggage," Legolas replied. "Were he as ill-tempered as you, he would throw you with but a single buck."

"Pah! He would not dare!"

"Shall I ask it of him?"

"Don't try my patience, Elf!" Gimli growled.

"There would be no need to try your patience. Arod is a clever beast and your request is easy enough to explain."

"It would slow us down."

"Maybe, but not significantly so. I would explain your desire to Arod, he would buck, you would fall, I would help you back up and we could be on our way within the blink of an eye."

"I never said that I wished to be thrown."

"But you did challenge Arod's willingness to bear you."

"I did challenge Arod's willingness to not throw me."

For a brief moment, Gimli wondered whether he had indeed managed to drive the Elf to the point where he was at a loss of words. But then he noticed Legolas' stiffened posture and the way he gazed ahead. They had come to the borders of the Entwash, and even Gimli could make out the trail of which Éomer had spoken, coming down from the East out of the Wold.

But already the light was fading. Arod slowed his pace. Where the trails met, the horse came to a stop and Legolas leapt lightly off his back, leaving Gimli at the beast's mercy. Arod moved away from the trail, lowered his head and began to pluck off the rich, green grass that grew in abundance where it had not been trampled by the passing Orcs. Gimli swallowed nervously. Arod seemed completely oblivious of his presence, and the ground was still so very far away. He looked around frantically in search for Legolas and found him, to his great relief, not far away, stooped low to better examine the ground.

Before long, Legolas returned and leapt upon Arod's back without further explanation. The horse sped forward again, following the eastward trail, while Legolas' eyes were fixed upon the ground. After a short while, the Elf again dismounted, studied the footprints, walked ahead some ways and to either side of the trail. Gimli thought he saw him shake his head, but in the deepening dusk all colours had vanished, and the Elf seemed to have melted into the greying landscape.

Beneath him, Arod shifted, and Gimli grasped his mane uneasily. But Arod had no mischief in mind. He raised his head and pricked his ears: Legolas returned from his investigations.

"They did not come along this trail," Legolas said as soon as he was within hearing range. "It leads towards the main trail, and I could not discern any sign of feet going the other way, back towards Anduin."

"Then let us not waste precious time but follow the other trail," Gimli said as Legolas mounted again.

The Elf merely shook his head. "It will be fully dark ere long," he said, turning so that he could fully face Gimli. "Even my eyes are not keen enough to make out a Hobbit's footprint or a cast-away token in the night."

"If that is what we are looking for and not just corpses," Gimli muttered darkly as Arod turned around, heading back towards the main trail and the Entwash.

They rested for the night a short distance from the broad swath of churned earth, where the ground fell towards the river. The night was cold, the grass damp, and Gimli slept fitfully, though he had taken first watch and had been bone weary as he had lain down after waking Legolas.

The horse they had let roam freely, though Gimli doubted his willingness to stay. But in the absence of rope they had had no other choice, and Legolas had assured him that Arod would not abandon them. And indeed he did not. Throughout the cold hours of his watch, Gimli had heard him, munching lush grass a little way upstream. As Gimli woke with the return of light, the horse stood next to Legolas, allowing the Elf to caress his huge head.

Gimli shook his head at the sight. Elves and horses, he thought. The strangest creatures imaginable, and I am stuck with both!

Yet the growing light reminded him of their duty towards their missing friends and the time they had already wasted. After a frugal meal of lembas and water, they were off again, and Gimli found himself once more at Legolas' and Arod's mercy.

For several hours they followed the trail upstream, Legolas' eyes fixed upon the ground all the while. Even though the Elf dismounted from time to time, they found no trace of their quarry. Gimli could not quite rid himself of the fear that they would miss a sign, for the landscape swept by fast, and keen though Legolas' eyes were, hundreds of Orc-feet and the hooves of many horses had turned the ground upside down, covering every other track.

Yet what choice did they have? If they were to study every bent blade of grass, they would be busy until the changing of the world. Their horse's speed, keen elven eyes and luck would have to do, though Gimli did not relish the amount of luck they would need to find their friends in this vast land.

