Ragged clouds obscured the moon, and the sharp chill of approaching winter blanketed the lands around Weathertop. Aragorn shivered as he approached the meager campsite. Although a swift reconnaissance had shown the area to be deserted, the night was unfriendly, the silence heavy and watchful. Glad to see the dim flicker of the small cook fire, he quickened his pace. Their foray of the past weeks had been necessary, but it was nearing an end and he was more than ready to abandon these cheerless wilds. 

A low whistle sounded from above, then Elrohir leaped lightly from the overhanging rock. “I see no sign of friend or foe in any direction.”

“Then the others will not join us tonight.”

“It does not seem so.” He scowled into the night. “Some weight presses upon these lands. No living thing stirs, neither prairie dog nor blade of grass.”

Aragorn nodded. “I feel it also.” He glanced up. “I will admit that I wish the night was clear. Steady moonlight would be a welcome relief against this darkness.”

He expected the other to make some comment upon his need for a night light, but Elrohir only offered a grim nod. It did not improve Aragorn’s mood. They ducked into the sheltered hollow upon the old hill’s eastern side, nodding to the third member of their party. Daelin son of Dorhaur pulled their battered cook pot off the fire and frowned into its depths.

“Not much more than roots and herbs—a few pieces of jerky, but …” He eyed the expanse outside their little camp. “I have seen nothing in the way of wildlife since we arrived, and did not wish to hunt too far afield.”

Elrohir grimaced at the offering, but poured a portion into one of the wooden bowls. “I think that none of us should venture out alone.” He cast his own uneasy glance past the circle of firelight, then fell silent, sipping his meager dinner.

They ate without further speech, for even low voices seemed to echo around them, as though deep within a cave rather than upon the broad fields of Eriador. The moon vied with the clouds and for a while cast its pale light, though the stark lines of silver and shadow gave little relief. A deep chill settled, numbing Aragorn’s toes and his mind. Struggling to stay alert, he thought back upon the last days.

It was nearly three weeks past that the sons of Elrond had appeared, bearing vague reports of some unidentified threat in eastern Eriador—mostly originating upon the northwestern flanks of the Trollshaws and up into the Ettenmoors, but at least one as far south as the Road itself. “We do not believe the source to be trolls, wolves, or wargs. Orcs, perhaps, but the reports do not suggest the normal behavior patterns. Whatever the cause, we wish to see what may be found. The lands are mostly bare of inhabitants, yet it seems better to us to discover now, if we can, what may be stirring rather than leave some enemy to gain strength in secret upon our very doorstep.” Aragorn could hardly argue with such logic, and made no attempt. He sent Halbarad and Dorhaur with Elladan to scour the Road and its environs, then set off with Elrohir and Daelin along a more northerly route. Should all go well and neither group suffer significant delay, they would regroup upon Weathertop at the full moon.

Their hunt had been inconclusive at best, with no more than a handful of odd tracks and one particularly bizarre description of a ‘living shadow’ from a wild-eyed trapper upon the northern fringes of the Trollshaws. Aragorn was yet uncertain how much credence to give the tale, yet it was not wholly dissimilar from the reports which had brought Elladan and Elrohir to his door. Frustrated, they turned south. As they drew near to their meeting place, however, the sense of some following presence had begun to grow. He thought at first it was only his own fatigue and the nature of their search playing tricks on his mind, but soon he noticed Daelin sneaking glances behind them as they rode. When even Elrohir began obsessively checking their back trail, Aragorn began to suspect that the threat, whatever it may be, was very real. Elves were not, as a general rule, given to such flights of fancy.

Their trek continued unhindered, but Aragon had been glad to see the ruins of Amon Sûl upon the horizon. He would feel better when their numbers increased, and it was a disappointment to discover they were the first to arrive.

A distant howl stirred him from his contemplation, and the uneasy rustling of the nearby horses. He was startled to see his breath fog before him. Beside him, Elrohir rose abruptly.

“This cold is nothing natural.”

Aragorn shook himself and kicked at Daelin, who appeared to have sunk into a stupor against the rock wall behind him. “Stir up the fire. At this point I would rather have a bright blaze than worry about being seen from afar.”

Daelin nodded, groping for the wood stacked at the rear of the campsite. Elrohir peered into the night. “I doubt not that whatever follows already knows our location.”

