Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 22: Deadly Perils

   “…messages came to me out of Lorien that Aragorn had passed that way, and that he had found the creature called Gollum. Therefore I went first to meet him and hear his tale. Into what deadly perils he had gone alone I dared not guess.”

   “There is little need to tell of them,” said Aragorn. “If a man must needs walk in sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he will have. I, too, despaired at last and I began my homeward journey.”

 “The Council of Elrond”                                                         The Fellowship of the Ring

~oo0oo~

  Aragorn could not sink any lower. He flattened his body onto the hard ground as far as he could, but it was no good. The scant vegetation was too short. They were surely going to find him; escape was impossible. He cursed his stupidity in allowing orcs to surround him, although he knew in truth there was little he could have done to prevent it. Travelling on his own this near to the territories of the Enemy was always going to be hazardous. It was too late now to consider he may have been foolish not to have returned with Gandalf when he had the chance. Having come this far, he had decided not to abandon the hunt without thoroughly scouring Ithilien, even as far south as the Morgul Vale. Too many years had been spent in pursuit of this Gollum already to not completely exhaust every possibility of finding the creature now.

   He was on his homeward journey and had been travelling near to the foothills of the Ephel Dúath in the hope of avoiding detection by the Ranger patrols which regularly frequented the area. Being presented to Denethor as a spy was a distraction he did not particularly relish. But other hazards also lurked in the Mountains of Shadow. For some time now he had been aware of a small band of orcs up ahead, moving away to the east. He was down wind of them, so was not unduly worried by their presence, but, as the light began to fail, a much larger group had unexpectedly appeared behind him as they emerged from their daytime dens.

   Suddenly he was trapped.

   There was no cover that he could possibly reach in time. He would have no choice but to fight them, although he knew there was no chance for victory. A group of a dozen perhaps, with surprise in his favour, he might be able to handle, but there must be at least forty closing in on him now.

   He did not doubt he would either be captured or slain. But there was no time now to dwell upon either prospect. He pressed his chest and stomach down harder in the desperate hope that he would disappear from view. He could hear his heart beating faster as it thumped inside his chest. His breathing quickened and sweat broke on his back. His sword lay flat on the ground beside him. He tightened his grip on the hilt. Any moment now they would be upon him. He waited, willing his breathing to steady and his nerve to hold. If he was going to fall, the warrior in him would not allow his life to be lost cheaply; he would do his utmost to ensure he took as many of his foes with him as he possibly could.

  Suddenly a cry tore into his ears. He was found. He rolled quickly to one side, dodging the spear that flew to where he had been lying a second earlier. He was on his feet in an instant and ran through the first orc that came at him and immediately withdrew his sword in time to behead the second with a single, well-practised stroke. Orcs swarmed towards him, but the fervour of battle quickly surged in his veins and his mood turned fey. He roared as he lunged into his enemies and smote them where they stood. Time after time his sword rose and fell as he expertly dispatched the vile creatures, dispassionately moving swiftly from one stricken body to the next.

   But all too soon, he felt the weight of their numbers against him. He was attacking no longer. He twisted and turned and parried and deflected their blows, but it could not last; he knew any moment that fatal blow would come. But when it did, it was not a blade that felled him, but a cudgel at the back of his head. Stunned, he staggered sideways, unbalanced by the blow. Instantly the orcs grabbed their chance and seized him, knocking him to the ground, kicking and beating furiously at every part of him. He was soon completely in their power, but nonetheless they kept up their vicious assault for the pleasure it gave them. Aragorn tried to curl up to protect himself as best he could, but his arms were quickly yanked behind him and his hands tightly bound. He tried to stifle his cries as iron-shod feet blasted repeatedly into his ribs and back. More and more blows rained down on him; he could not survive much more. Finally a kick to his head brought merciful oblivion and, as his sight tunnelled, he escaped into darkness. 

~oo0oo~

   As he slowly surfaced, he rather wished he had remained in his state of oblivion. There was no part of him that was not in pain. He lay still as he furiously tried to recall how he came to be in such a mess. He was immediately aware of the stench of orc and groaned as his memory slowly returned. He cautiously tried to raise his head, but it felt as if it might explode if he did so. He was sure he was going to vomit, but as he fought to hold down the contents of his stomach, he realised breathing was agony. His ribs must be damaged, if not broken. His breath came in shallow pants as his chest seized in vice-like spasms. He felt he was being cut in two. He was also bleeding from the rough handling of many claws, and his limbs throbbed with the swelling of countless bruises.