Mid-morning found them at the edge of Fangorn forest at last. The trees proved a dark and menacing barrier that Gimli did not wish to breach. The very air seemed thick and stifling, and not only due to the stench of charred flesh that still hung heavily about the cooling pile of burnt Orcs. But the stench was not the only sign of recent battle. Where the river came streaming out from the edge of the wood, there was a mound covered with fresh-cut turves and surrounded by fifteen spears. And before the cooling remains of the Rider's bonfire sat the head of an Uruk-hai upon a spear stuck into the ground, its shattered helm still showing the badge of the White Hand, a sight that filled Gimli with grim satisfaction.

Legolas dismounted and helped Gimli off the horse as well. "Now, where do we start?" Gimli asked as soon as his feet touched solid ground.

"What about that knoll over there?" Legolas suggested, pointing towards a single rise not three furlongs away from the forest's edge. "I can see the remains of a camp up there. It seems as if the Orcs rested there, for the Riders stayed near the river, over there."

Gimli followed Legolas' outstretched arm with his eyes but could discern little that would prove the Elf's point. Yet he saw no reason to doubt Legolas' words, so he turned towards the knoll with a weary sigh.

That the Orcs had camped on top of the knoll, as Legolas had claimed, became obvious as soon as they reached that place. The ground was littered with abandoned packs, refuse, discarded weapons and bits of armoury, all crudely fashioned. Yet signs of their friends they found none, at least not at a first glance around.

"Nothing," Gimli sighed. "'Tis as I feared: they are gone."

"I would have never thought that Dwarves fall prey to despair so easily."

"Pah! I do not despair," Gimli replied with a growl. "Just look around: Nothing but Orc-refuse, Orc-carcasses, and a bleak land devoid of life."

"Think, my friend!" Legolas said. "If you were an Orc-horde-"

"Legolas!"

"... and you had prisoners and were resting upon this lovely hill-top," Legolas went on undaunted. "Where would you keep your prisoners?"

"Stupid question!" Gimli growled. "In the middle of the camp, of course."

"Well, Orcs are stupid creatures. Hence we will begin our investigations in the middle of their camp."

From the middle of the knoll they soon spotted a small stretch of ground that was not littered with refuse, and there they found at long last the signs they had longed to find for days. There, before them upon the hard and dry ground lay pieces of a crudely-fashioned yet sturdy rope. The knots were still in place, but the rope itself had been cut. The cuts were ragged as if someone with a dull blade had severed the bonds, or someone in great haste.

Gimli looked at Legolas, who knelt upon the ground, running his fingers over the crude bonds absentmindedly. "What make you of these?" Gimli asked.

"I do not know," Legolas replied cautiously and put the piece of rope back upon the ground, next to the others. Looking up to meet Gimli's eyes, he said, "I dare not raise false hope, but our friends seem to have managed to free themselves."

"And what cause have you to make such a claim?"

"The sheer amount of rope that has been cut. That is far more than if the Orcs had merely severed leg-bonds to allow their prisoners to walk."

Gimli nodded by way of an answer. "But where are they now?"

Legolas rose to his feet in one fluid motion. "Whither would you go, my friend, if you had just freed yourself?"

Gimli looked around. The open land provided little shelter, safe for the forest and the shrubs and bushes that grew along the river. "Since no one in his right mind would enter the forest," he said with a pointed glance at his friend, "I would think they would have made for the river."

Next to him, the Elf straightened, turning his keen eyes towards the stream. For a long while he said nothing, just watched. Then, without further words, he broke into a run, not waiting for Gimli to catch up. Only when he reached the thicket of bramble that lined the river's edge did he stop. Gimli's heart caught in his throat as he reached Legolas a short while later and beheld the grey cloth that had caught in the branches, torn and bloodied, a forgotten banner, the remnant of a lost battle that fluttered in the chill easterly wind.

To be continued ...

Large parts of the dialogue (and some fragments of the description) are taken more or less verbatim from Tolkien. The original sections in question
- "It was a round hill smooth and bare, standing by itself, the most northerly of the downs."
- "'Yes,' said Legolas, 'there are one hundred and five. Yellow is their hair, and bright are their spears. Their leader is very tall.'"
- " A little above the hill's foot they halted, and wrapping their cloaks about them, they sat huddled together upon the faded grass."
- The largest part is taken from "'What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?' [...] Before long they came to the borders of the Entwash, and there they met the other trail of which Éomer had spoken, coming down from the East out of the Wold."
- "Upon a stake in the middle was set a great goblin head; upon its shattered helm the white badge could still be seen. Further away, not far from the river, where it came streaming out from the edge of the wood, there was a mound. It was newly raised: the raw earth was covered with fresh-cut turves: about it were planted fifteen spears."
All quotes are from The Two Towers: The Riders of Rohan.