Aragorn chewed upon his lower lip, considering. “The moon is bright now. I think we should take another look from the top. If we stay low and quiet, fortune may favor us.”

“Perhaps.” Elrohir was doubtful, but did not demur. He looked to Daelin. “Keep the fire high, and your back to the wall.”

“If anything other than us approaches, don’t be concerned with silence.” Aragorn strapped his sword and knife again onto his belt, tying the scabbard down to ensure it would not clatter against either the ground or his leg as they ascended the hill.

Daelin offered a wan grin, placing his back once more against the rock and drawing his own sword to rest at his feet. “They’ll hear me in Rivendell,” he promised.

Aragorn pressed the other Ranger’s shoulder then ducked into the darkness, Elrohir ghosting along behind. The chill deepened. Clouds edged onto the moon’s bright disk. The silence shivered about them, but for the crackling of the fire and a low snort from one of the horses that seemed deadened in the thickening air. 

Yes. The night was indeed unfriendly.

They slunk around the hill to the old path upon the far side, as Aragorn could not traverse the ragged slopes so easily as Elrohir. Crouching near to the ground, Aragorn held back and allowed his brother to take the lead—Elvish eyes were better in the dark, and would lead them along smoother ground. Together they crept up the rocky path, testing each handhold and foot placement to ensure not a rock would skitter nor a branch snap to give them away. Aragorn’s shoulders and thigh muscles burned as they neared the top, yet they reached level ground in good time, slinking silently over the edge onto the tumbled remains of the old watch tower.

The moon slipped once more behind the clouds, and a wave of shadow and terror broke over them.

Aragorn crouched in place, shivering, buffeted by dread and black thoughts. He could not think, he could not breathe. He could not move, but he must run. He must hide. He must—

“Nazgûl!” Elrohir hissed, launching to his feet.

It was a name of legend and terror, yet Aragorn could scarcely feel more afraid than he already did. He barely noted his brother’s attack, but the panting gasps which accompanied the first exchange of blades were nothing like Elrohir’s usual silent efficiency and finally shattered the spell upon him. He struggled to his feet as the Elf was driven to his knees, eyes wide and white in the silver moonlight. Aragorn stumbled forward, catching the heavy blade with his own before the deadly stroke could find its victim. The clash swept through his whole body, an icy cold numbed his fingers and arms, and for one desperate moment he wondered if he had dropped his sword. Elrohir’s voice sounded from afar.

“A wound from this blade will bring worse than death—do not allow yourself to be cut!”

It was easier said than done. No sooner had Elrohir spoken than the foul creature shrieked, felling both as with a swipe from a single club. Aragorn’s ears pulsed and a dark curtain fell across his vision. Steel rang upon steel above him. He did not remember gaining his feet, but lurched forward to keep the Nazgûl from overtaking Elrohir as his brother tripped over a low stone lip, collapsing with heavy, un-Elven inelegance. Forcing his leaden limbs forward, Aragorn pressed the attack. The thing shrieked again, the very noise knocking him aside. It was fortunate, for the dark blade struck the tumbled rock upon which he had stood only moments before. Rather than the usual screech of steel upon stone, it emitted a dull vibration which numbed Aragorn’s feet and stole the strength from his knees. Across the stone circle, Elrohir gasped a call to Elbereth, great heaving gulps that were barely audible above the wailing and the rush in Aragorn’s ears. His fingers cramped from the cold, their breath fogged the air—though no such steam swirled before the wraith. Aragorn shook away the sweat and the terror and the crushing lethargy, and gripped his sword. He was gathering strength to attack again when a shout sounded from behind him.

Blazing orange light streaked past, blinding him, and this time there seemed something of distress in the Nazgûl’s shriek. Distress, and anger. Aragorn blinked, shaking away the spots from his vision. Daelin dodged back, loose-limbed and uncontrolled, the flaming branch in his hand nearly forgotten and far too close to Elrohir’s hair. Another lay upon the cracked cobbles, still burning, and Aragorn saw that a corner of the ragged black hem had caught fire. He struggled to his knees, but in that moment Elrohir seized the torch from Daelin’s fingers and lunged forward, flinging it full upon wraith’s cloak. It caught, flaring along sleeve and hood. The Nazgûl screamed one last time, long and drawn, before fleeing over the steep edge of Weathertop. Aragorn huddled upon his knees, covering his ears, his companions adopting similar postures until the last echoes faded.