   He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but it was dark and the orcs about him appeared to be engaged in frantic activity. Coarse voices shouted and bellowed orders as many heavily booted feet passed perilously close to his head. But he had no time to gather his wits as almost immediately, rough hands grasped and jostled him. Involuntarily, he cried out as pain rocketed through his body, but his distress was greeted with shouts of derision from his captors. 

   Two huge Uruk-hai dragged him to his feet, and he was obviously expected to move, though his body stubbornly refused to comply. He stumbled to his knees as he struggled to overcome pain and nausea. One of the orcs pulled a bottle from its tunic, while the other yanked his head backwards by his hair. He gasped at the sudden pain inflicted on his injured scalp, but the orc jammed the bottle into his open mouth and poured into it a foul, sticky liquid. Aragorn coughed and gagged as he choked on the vile potion. But a huge, paw-like hand clamped his jaw shut, stopping him from spitting out the noxious fluid and forcing him to swallow. Whatever it was stung his throat and burned his insides as it reached his stomach, but almost at once the pain left his limbs. The orcs hauled him to his feet again and off they set. Aragorn meekly submitted to his captors as he knew there was no advantage to be had in provoking them and he doubted he could take another beating at this time. He had little choice but to do as they demanded as any hesitancy on his part was rewarded by a cruel lash of a whip to his legs. Calling on his deep reserves of will, he somehow forced his battered body to move.

    The orcs set a fast pace and it was clear he was required to keep up, though his body screamed in protest.The Uruk-hai ran on either side of him and dragged him up when he faltered, lifting him by his tethered arms which ached from the awkward position in which they were restrained. On and on, mile after mile they went. He stumbled often in the darkness and was punished brutally for it. His head was pounding and he thought his sides would rupture, but between gasping pants, he kept going, concentrating on nothing more than keeping one foot moving in front of the other.

~oo0oo~

   He could not understand why he was still alive. He had fully expected to be hacked to pieces before becoming the orcs’ next meal. But slowly, through the fog clouding his mind, he realised he was being taken somewhere. They were now heading east, into the western slopes of the Ephel Dúath. Horrified, he realised this could only mean they there making for the strong-holds of the Enemy, maybe Minas Morgul or even Barad-dûr itself. Panic surged in him. Dying on the field of battle was one thing, and something he had come to accept, having faced that eventuality many times in his life. But the prospect of being held captive by his Enemies and being completely at their mercy, terrified him in a way he had never experienced before. Constantly his mind turned to escape, but with mounting despair, he realised there was little likelihood of that.

   As the orcs continued on through the increasingly mountainous terrain, he dragged his reluctant body along with them, but all the while dread settled more and more in his heart.

~oo0oo~

   At last, as the first light of dawn appeared over the mountains, the troop finally stopped its long march. The orcs released their grip on their captive and Aragorn was dropped face down onto the rocky ground. Immediately, a rope was strapped around his feet, binding them together as tightly as his hands. He closed his eyes in an attempt to blot out all that was going on around him as he concentrated on trying to master the pain surging relentlessly through him. He gasped for air as he struggled to breathe without moving his agonised ribs. He felt sick from pain. His head throbbed, as much from lack of water as from his injuries, and there was an unrelenting ache in his shoulders and arms. His hands had long since gone numb but at least they no longer troubled him, though he would not help but wonder if he would ever regain the use of them.

   The orcs settled down nearby and drank from their waterskins and ate what food they carried with them, but they offered him nothing. His throat was on fire and his mouth was as parched as a desert in Harad, but he dared not ask for anything from his captors. He guessed they were deliberately depriving him to weaken him; a policy he ruefully had to admit was working only too well.

    He lay there for maybe an hour, escaping into his own mind, while the orcs left him unattended. Unable to do anything to help himself, he sought to conserve what little energy he had left and he attempted to rest, though he knew he would not sleep. But as he tried to relax his sore body the best he could, he slowly became aware of a presence encroaching on his solitude.His eyes shot open, but at first he could see nothing. But something approached, of that he was sure. He lifted his head and peered into the grey gloom of the early dawn.

    There, still a distance away, a shadowy shape slowly came into view. It was very tall and robed in black. It was walking towards him, and somehow Aragorn knew with absolute certainty that it was evil. Fear began to well within him. Then, to his absolute horror, he looked upon its dark head and saw that it was faceless. Instantly, terror gripped him. His heart lurched as his bowels shrivelled inside him. Sweat began to pour off him. He wanted to run like he had never run before, only he could not move; he was frozen with fear. The figure came closer. He could feel the power of this thing oozing from it as it closed in on him. He thought his heart would stop such was the terror and dread that seized him.