My special thanks go to Lyllyn for patiently answering all my medical questions. Another big 'Thank you' goes to Timmy for spotting an inconsistency in the previous chapter (fortunately one that could be easily fixed). And three cheers for Amanda for the tremendous beta job she did. This chapter would not make much sense without her!

And last but not least a short note on the frequency (or infrequency) of my updates: I now have a full-time job, which means at least 40 hours of work per week, most likely more. Between that, other hobbies and household duties I do not have much time for writing. This means that I simply cannot update frequently, no matter how enthusiastic some of my reviewers are in trying to convince me to do otherwise ;-) I aim for a new chapter every two months, but that's as fast as it'll get, sorry. And that's the last thing I promise to ever write on my updating habits. :-D

Next chapter: Interrogations I, to be posted sometime in the future at your favourite fanfiction site.

fliewatuet
Posted: 2005-05-14

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. This story is rated R for a reason. Aragorn is in for a rough ride (I know that some have been waiting for just that). This chapter contains some pretty nasty stuff and some of the Orcs' 'interrogation techniques' are described in a rather graphic way. If that's not your cup of tea, then don't read it. You have been warned.

South of Fangorn, March 1st, 3019 (morning)

Legolas stood on his toes, gently freeing the shreds of an elven cloak from the brambles near the river's edge, reverently and careful so as not to further damage the torn cloth. A leaf-shaped brooch glittered in the cool sunshine, and, for a moment, Gimli's eyes were drawn towards it, away from the stains of dried blood that covered the fine elven cloth.

Unable to bear the sight any longer, Gimli averted his eyes, scanned the area around them instead. At first glance, the grass-covered plain revealed nothing, not a single sign of the battle that had been fought. But though he did not see the signs at first, he smelled them as a gust of wind swept across the land: the smell of decay and death met his nostrils and churned his stomach. He swallowed bile.

"Legolas!" he called, unwilling to face the inevitable alone. "Can you smell that?"

"Of course, I can," the Elf replied. "Smells like dead Orcs to me." Legolas turned around and raised his head, nose held high as if he were tasting the wind. "This area has seen no rain for several days, the weather has been sunny but not too warm. I would guess they lie here for about two days," Legolas went on as if guessing the time of an Orc's demise by its smell alone were the most natural thing to do.

Gimli hid his astonishment behind a raised eyebrow. "Are you sure that there are only dead Orcs around?"

"Nay, I am not. Whether alive or dead, their stench is strong enough to block out the smell of every other creature," Legolas replied. "We should take a look, though I would not expect to find other corpses than those of Orcs."

"You would not expect to find them, or would you not hope to find them?"

"Both," came the simple reply as Legolas picked up the torn cloak and followed Gimli away from the river.

They had to walk for a while ere they found them: the bloated corpses of three dead Orcs. A flock of large birds, crebain by the look of them, took flight as they approached, shrieking angrily at the intruders. Gimli cleared his throat. He fought the urge to close his eyes and let Legolas examine their discovery. Yet he had his honour to keep: he would not leave that dreadful business to the Elf alone. If the mutilated corpses of their friends were near, they would discover them together and arrange such a funeral as would befit their memory.

Fortunately, they found no mutilated corpses, safe those of the three Orcs. They found a few discarded weapons and other gear, and a frighteningly large stain of dried blood upon the ground. It was no Orc-blood. Yet, like five days ago at Parth Galen, they found neither the weapons nor the bodies of their friends. The only sign that they had been here at all was a bloodied elven cloak and the traces of recent battle.

"This must have been Aragorn's work," Gimli spoke at length, pointing at the stinking carcasses.

Legolas nodded. "Yes," he murmured, almost as if talking to himself. "There are no horse-tracks around. And had the Riders of Rohan slain those Orcs, they would have burnt the corpses, along with the others."

South of Fangorn, February 29, 3019 (mid-morning)

Though Aragorn had anticipated the blow all along, when the arrow hit home with enough strength to pitch him face first into the dirt, he was caught by surprise. There was a moment of confusion while he fell, and of denial, as if his mind refused to accept that his mad dash had come to a sudden and painful end.