Shaking, he relaxed onto the stone. Elrohir crawled to the opposite edge, peering into the darkness, and Aragorn looked to Daelin. “That was … good thinking.”

Even for such a short exposure, the other Ranger’s gaze was stunned. “I thought … uh …” He shook his head, grasping for the words. “Blades did not seem to be doing any good, I wasn’t convinced adding another would help.”

Aragorn nodded, as Elrohir slunk back to join them. “I see no sign of the wraith. The cloak is smoldering halfway down the hill—we may want to put it out lest it catch the brush on fire.” He sat heavily. Aragorn pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think. The Nazgûl may be gone (what in Middle Earth was a Nazgûl doing upon Weathertop, of all places?), but the cold did not seem to be dissipating. A trickle of blood trailed down one side of the Elf’s face, and Aragorn’s blood chilled.

“Did it cut you?”

Elrohir looked surprised and touched his forehead. He frowned, examining the blood, then shook his head. “No. I hit it when I fell. The first time,” he added, wincing. Aragorn released his breath, but could not feel truly relieved. The underlying sense of terror did not seem to be fading so much as twisting into a dull, overwhelming dread. Daelin pulled his cloak tight about him, hunching into it and tucking his hands beneath his arms.

“Will it be back, think you?”

“I doubt it.” For all his prompt reply, Elrohir’s tone was vague. “Without the cloak to give it form, it cannot …” The words trailed away, and for a long moment none spoke. Aragorn’s own focus was fast fading, the cold seeping into his bones, the dark night taking on a weird greyish cast. Elrohir shook himself, and the grey mist receded slightly. “We must leave here. We must … get back to the fire.” The very thought of moving was enough to make Aragorn weep. No one stirred. Elrohir rocked forward as if he intended to rise, but remained seated. “The Nazgûl expel a … a type of poison.” The rolling chill encased Aragorn’s entire body. He wished to simply lay down and sleep. “It is the Black Breath. It affects all who … who ...” Elrohir closed his eyes, resting his forehead upon his knees. “We must get back to the fire.”

He had heard Elrond speak of it, though he knew very little more. Nazgûl had not been a common dinner topic during his visits to Rivendell. “Your head needs attention as well,” Aragorn mumbled, and wondered when his own eyes had closed. He did not remember doing so. With an effort, he prised his lids open, blinking dumbly at his brother and his friend. Daelin still shivered within his cloak, blinking sluggishly as though it was a losing battle. Elrohir had leaned into the support of a tumbled down wall, one arm crept up to shield his dark head. 

We need to reach the fire.

Aragorn spent a moment convincing himself, then looked up, attempting the strength and wits to rise. He drew in a sharp breath, his heart rising to his mouth as he struggled to comprehend the sight. Though the silver-grey light still lay upon them, the moon and the stars were gone. The sky itself seemed missing, for all he could tell.

Naught but an inky, velvet blackness stretched above.

His breath fogged the air, its slow patterns twisting in shapes that seemed to Aragorn both sinister and vaguely disturbing. How long he stared, mesmerized by the icy plumes, he had no notion. The temperature continued to fall, stiffening his limbs and casting a faint sheen of frost upon the surrounding surfaces. Even Elrohir and Daelin, still as the dead watchtower upon which they sprawled, glittered in the weird silver light. It occurred to Aragorn, eventually, that he had fixated upon his own breath in order to avoid the blackness of the missing sky and the sickly gleam of the ruins and the glance which had settled upon him. He did not remember making such a choice, yet it seemed for the best.

Indeed, his sluggish instincts were screaming to press himself smaller still, into some crack or corner where he might remain unseen by the gaze that prickled his nape, watching him from all places at once. He was exposed before it – stripped bare to eyes both unfriendly and obscene – and he shivered deeply, drawing his limbs tight.

His own skin and clothing crackled with the shift.

Faint as it was, it proved enough. The unexpected sound within an otherwise silent world roused some remnant of thought or will, and Aragorn lifted his eyes. He was not alone within this nightmare world. If he was slowly freezing, awake and semi-alert as he was, his insensible companions were in even greater danger. He rocked forward, ignoring the flutter of invisible movement upon the edges of his vision, and managed a slow shuffle. The cold sapped his strength, but he forced himself forward until he was close enough to lay a shaking hand upon Daelin's pale cheek.