   There was only one thing in all Middle-earth it could possibly be: a Nazgûl.  And more than that, the crown on its faceless head marked it as their lord, the Witch-king of Angmar. Aragorn had never felt so vulnerable and exposed in all his life. He was completely helpless. He knew this thing’s power was overwhelming. It could crush him in an instant or enslave him in the torment of a living death for all time.  Trussed up as he was, it could do with him whatever it desired a fact which did nothing to curb his mounting terror. He was totally out of his depth. Nothing in all his long years had prepared him for such an encounter. He had no idea what to do, even if he could overcome his crippling terror.  He set his jaw to try and stop his body from trembling more than it was already. Manfully, he braced himself in anticipation of further physical torment, though it was what this thing might do to his mind that terrified him the most.

    It was right in front of him now. It leaned over him menacingly, silently, studying him. Instinctively he recoiled, and his whole body shook as he felt unseen eyes piercing him, as if boring through to his very flesh.

   But panic tore through him when he suddenly felt an icy tendril touch his mind; like some probe searching deep inside him. And when a thin voice spoke within his head, he could no longer prevent a scream of absolute terror escaping from his lips. The voice sounded as if it had come from the depths of a tomb and it demanding to know everything about him.

    Aragorn’s fear was now beyond anything he had ever known, yet with a last mighty surge of will that he somehow summoned from he knew not where, he desperately battled to control it as he sought to drive this thing out of his head. He knew he must close his mind to it and protect his thoughts, but he had never consciously banished anyone in this way before. Few had ever attempted to enter his mind, and those that had, had only done so with his consent, in their desire to aid or comfort him. The Nazgûl’s power to invade the mind of another would be greater than most and already he felt the full evil intent of it as it clawed at his memories, searching for his secrets. 

   He tried to speak, as if saying the words out loud would strengthen his command to this thing to be gone, but the words would not form in his mouth. The bizarre battle continued inside his head, but the stakes were raised dramatically when the Nazgûl drew out his sword and held it menacingly at Aragorn’s throat. As he felt the blade stroke his chin, Aragorn faltered and his terror surged uncontrollably once more. The unprecedented extent of his own fear terrified him; if it crippled him completely, his battle would be over.

   He had to get away. Suddenly it was all he could think about. He tried to dig his heels into the rocky ground to propel himself backwards. He turned away from the Wraith as he did so, unable to look upon it a moment longer. But an orc suddenly appeared behind him and clasped his head between its claws, forcing him to look at his interrogator.

   Aragorn could endure no more; panic was ripping through him in unstoppable waves. Any moment that Morgul blade could pierce him and he would be doomed. And any second his faltering will would fail, and his mind would be laid bare. He just had to escape any way he could. Bound as he was, he did the only thing left to him; he attempted to spit into the leering face of the orc above him. His mouth was too dry, but he was nonetheless rewarded with a blow to his mouth that split his lip, and a foot thrust down on his belly which knocked the wind out of him. Searing pain erupted right through him as his already broken chest was tortured further. But so agonising and all-consuming was his torment that it swamped and blocked his fear. At that moment, he forgot about the Nazgûl. He could think of nothing more than gulping in his next breath of air. And as his fear dispersed, his mind was suddenly his own again.

   The Witch-king was thwarted, for now. In his fury, the Nazgûl raised his sword to the orc, and Aragorn felt the spray of its blood on his face as the orc’s headless body fell away behind him. The Witch-king growled menacingly at his human victim, but to Aragorn’s amazement, he turned and left him.

   Aragorn barely had time to recover his breath before the orcs dragged him into the cave where they were stopping for the day. They dumped him in the entrance and mercifully left him alone. He tried to think of nothing but calming both his body and his mind. He could not stop shaking but he concentrated hard on just drawing each laboured breath. He took no comfort from his small victory; he knew only too well that the Nazgûl would certainly return and then he would break him for sure; he could not hope to escape a second time.