For a moment, he lay there, stunned, before orc-voices too near for comfort urged him to move on. Shaking dust out of his hair, he pushed himself up on his uninjured hand and knee and scrambled to his feet without grace yet with grim determination. He tried to ignore the bright hot pain that flared up in his leg as soon as he took the first tentative step but failed. His hand shot down to clutch at the wound on its own accord, as if that would stem the pain, and so he went on, half limping, half hopping, the Orcs hard on his heels.

The longer you keep them busy, the better the Hobbits' chances for escape, he firmly told himself. He knew only too well that his desperate flight from the Orcs was utterly in vain. Already he could hear their taunts and jeers, and there was still no sign of the riders he had heard before dawn.

"Oi, look at the tark!"

"He hops mighty fast."

"Yeah, but not fast enough."

"Looks like we'll get some sport at last!"

"Shall I shoot his other leg from beneath him as well? Then we can see how fast he can crawl."

"No, you won't, brainless fool."

Aragorn tensed. He knew that voice too well: Borsúk.

"You heard what Uglúk said: the prisoners are to be caught alive!"

Another arrow whizzed past his ear, and Aragorn jerked aside, gritting his teeth as his leg protested at the sudden move. The Orcs behind him cheered. Anger flickered briefly in his chest but was dispelled quickly by an arrow that brushed his arm and rent his shirt.

"Quit your mindless games!" Borsúk bellowed. "The horseboys won't be waiting for you to be done with him. Get the tark and quickly!"

So the game was over; the hunt had begun in earnest. The Orcs fell silent. Only their heavy footfall and the creaking of their ill-fitting armour gave them away as they closed in upon him. But Aragorn would not give up. Not yet. He had vowed to save the Hobbits, by life or death. The time to fulfil that oath had come.

Steeling himself for the inevitable, Aragorn moved his left hand away from the dark shaft protruding from his thigh, inconspicuously wiping blood off his palm. He could almost feel the nearest Orc now, smell its putrid breath. And then there was the minute change in the pattern of its running feet ...

"Elendil!"

With a shout Aragorn sprang to the side, drawing Andúril from its sheath with his left hand. The Orc shot past him, thrown off balance. Aragorn brought down his blade. The Orc hit the ground, dead and Aragorn fell on top of him, pain raging in his wounded leg, yet without time to recover: more Orcs kept coming.

He rolled aside. An axe came down where his head had just been. He lashed out blindly with his sword, pleased when his blade met flesh. Another blow. He blocked it, by chance rather than skill. A well-aimed kick, a distracted foe. Within a blink that Orc, too, fell to his sword.

That victory at least earned him a short respite. Cautious now of the flashing blade of what had seemed an easy prey, the Orcs hesitated for just a moment. Aragorn eyed them warily from his vulnerable position on the ground where he lay propped up on one dead opponent, panting. The Orcs moved in around him.

Drawing his uninjured leg beneath him, he sat up slowly, swinging Andúril in a wide circle to keep his foes at bay. He felt movement behind him and turned, his sword flashing bright in the morning sun as he brought it up like a shield. An Orc sprang back, averting its eyes.

"Disarm the tark! We don't have all day," Borsúk bellowed from behind the ranks of Orcs.

Aragorn pushed himself up, sword raised before him. He let momentum carry him forward and stabbed at his nearest foe. The Orc had not anticipated his sudden move, and brought up its blade just in time to deflect the blow, throwing Aragorn off balance.

What had brought him down in the end, he could not recall, but the next instant he lay pinned beneath a pile of stinking Orcs. He only knew that his wounded leg had failed him yet again, that several Orcs had rushed towards him and that a heavy weight had slammed into him. Now he found it hard to breathe beneath huge hands holding him down, claws digging into his neck. His right arm was trapped beneath him, but his left hand still had a firm grip upon his sword, though the Orcs clawed at his hand and arm, trying to disarm him.

Gritting his teeth, he bucked against the weight upon his back, tried to unbalance the creature that held him down. A string of foul curses answered his struggle and the grip upon his neck tightened. But the Orc on his back shifted his weight and Aragorn seized his chance. He managed to get a leg beneath him, pushed himself up on his knee and rolled aside just as an elbow slammed down to where his wounded shoulder had been only a heartbeat before. A howl of pain and more curses erupted from somewhere to his left, and he brought up Andúril in a wide, slashing arc, trying to use the Orc's brief moment of distraction to his advantage.