The other Ranger's skin felt cold, even to his own icy touch. Though Daelin yet breathed, no fog formed before nose or mouth, and no warmth fell upon Aragorn's questing fingers. He was uncertain what that meant, or what action he might take even if he did know. He had no means to warm them – a glance showed both torches lying in cold ashes upon the broken tiles, and their cloaks were as frozen as the rest of the landscape. The very thought of making his way down the hill left him shaking with fatigue, and even if he should somehow complete the impossible journey he may arrive to find their campfire as dead as their torches. At the moment, death seemed preferable. He drew Daelin's outer clothing more tightly around him, pulling the hood snug and fastening the extra ties around neck and waist, before turning a painful crawl toward Elrohir.

The ghostly movements flitted alongside, murmuring and footfalls and the clash of distant steel encroaching now upon the heavy, dull hush. Aragorn ignored this new madness, narrowing his focus to the act of reaching the fallen Elf.

Time for all the rest later, but he would delay it as long as possible.

Elrohir's arm was still curled over his head, and Aragon was forced to tug the stiff limb down in order to examine his brother's wound. Dark blood traced the Elf's temple and jawline, frozen thick against the skin. Aragorn cleaned it as best he could with a corner of Elrohir's hood, finding the process a difficult balance between removing the blood and rubbing raw the cold flesh beneath. Once Elrohir stirred, and Aragorn thought for a fleeting moment his brother might rouse. The Elf subsided immediately, however, and Aragorn was left to wonder if he had imagined the movement. He finished and drew hood and cloak around Elrohir as he had done for Daelin, avoiding the dull, unseeing stare of Elrohir's partially open eyes.

Such ministrations finished as were possible, Aragorn had little choice but to finally turn his attention – such as it was – to the ancient watchtower.

He had noted in brief glances that the tumbled stones seemed to shimmer, but now he saw that they were in fact the very source of the unhealthy light. Not only the ruins, but the outline of the watchtower as it had been – high walls, stairs, arched doorways, battlements – flickered in pale hue against the blackness beyond.

Not beyond.

There was no beyond.

The sky, the stars, Anor and Ithil – they were no more. Perhaps they had never been. Gil-Estel was surely naught but some tale he had once been told, a bedtime story to pacify a restless child. It was his own foolishness, that he had once believed Eärendil sailed the stars. How could it be, when nothing existed outside the circle of Weathertop? He had surely never been aught but a shadow upon the broken tiles, a negative against the cold glow of the ancient tower which was the world's only solid reality.

He saw now, though, that he and his companions (how could a shadow have companions?) were not alone upon Amon Sûl. Men and orcs fought within the sickly glow, grey flames flickering through the fray, burning structure and living being alike. The sounds of battle rose, the screams of men and the shriek of orcs, and he wished desperately for the eerie silence that had been. The roar crescendoed as a tall, cloaked figure strode through the far doorway, swallowing the light in his wake. Power and terror emanated from him, and the imprint of a dark crown rose from his brow. He strode throughout the field with powerful steps, striking down man and even orc within reach of his mighty sword, graceful and deadly and utterly terrible. The great head turned and the unholy gaze fell finally upon him, insignificant shadow that he was. He cast himself upon his face, scrabbling to cover himself.

What point, though? All was surely lost. No shelter was possible from the piercing Eye which gave the fell being direction and strength.

The heavy steps approached – measured, unhurried – and the cold that he had thought all-consuming seemed suddenly a distant warmth. The great figure stood above him, and terror held the shadow motionless.

The biting tip of a sword whispered at his neck.

His breath fogged the air, its slow patterns twisting in shapes that seemed to Aragorn both sinister and vaguely disturbing. How long he stared, mesmerized by the icy plumes, he had no notion. The temperature continued to fall, stiffening his limbs and casting a faint sheen of frost upon the surrounding surfaces. Even Elrohir and Daelin, still as the dead watchtower upon which they sprawled, glittered in the weird silver light.

Elrohir and Daelin. If he was slowly freezing, awake and semi-alert as he was, his insensible companions were in even greater danger. Aragorn rocked forward, attempting to ignore the weight of the black gaze upon him, and managed a slow shuffle.The path toward Daelin twisted and stretched, lengthening twice for each pace he gained. He was utterly spent when he finally reached his destination, collapsing face-first at the other’s side. He stretched a long moment across the tiles, panting and dazed, the other Ranger’s icy leg against his back both solid and …wrong.