   Slowly his shudders subsided but he was in so much pain, and he was so cold. He closed his eyes in total misery as he realised that what little hope he had of surviving this encounter had gone. There would be no escape now. A cold despair began to appear within him that had not been present before. A chill gripped his heart and he felt darkness closing in around him. He had never felt so despairing in his entire life and yet he had known many a tight spot before now. Slowly, from the depths of his mind, he conjured up memories of things learned long ago about the Nazgul and their strange powers and he recognised that there was something not quite right about this sudden growing emptiness within him. Perhaps it was not of him at all, but connected, in some way, to that thing.

   Immediately, he struggled against it, fearing where his despair would take him. He must guard against losing his sense of purpose; the Nazgûl must not defeat him in this way. While there was breath in his body, he must still have hope.  He turned his thoughts to Arwen; to his people; to anything that would keep this coldness from his heart and banish the blackness that now threatened him. Slowly, he grew calmer and he felt more in control, though he could not shake off the shadow of despair completely. He tried his best to assess his predicament rationally. He knew he must take this dire situation he found himself in one step at a time and not look any further than the present. Right now, there was nothing he could do but find rest, which he knew he badly needed, though he was quite sure neither the pain in his body nor the dread in his heart would allow him to sleep.

   As he lay there, inevitably, he brooded on this latest turn of events. The Lord of the Nazgûl was his ancestral enemy. He was a figure from legend, of terrifying stories from his childhood. He had been ensnared by Sauron way back in the Second Age, but later, at Sauron’s bidding had waged relentless war on his people until the North Kingdom was lost and the Dúnedain nearly destroyed. Aragorn had learnt all about those times from Elrond. Glorfindel himself had led the Elven force from Rivendell that had finally driven the Witch-king from Eriador. That had been over a thousand years ago and Angmar had not been seen in the North since. But his lair now was Minas Morgul and Sauron’s power had grown since then. The Nazgûl were his most terrible and feared servants.

   Aragorn braved opening his eyes and looked on the hideous, cruel creatures that now slept all around him. The stench in that cave was nauseating. He knew no torment or depravity would be beyond them; the consequences of falling into the clutches of The Enemy would be terrible. He felt fresh sweat breaking on his brow as he knew they had yet to exact their revenge on him for slaying so many of their group. What he had suffered so far would seem as nothing to what must surely follow. And, if the Nazgûl discovered his true identity, the torture that Sauron would put him through was beyond his darkest fears. Sauron had hunted him all his life; ever seeking to find Isildur’s heir, but Aragorn had always successfully eluded him; until now.

   But in spite of his fears for himself, he knew there so much more at stake now than his own life and any part that he might play in the future. He was one of the few people who knew the One Ring had been found. More than that, he knew where it was, and the name of the person who possessed it. This he must never reveal, no matter what the cost to himself. He could not betray Frodo; he could not betray Middle-earth. Yet he did not doubt that in time the Enemy would break him; it would not matter how bravely he resisted. He knew then that wherever it was that the orcs were taking him, he must not arrive; it was that simple. Before they reached their destination, he must escape. As he lay shivering on the cold ground with his sweat-soaked clothes chilling him further, he wondered how in the name of the Valar could he do this when every bone and muscle ached and his heart was so weighed down with despair. And what if he failed?A pit opened in his stomach as he realised he would have no choice but to earn himself an arrow in the back or a knife at this throat.

~oo0oo~

   As the sun settled over the Vale of Anduin, the orcs began to stir. The rope was removed from Aragorn’s legs and he was hauled to his feet again, the night’s break having done nothing to ease either his body or his mind. There was no sign of the Nazgûl, but the dread Aragorn felt told him he was near.

   The orcs set off again; their pace mercifully slower as the rocky slopes of the Ephel Dúath became steeper. On and on, hour after hour, they clambered upwards through hidden paths deeper into the mountains. For Aragorn, the struggle to keep abreast of his captors was becoming almost impossible. He knew his strength was waning fast and his thirst was becoming unbearable. He must do something soon. The night was passing and no opportunity for escape had arisen. He was getting desperate.

   They were running now on a narrow ledge, wide enough for just two abreast. Somewhere below, Aragorn could clearly hear the sound of a cascading, tumbling stream which only served to intensify his desperate longing for water. He wondered briefly if it could be the Morgulduin. Since the orcs had left the easier terrain of Ithilien behind and taken to the mountains, he had completely lost track of exactly where he was. More likely the stream was a tributary of that polluted river, but whatever it was, it sounded as if it was flowing fast between its high banks.