But a vice-like grip around his wrist seized his sword-arm mid-swing. With a snarl, he tried to wrench free his trapped arm, but another hand joined the first and the pressure upon his wrist and forearm increased. Already his grasp upon the sword-hilt weakened. In a last, desperate attempt he shot up and sank his teeth into one of the hands that held his arm. The Orc howled in anger; all he heard, before a blow jerked his head backwards, leaving his senses reeling. Not yet fully recovered, Aragorn could not offer much resistance as the Orcs gave his arm another violent twist, and before long, his hold on Andúril's hilt faltered.

Cheers rose around him as his blade fell to the ground with a clang, and faster than his mind could grasp, the Orcs wrenched his arm upon his back and he found himself on the ground once more, face pressed into the dirt. Stunned, he had to endure numerous Orc-hands that were all over him, tearing at his clothing and searching for hidden weapons. His belt they simply cut and pulled from beneath him, his cloak, too, they tried to rip off, and for a moment he feared to choke, until the elven-cloth tore, easing the pressure upon his throat. Aragorn drew in a shaky breath.

"Bind him! Quickly!" Borsúk ordered.

They pulled his right arm from the make-shift sling, leaving him gasping with pain. While he still fought the sudden bout of dizziness that assailed him, the Orcs lashed coarse rope about his wrists, binding his hands once more behind his back. From the edge of his vision he beheld Borsúk as he picked up Andúril and sheathed it, not even bothering to wipe the blood of its blade. A sudden rage surged through Aragorn at the sight yet not strong enough to block out the exhaustion and pain. The Orcs had little trouble hauling him to his knees.

A hand tightened in his hair and jerked his head upward: Borsúk stood before him, a malicious gleam in his eyes. Aragorn had no choice but to face him as he knelt there, chest heaving, while around him his capturers revelled in their victory. Another Orc stepped behind him, pushed its knee into Aragorn's back and fastened a hand around his neck, tightening its grip until the claw-like nails drew blood. Aragorn tried to ease his weight off his wounded leg, but even the slight shift did not go unnoticed. Suspicious now, the Orcs feared more trouble and would not take chances. Hands clamped about Aragorn's ankles, leaving no more room for movement: he was trapped.

He let his head drop in defeat and allowed exhaustion to take hold of him once Borsúk released his grasp. Though the odds had been against him from the start, defeat stung almost as badly as his wounds. And the Orcs gave him no respite. Borsúk's claws dug into his jaw.

"Look at me, tark!" Borsúk all but spat into his face.

Forced into submission, Aragorn tried to meet Borsúk's gaze evenly, tried to maintain a calm facade, though his world was spinning and his vision swam. To admit defeat was bad enough; he would not let Borsúk see the extent of it.

Yet his obvious defiance earned him nothing but a sneer from Borsúk. "You can't fool me, tark. Soon enough you'll be begging for your life! Or for me to end it."

As if to stress his words, Borsúk strengthened his grasp until Aragorn was sure that his claws broke skin.

"But old Borsúk might spare you further pain for the moment," Borsúk went on. "I'll put in a good word for you with Uglúk and the White Hand, if you tell me were the little maggots are."

"Eating away your brain."

Borsúk's reply came promptly in the form of a backhanded blow, strong enough to split Aragorn's lip and make his eyes water. He tasted blood.

"I think I didn't make myself clear, tark!" Borsúk growled. At least the benevolent facade was gone, something Aragorn noted not without satisfaction. "If you help us to find the short ones, we'll leave you alone, at least for now. If not, you'll regret it."

Aragorn spat out a mouthful of blood before looking up to meet Borsúk's blazing eyes. "Do you honestly think I would betray them, even if I knew where they were?"

"I've seen many a man's resolve crumble," Borsúk replied. He leaned in a little closer so that Aragorn could smell his fetid breath. "I'll give you one last chance ..."

Aragorn sighed. There was no way he would betray the Hobbits. Yet there also was no way he would escape Borsúk's clutches. Keep them occupied, flashed through his mind. He swallowed once to harden his resolve and said, "You know my answer."

"Fool!" Borsúk spat. "You'll talk soon enough. But if you want to suffer first ..."

With those words Borsúk released Aragorn's jaw and stepped back. A shiver ran down Aragorn's spine, but he tried to ignore it. Through sweat-soaked strands of hair that clung to his brow he watched Borsúk, followed his every movement with his eyes, though deep inside he knew that there was no way to steel himself for the ordeal he would have to face. But he could not help himself and tensed as Borsúk nodded once at someone behind his back.