Not, perhaps, so solid as it seemed.

What was, though? Nothing was surely real but the watchtower itself.

“Move, Aragorn,” he murmured, voice flat and strange against the grey-painted sky. “Move.”

Aragorn. Did it still apply to him? Did a shadow deserve a name?

What point to a name at all, upon Amon Sûl?

He cared for the other Ranger as best he could, without warmth or light or help, then began his long, painful way toward the Elf. Whether the journey lasted five minutes or five millennia he could not say.

He was disconcerted, on examination, to find blood painting the Elf’s face. He had already …

But no. He had only just arrived. Only just seen the icy red flow.

Yet, he remembered …

What was memory? There was only here, and now.

He cleaned the blood away, the pale flesh both frozen and pliable beneath his touch. For a moment he thought the other might rouse – the dark head turned suddenly, and the eyes flickered beneath the half-open lids – but the Elf subsided as though he had never stirred. He finished slowly, carefully, avoiding the rising cries of battle and slaughter behind him until the last possible moment.

At long last, however, there was no escape. There never had been. The shimmering scene called to him, coaxed him, commanded him. When at last he turned, it seared his eyes, throwing Men and orcs into stark, blinding relief. Fire and blood flowed. Walls crumbled. Foul creatures circled the battlements at the edges of the world. The figure of the dark King mounted up onto the stones, neither knowing nor caring upon whom he trod. The airborne creatures cried out, and their shrieks were as a piercing lance behind the shadow’s eyes.

He flung himself upon the stones, begging Elbereth to hide him from that glance.

Elbereth?

A! Elbereth Gilthoniel! silivrin penna miriel …

The words were naught but a figment, surely – the shadow did not speak or even think them, and who was Elbereth but another tale?

For a heartbeat, a breath, the sickly glow dimmed.

The great crown turned toward him, and black fear drove all else from his mind. He flung himself onto the tiles, dragging his frozen cloak over him to escape the dark King’s notice. He waited, heart hammering within his breast, cold breath frosting the stone before his face. The heavy steps approached – measured, unhurried – and the cold that he had thought all-consuming seemed suddenly a distant warmth. The great figure stood above him, and the biting tip of a sword whispered at his neck. 

His breath fogged the air, its slow patterns twisting in shapes both sinister and vaguely disturbing. How long he stared, mesmerized by the icy plumes, he had no notion. The temperature continued to fall, casting a faint sheen of frost upon the surrounding surfaces. Even the Elf, still as the dead watchtower itself, glittered in the weird silver light.

If he was slowly freezing, his insensible companion was in even greater danger. He rocked forward, shivering, and managed a slow shuffle. The frosted stone bit at his unprotected hands, the frozen air burned his lungs. Gravel dug into his knees. He halted halfway to his goal, staring in confusion at the charred remains of two torches abandoned upon the cracked tiles.

How had these come here? What purpose might they serve, in a world without light or warmth?

What, indeed, was light or warmth?

Surely his mind was inventing impossibilities.

He shook away such imaginings and staggered on, reaching trembling fingers toward the frozen blood upon the Elf’s face.

Had he not …? No. Yes. What matter?

What matter if he had done it a thousand times? What else was there?

Only the battle. Naught but Amon Sûl.

He cleaned the glittering red stain from the pale skin, dodging clumsily when the Elf started, seizing blindly for the hands that tended him. The other’s movement stilled as quickly as it began, stiff arm falling limply at the Elf’s side. The shadow finished his work, the movements familiar. Rote.

The watchtower was inevitable. He turned his gaze upon it, allowing the ring of steel and the shriek of death to overwhelm him – though in truth, he was never free from it.

Never did it cease to echo within him.

He sank upon the broken pavers, gazing dully upon the carnage and the hate. The deadly dance swirled around him, Men and orcs and fell winged creatures locked in endless slaughter, and in the midst of it all the dark crown rose – measured, unhurried, blotting the sickly glow from its path, leaving only void in its wake.

The shadow cowered, casting his cloak over himself. 

Aragorn!

The cold that he had thought all-consuming seemed suddenly a distant warmth.