   Aragorn did not have time to think about what he did next; he just knew he wanted to be in that water. Somehow, he had to seize this one chance. He suddenly deliberately dropped to one knee. Having already stumbled so many times during the night, he knew exactly what the orc beside him would do. Sure enough, it stopped to link its arm through his to try and raise him again. As it did so, Aragorn gathered what remaining strength he could muster and charged abruptly towards the edge of the shelf, launching both himself and the astonished orc over the top. He was by no means certain he would even survive the fall, but such was his dread of staying on the path before him that death had become a far preferable fate.

   Together he and the orc tumbled into the water below, the unfortunate creature breaking his fall. Aragorn braced himself for the shock of the cold water as they both shot to the bottom of the icy stream. The orc was badly injured but still very much alive and, as they both rode to the surface, tried to push Aragorn back under the water. Aragorn however was trying to do something similar to the orc, though with his hands bound and useless, it was anything but easy.

    He thrashed furiously with his legs as both he and the orc struggled to stay afloat as the fast flowing river took them further and further from the orcs above. Arrows rained down on them but, thankfully, the orcs did not seem inclined to jump in and follow. The stricken orc very soon began to sink as its injuries finally told on it. Aragorn kicked as vigorously as his diminished strength would allow in a desperate attempt to reach the opposite bank before the dying orc dragged them both down into the depths. He had nearly reached the river’s edge when the orc’s weighty gear finally pulled it under and, if there had still been any life left in it, there was no more.

   Free at least of its vice-like claws, Aragorn’s progress was unhampered, although his own boots felt like lead weights on his tired legs. The water was flowing more slowly now as the stream’s descent became shallower and the steep banks were replaced by a gentler sloping shore. Luck for once was on his side and the water suddenly became shallow enough for his feet to find the stony bottom and he half floated, half staggered towards the water’s edge. As he went, he gulped the water frantically. He expected it to be foul and polluted like the Morgulduin, but, although it smelt less than wholesome, to him, it tasted as good as any water he had ever drunk in all his life. He lay long at the river’s edge, drinking his fill.

   Once he ceased moving, the chill quickly began seeping into his bones; he needed to get out of the water soon as the cold would kill him as surely as any orc arrow. Neither had he any desire to be swept downstream all the way to the Morgul Vale. Using his last reserves of strength, he crawled out unto the rocky bank. He collapsed then; the effort of making his escape had finished him. He lay there for time unknowing, trembling uncontrollably as exhaustion overtook his injured body. He let his eyes close and he allowed his mind to go blank.

   He had escaped. That was all that mattered.

   At length the bitter cold aroused him. It was January and although he was far south, a cold wind still tore into his soaked clothing. The first hint of dawn was in the sky. As he roused himself, he realised he had to free his hands and escape further in the daylight. He had no way of knowing how enthusiastic the orcs would be in their pursuit of him. He cast his eyes around the shore, looking for anything that might sever the ropes, but there was nothing. All the rocks were smooth edged and rounded; useless for his purpose.

   The drowned orc, though, he knew, had carried a knife. If it had not been lost in the fall, it would now be barely six rangaraway from where he lay, if he could but bring himself to return to the water to retrieve it. He dreaded the thought of braving the cold river, but, unless he intended to die in this Valar-forsaken land, he knew he could not lie helpless indefinitely. He still felt completely shattered by his ordeal, but the drink of water had made him feel a little better and that encouraged him. So, summoning what courage he could, he struggled to his feet and waded out into the stream again. He stumbled more often than he stood, but at last he reached the corpse which was lying in shallow water; no more than waist height. He stood for a long time looking down at it through the water as the stream’s surface slowly settled again.

   The knife was still there. It was only loosely slotted into the orc’s belt. He might just be able to retrieve it. He took a deep breath and, dropping to his knees, he plunged his head below the surface. Somehow he would have to use his teeth to pull it from the belt. He grimaced at putting his face so close to the vile creature. He opened his mouth and clasped the blade between his teeth but, in the few seconds he had to do this, he was unable to move it even an inch. He quickly jerked his head out of the water, gasping for breath and was at once reminded of just how sore his chest muscles were. He waited for a few moments until he felt able to try again. But first, he nudged the orc slightly with his knee to shift its position before he dived down once more. This time the knife moved more easily and he was able to pull it clear. But retreating to the bank with it was considerably more difficult that he imagined; it was surprisingly heavy and Aragorn struggled to keep hold of it. But finally, wading through the water on his knees, he reached the safety of the bank.