Yet nothing happened. The Orcs maintained their hold on him, their grip neither lessening nor strengthening, and Borsúk watched him, his face slowly twisting into a grin as Aragorn's tension rose.

The first blow came as a surprise. Aragorn had been so focused on Borsúk that he had failed to notice the approach of another Orc to his left, until its foot met his midsection. The kick was well-measured, strong enough that he would have doubled over had he not been held so firmly, yet not intended to cause serious harm.

Aragorn drew in a shaky breath, warily watching his tormentor.

"Still unwilling to talk?" Borsúk asked.

Aragorn slowly turned his head. "You know my answer," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"As you wish."

The second kick did not surprise him, though it was no less painful than the first. A third one followed ere he could recover, then a fourth. Aragorn quickly lost count of the kicks and blows that were aimed at his stomach, his ribs and his chest. His breath came in short gasps and his vision began to blur, yet Borsúk did not bother to repeat his question; nor did he bother to interrupt the barrage of blows.

"You can end this, tark." After what seemed an eternity, Borsúk's voice pierced the haze of pain. "Anytime you choose."

"No." Aragorn's answer was little more than a croak. At least it earned him a brief respite. Panting, he raised his eyes to look at Borsúk, who stood before him, hands resting on Andúril's hilt. Aragorn swallowed the taste of bile and blood. "Death shall come to anyone who touches that blade!"

Borsúk just gave a sneer by way of an answer. "Shut up, tark! Unless you wish to answer my question."

Aragorn drew in a shuddering breath. "Never!"

"We've barely begun." Again, Borsúk nodded at someone behind Aragorn.

He had anticipated yet another barrage of blows, but it did not come. Instead, a crippling pain flared up in his shoulder as one of the huge Uruk-hai clamped its hand about it, grinding bone against shattered bone. Aragorn could not withhold a gasp, and the Orcs around him cheered.

"Where are they!" Borsúk's voice seemed to come from very far away, while Aragorn fought hard not to cry at the ever increasing pain in his shoulder.

Aragorn closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. How much longer would he be able to endure the torment? He tried to focus on something within him, some part of his being that did not hurt. But even breathing was sheer agony, and the grip upon his shoulder tightened.

In a desperate attempt, he tried to throw himself sideward. Yet neither the grip upon his neck nor that upon his shoulder lessened enough for him to escape the pain.

"You've but to talk and they'll release you," Borsúk sneered.

"You might as well save their strength," Aragorn gasped.

Borsúk stepped closer. Aragorn watched his movements warily. But Borsúk did not seem to be in a particular hurry. Almost leisurely, he approached, using Andúril as if it were a walking-stick. He walked past the Orc who had delivered the beating until Aragorn could no longer follow him with his eyes. Nonetheless, Aragorn felt Borsúk's gaze upon him, studying him appraisingly as if he were some prized possession. Aragorn dropped his head, at least as far as he was able, and tried to regain his breath and his composure, in spite of the crushing grip on his wounded shoulder.

But the lull did not last long. Aragorn felt movement to his left and tensed in anticipation of another assault to his aching ribs and stomach. Borsúk took the place of his tormentor, fastening his hand once again in Aragorn's hair, forcing his head around.

Aragorn grimaced in disgust as Borsúk's foul breath met his nose. Yet that soon proved to be the least of his worries as Borsúk reached for the arrow that still stuck in his thigh, twisting it ever so slightly, a vicious grin contorting his face.

Aragorn could not help but gasp.

"The arrow has to come out, tark," Borsúk said, "one way or the other." He flicked a finger against the dark shaft. The other Orcs laughed at Aragorn's hiss. "It's your choice how painful it'll be."

Another flick of Borsúk's fingers. Aragorn bit his lip to stifle a moan. "Tell me what I want to know and I'll tell my lads to be gentle," Borsúk went on. "Remain quiet," he gripped the arrow firmly, "and you'll regret it!"

Aragorn's cry almost drowned out Borsúk's last remark as Borsúk pushed the arrow deeper into the wound in emphasis of his words. With pain dispelling reason, Aragorn tried to wrench his wounded leg free from the Orcs' grasp, but already he lacked the strength to pose a real threat, and the Orcs merely laughed the louder at his weak attempt to escape his torment.