The biting tip of a sword whispered at his neck.

His breath fogged the air, its slow patterns twisting in shapes both sinister and vaguely disturbing. How long he stared, mesmerized by the icy plumes, he had no notion. A faint sheen of frost painted the surrounding surfaces - even the Elf, still as the dead watchtower itself.

His companion was bleeding, a dark red splash against glittering pale skin. He took a deep breath and rocked forward, but got no further. The thought of the effort required to traverse the distance wilted him to the cold ground.

He lay still. All was silent.

Aragorn!

The Elf canted his head, body tense. Listening.

Aragorn …

The word meant nothing, yet it wound throughout his frozen body, warming, coaxing. 

Calling.

Why should it draw him so? 

The clash and din of battle distracted him, jarring his teeth and battering his ears. Men and orcs, swords and pikes. Fell winged beasts. The terrible king stepped from the darkness beyond the watchtower, steel boots striking sparks from the stone. He burrowed beneath his cloak, a small terrified shadow.

Aragorn, come!

He knew that timbre, those tones. They meant affection. Comfort. Safety.

Such were not found upon Amon Sûl. Nothing lay beyond. Surely, then, this was naught  but a figment.

You trust me, yes? Have you not always trusted me?

He did. He had, though he did not remember ever doing so.

Will you not trust me again?

How could he? The voice did not exist. Yet truly, the decision was made. It had been made long ago, before memory and conscious thought.

Then come to me, brother! Leave this place.

The heavy footsteps trod closer. The great sword rasped from its sheath. He fumbled to his knees and flung the cloak aside in one desperate surge.

Light flooded in.

A warm hand gripped the back of his neck. Fingers wound into the front of his tunic and pulled gently, but Aragorn had no wish to rise. When he would have resisted, however, a strained voice insisted, “Sit, Aragorn.”

Rarely had he heard exhaustion so thick in Elladan’s tone. Aragorn ceased his struggle and  allowed himself to be drawn forward until his head spun and his heavy body felt near collapse. Just when he feared he might vomit the grip loosened, releasing him back against a solid body. He sagged gratefully, letting the other take his weight. The smooth metal of a cup pressed against his lips and Halbarad’s voice spoke in his ear. “Drink.”

The water was warm and tasted of leather, yet it was wonderfully refreshing. He noted vaguely how parched were his mouth and lips, but all too soon Halbarad was removing the cup. 

“Not too much at once,” Elladan reprimanded, a tired chuckle hidden within the admonition. “You know to take it easy after going without.”

That caught his attention, and Aragon opened his eyes.

They were gathered around the fire at the base of Weathertop, flames flickering bright against the falling twilight. Across the circle, partially hidden by the flames, he spotted Daelin and Dorhaur. His friend was similarly slumped into his father’s solid grip, eyelids drooping and limbs lax. Dorhaur saw his glance and offered a bracing nod.

“He is well. He has had water and broth, and will sleep again shortly.” The older Man crooked a smile. “As will you. It is good to see your eyes again, young one.”

Young one. Aragon snorted softly, eyes wandering. Long had been the time since any of them were young ...

To his left, Elrohir lay still as stone near the fire. He was covered with several blankets, skin drawn and ashen against the orange of the flames. Aragon looked quickly to Elladan, who reassured him with a touch.

“I will attend him momentarily.”

“It was a Nazgûl.” The words were softer than he had intended, his tongue thick and uncooperative. Halbarad tipped another mouthful of water in, cutting off any further explanation.

The Elf nodded. “Indeed.” A wealth of loathing and confusion lay beneath the word, but Aragon had nothing to offer even should he feel capable now of that discussion. He had no more idea than Elladan how a Nazgûl had come to be haunting the Trollshaws. 

“How long?”

Halbarad stirred. “The remains of your fire were more than a day old when we arrived, and that was yesterday.” He grunted. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you we were less than happy to find the three of you lying like dead things among the ruins – not a movement nor blush of color among you, no response of any kind when we tried to rouse you.”

“It took me longer than I might have wished to determine the cause.” Elladan’s voice was tight. “Many long years have passed since the Witch-King dwelt upon the Ettenmoors. That land is home now  to any number of vile creatures, yet little did I think to find Nazgûl among them.” His visage darkened. “Adar will be little pleased.”