"You still have a fair chance." Aragorn could feel Borsúk's breath hot against his ear. A hand tightened about his ankle, and Borsúk sat back. Through eyelids that seemed too heavy to hold open, Aragorn saw Borsúk nod. The hand about his neck tightened, then his left leg was pulled aside and held firmly, stretched out at an awkward angle.

Without warning, Borsúk pushed, and Aragorn moaned. For a moment, his world darkened and his whole body shook. A brief flash of hope shot through his mind that he might swoon as a result of Borsúk's treatment. But ever so slowly, the pain ebbed away, the jeers and laughter of the Orcs reached his awareness, and he slowly open his eyes to the sickening sight of a bloodied arrow-head sticking from his thigh.

"Your last chance, tark!" Aragorn hissed sharply as the arrow-shaft moved. Borsúk had renewed his grip upon it. There was no time to prepare for the splitting pain as Borsúk pulled the arrow backwards. Aragorn cried out. His leg was on fire, felt as if ripped asunder, and like from the depth of the sea Borsúk's voice reached his ears. "Talk, and this will end!"

"No!" Aragorn ground out. A quick reply to convince not only the other but also himself that he would not betray the Hobbits, no matter the cost.

"As you wish!"

Thrice, Borsúk asked. Thrice, he pulled. Thrice, Aragorn screamed. Then at last, the arrow came free. Aragorn knew not how long he knelt there, awkwardly on one leg, held firmly in place, while all he could do was draw gasping breath after gasping breath. At long last, awareness won over pain, Orc-voices again reached his ears, and he felt the warmth of his own blood pouring from the wound and soaking his breeches. The ordeal could not have lasted long. The riders had not yet arrived and the Orcs did not seem in a particular hurry.

"You're trying my patience, tark!" Borsúk spat into his face. Aragorn briefly wondered when the Orc had taken hold of his hair again, a habit he found rather annoying, for Borsúk stank. All off a sudden, the Orc released him, only to rise to his full height in a single move that seemed strangely elegant for such a bulky creature. Aragorn would have shaken his head at the strange fragments of thought that flittered through his mind, but he lacked both the strength and the will to do so, and still an Orc held him tightly by his neck.

A ray of bright sunlight pierced his eyes as the sun broke through the scattered clouds. Only then did Aragorn notice that Borsúk had stepped away from him, but not far. Some steps to his left, he paced to and fro, like some caged beast.

"Uglúk will be here soon," Borsúk growled. "And he won't be so gentle!" The huge Orc resumed his pacing, and some detached part of Aragorn's mind told him that Borsúk's impatience was real enough, bordering on panic. A brief sense of victory flooded through him, but then Borsúk stepped closer again.

"Answer!" he shouted, making Aragorn flinch. "Where are the Halflings."

Aragorn took a deep breath and set his jaw, though that did not help him. There was movement to his left and then there was pain; bright, red pain that consumed the world around him, Orcs and Riders, grass and plain. Only pain remained, and he was trapped within it, until the ending of the world, as it seemed.

"Borsúk! Quit toying with the tark and search for the Halflings!"

"Give me some more time and he'll tell me where they went."

"Fool! I know his like. It takes more than a couple of blows to loosen their tongue."

"My lads gave him more to swallow than 'a couple of blows'." Gleeful laughter pierced the fog of pain that engulfed Aragorn. "We made sure he won't make a run for it again."

"You did what?" The voices gradually became louder. Uglúk and Borsúk approached.

"Didn't you hear him scream?"

"You're a thrice cursed fool, Borsúk!" Fingers prodded and poked at Aragorn's leg, sparking new flares of agony in his thigh. "He's bleeding like a pig and he'll slow us down. If he can walk at all."

"But he won't cause anymore trouble."

"No trouble? You can haul his stinking carcass to Isengard on your own and see how much trouble that is, Borsúk."

The fingers resumed their prodding. Aragorn moaned. From the thigh-wound they descended downward, examining the rest of his leg that lay awkwardly stretched aside. Aragorn could not withhold a scream, could not escape the merciless touch as Uglúk's fingers found the source of his agony, less than a hand's breadth above his ankle, where Borsúk's iron-shod foot had crushed bone.

Aragorn drew a shuddering breath as the hands released his leg.

"Bind his wounds and be on your way, I'll not have him leave a blood-trail for the horseboys to follow."

"Why is it never Uglúk when it comes to doing the work," Borsúk's muttered under his breath.

"What? I've to clean up the mess you've left us! Hadn't you come up with that useless tark, we'd be well on our way already. That's his doing," Uglúk hissed and heaved a kick into Aragorn's stomach. "Brought us nothing but trouble. I should've killed him back then."

Aragorn risked a cautious glance at the two Uruk-hai standing next to him. At once, Uglúk dropped to a crouch, turning Aragorn's head around by his hair. "I still could kill you," he hissed. "But that'd be the easy way out. You'll pay for all the trouble you've caused us. Just wait till we reach Isengard."

A shiver ran down Aragorn's spine at Uglúk's words, but he did not, he could not fight it. He had done all within his power to draw the Orcs away from the Hobbits. But now all his determination and strength drained from his body along with his blood that poured from the arrow wound. Even though he knew that this might be his only chance of escape, he could fight no more. The pain raging in his leg and the bone-deep exhaustion were more than he could bear. Wearily, he closed his eyes, willing blessed oblivion to free him from his misery.

Yet neither unconsciousness nor sleep did claim him. Instead Borsúk and two of his minions came to obey Uglúk's command and bind his wounds. At least Borsúk did not resume his interrogation, did not promise relief from raging agony as a reward for the answer he wished to hear. For as Aragorn lay there, forced to endure the rough treatment of his hurts, Borsúk's promise seemed more than tempting, and he felt a moment of uncertainty as to the answer he would have given only to end his helpless agony.

At long last, the torment was over. Borsúk dropped to one knee beside him and yanked at the ropes around his wrists. They would not budge, but Aragorn was too exhausted to care. A low groan was all he could utter as one of Borsúk's Orc-soldiers heaved him upon his shoulder, jarring his bruised rib-cage and jostling his wounded leg. While the Orc broke into a loping run, he idly wondered whether his desperate fight had been but an act of foolish bravery or whether his sacrifice truly bought the Hobbits the time they needed to escape. But he did not know the answer. Maybe he would never know it, for already the Orcs splashed through the icy Entwash, away from the approaching riders, away from the site of a battle that might have been Aragorn's last.

They had managed to retrace Aragorn's steps as far as the river, which had not been a difficult task, since the Ranger had not tried to conceal his footsteps. Along the Entwash they found the obvious signs of a small party of Orcs that had crossed the stream, heading West. Yet neither Aragorn's foot-prints were among them nor the foot-prints of a Hobbit, and already the sun stood high in the southern sky.

"They would have had to carry the Hobbits, unless they wished for them to drown," Gimli said.

"Yet Aragorn should have been able to cross the river on his own."

"If he were able," Gimli replied. "After all, he was forced to fight another battle."

Legolas nodded. "And he did not win it. Else he would be here. Or he would have joined the Riders." Legolas sighed. "I fear for him, Gimli. If I read those signs aright, he freed himself only to be caught again later. He is not dead. Since he is not here either, he must be among the Orcs that crossed the river, bound for Isengard."

"Then we should get back on that stubborn horse and follow them at once."

"And the Hobbits?" Legolas' smile was tinged with sadness. "We have yet to find so much as a blade of grass bent by their passing. Would you leave them to their fate?"

"But whither did they go?" Gimli sighed, torn by friendship and loyalty.

"They met someone they did not expect," a deep voice behind them spoke. Caught completely unawares, Legolas and Gimli turned as one and froze as they saw a tall figure standing on top of the river bank, towering above them. The stranger was clad in grey rags and beneath them white robes shone brightly in the mid-day sun. But they could not see his face, for he was hooded. Gimli felt Legolas tense beside him and reached for his axe.

To be continued ...

A/N: Thanks Amanda, for the fabulous beta-job! Another thank you goes to Lyllyn for help with the medical questions.
There are again some passages I borrowed from Tolkien:
- "Death shall come to any man that draws Elendil's sword save Elendil's heir." TTT, The King of the Golden Hall.
- "They could not see his face: he was hooded, and above the hood he wore a wide-brimmed hat, so that all his features were over-shadowed, except for the end of his nose and his grey beard."[...] "Well, they climbed up here the day before yesterday; and they met someone that they did not expect." TTT, The White Rider.

fliewatuet
Posted: 2005-05-14