Aragorn was little pleased himself. The thought of Sauron’s greatest servants and most fell minions haunting the wild spaces between his own people and Rivendell was not a welcome one. Halbarad voiced his next concern before it had time to fully form.

“And we have no way of knowing how many have come, or what it is they want - whether the enemy has sent them here for some evil purpose not yet clear, or if he simply wishes to see what may be found.” Halbarad shifted beneath Aragorn, body tense. “There is much in these northern lands it would be best for our enemy not to discover.”

Aragorn nodded, sending the world into a slow, drunken spin. He ignored it. “We must spread this word to our peoples as soon as may be. These are ill tidings.”

“We will make for Imladris when the three of you are able to ride.” Elladan waved aside Aragon’s immediate protest. “We have taken thought for your people, Aragorn. Halbarad and Dorhaur will return with this news to the Dúnadain and instigate a watch on your eastern borders. Once we consult with Adar and know more, we will send further instructions. The three of you, however, will come to Imladris with me. I have no experience with the Black Breath, I know not how long the recovery process may be nor what aftereffects may arise.”

“Comforting,” Aragorn mumbled.

Elladan scowled. “I am unaccustomed to being out of my depth in matters of field healing - long has it been since a challenge has presented itself to which I felt so unequal.”

“One might be glad of that, my Lord,” Halbarad huffed softly, “considering such a lack means Nazgûl have been few and far between in these lands.”

Elladan tipped a reluctant nod. Aragorn sighed. Fatigue was encroaching upon the edges of his vision, bleeding dry his strength, and despite the nearby fire he was still chilled deep within. “It is well you knew enough to bring us out of it.” He cast uneasy eyes toward Elrohir, unnerved at the Elf’s silent stillness. Elladan caught the direction of his gaze.

“Adar ensured we studied the theory, of course, but we have neither of us had cause to practice the skill. The sufferer must be convinced to freely abandon the nightmare world of the Black Breath - it is not a decision which can be forced by the healer.” The Elf hesitated, then shrugged. “I thought it best to begin with Daelin, who knows me least. I assumed he would require the most effort, and would therefore need me at my freshest.” He glanced toward his brother, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is my hope that Elrohir will respond to me on instinct. I am … more weary than I had expected.” Elladan’s gaze pinned Aragorn, suddenly dark. “The scenes which you and Daelin inhabited were …” He paused, and Aragon wondered vaguely what his brother had seen as he coaxed them away from the dark dreams of the Nazgûl’s poison . He himself remembered only vague images, the weight of bleakness and terror and despair. Perhaps he would remember more as time passed, but he found he could not wish for it. He shivered, slumping more heavily against Halbarad.

“I thank you, brother.”

Elladan gripped his shoulder hard. “You are most welcome.” He rocked back onto his heels, brisk determination settling upon him. “We will discuss it further tomorrow, but for now I must go to Elrohir.” The Elf looked to Halbarad. “Get some broth into him, then he may sleep again.”

Aragorn felt Halbarad nod and reach behind them, but paid him little mind as Elladan moved to kneel beside his twin. The Elf closed his eyes and sighed deeply, entire body slumping as he considered this new effort, but Dorhaur appeared suddenly beside him. “Come,” the older Man urged, laying a calloused hand upon Elladan’s arm. “One more, and you may rest. Daelin sleeps, I will care for Elrohir when he wakes.”

Elladan nodded, clasping Dorhaur’s shoulder gratefully before bending over his brother. Elrohir stirred even as Elladan lay a hand upon his forehead, and Dorhaur hurried to take a seat at his head. Elladan took a long breath, and when he spoke the word crackled with urgency and command.

“Elrohir!”

The dark eyes opened even before the echoes had faded from the rise of Amon Sûl. Elladan and Dorhaur moved as one to lift Elrohir into Dorhaur’s grasp, and then Aragon’s attention was drawn away from the scene as Halbarad pressed a cup of savory broth to his lips. It warmed him from the inside, and if the rich liquid did not abolish the chill of the Black Breath it at least soothed it. Fatigue fell upon him with stunning force, and he felt Halbarad rolling him onto a waiting bedroll. 

“Sleep now. You’ll feel more like yourself in the morning.”

The last he saw before sleep claimed him was Dorhaur doing the same for Elrohir, as Elladan stretched out near the fire.