    The effort of retrieving the knife had nearly finished him, but he feared to delay any longer. It took repeated, frustrating efforts, but he managed to wedge the knife between two rocks and then he gingerly backed onto the blade. His arms were as useful as lumps of wood, so, cautiously, he moved his whole body up and down against the knife’s edge. Luckily, the blade was razor sharp and, in spite of it sliding back and for and occasionally nearly falling out of its slot, he managed to slice through the ropes and with only a few minor nicks to his wrists.

   Slowly, and very cautiously, he drew his arms forward. As he guessed they would, his stiffened muscles cramped agonisingly as he did so. He wanted to scream, but he closed his eyes for a moment and clenched his jaw until the worse of the pain had passed. But when, at last, he opened his eyes again and looked at his hands, they made a depressing sight. They were a complete mess. His wrists, skinned raw from the over tight ropes, were seeping pus and blood, while his fingers were bloated and cold and lifeless. He could hardly bring himself to look at them. He bowed his head and closed his eyes in despair. His relief at being free was tempered by the realization that he was deep in the land of his enemies; he had no supplies and he was in very poor shape.

   He was still in deadly peril.

   He knew he must keep moving. With great difficulty, he hitched up the knife and clasped it to his side by wrapping his arms around his aching chest. He tucked his hands under his armpits in an attempt to warm them and, very awkwardly, he staggered to his feet. Bent with pain, he slowly started walking.

    His progress was hard and slow; the terrain in places impassable. The treacherous mountain paths made his progress tortuously difficult, but he kept slogging on. He was heading westwards and, as the sun came out and rode higher in the sky, his clothes began to dry and his shivers ceased. But there remained a cold chill in his heart that no day in the sun could thaw. The grief of his encounter with the Nazgul was slow to leave him. It was as if it had left a trace of itself in his mind that sapped his will and continued to devour his hope. The fear and despair lingered and was made all the worse by a certainty he felt that somewhere, someday, he would have to face him once again. 

~oo0oo~

   Eventually, as the morning wore on, away before him he could see the long leagues of the Vale of Anduin, stretching to a horizon too distant to see. It was a welcome sight, but there, surveying the vastness of Middle-earth, the depth of his loneliness hit him fully. It was at least a thousand miles to Rivendell and to Arwen who dwelt once again in her father’s house. But here, in this friendless country, he was completely alone.

   He sank to the ground, suddenly overwhelmed by the desperateness of his situation and the enormity of the struggle still facing him. He was in constant pain; every step he took was an act of courage and he was so desperately tired. How could he possibly manage to walk so many miles? He had no strength left to continue his hunt for Gollum and he had long since despaired of ever finding him. He was loathed to have to admit to Gandalf that he had failed, but he had scoured this land looking for the creature and found no sign. Probably, he was already in the clutches of the Dark Lord. Surely it could only be a matter of time before Sauron found that which was his and all hope would be lost forever.

   A shudder ran through him and the chill darkness returned, silently closing in around him. If he was ever going to make it home, he knew he must get to his feet and continue his long march, but at that moment, he just felt like lying down and never moving ever again. He was so terribly sore and weary; and defeated. It would be so easy to lie here and rest and leave all his cares behind for good. It would not take long to drift into oblivion. The crows could pick his bones and soon there would be nothing left of him but dust blowing in the wind.

   He sat there for a long time, looking at the view before him. Beyond this barren land, across the river, almost beyond his sight, were living lands that he knew well, some he had visited long ago in what now seemed like another lifetime. The bright sun bathed the Vale in its warm embrace and the beauty of it stirred something deep inside him where no icy finger of the Nazgul had touched and tainted him. He thought of the people who dwelt in those lands, good-hearted folk, hardy and stoic who had long kept their fearsome neighbour at bay. They lived their whole lives day in, day out in the Shadow of Mordor, and yet they were not defeated. He wondered what would become of them in the approaching war. Would they be among the first to be lost, brushed aside in the mighty onslaught from Mordor?

   He did not know. But he felt a sudden urge to ensure Sauron did not have everything his own way. The icy grip on his heart thawed a little as he realised that no matter what part was his to play, he still hoped his sword would leave its mark somewhere in the coming battles. Perhaps all was not lost yet. Maybe the Ring had not yet been found. He might still be needed and there were people relying on him whom he could not abandon.

   He must go on.

   With a great surge of will, he forced himself onto his feet and as he did so, he suddenly realised he was desperately hungry. Although his guts had long ago seized, his stomach was screaming for food. It was actually a good feeling. It told him his body still had hope even if his heart was faltering. But at this time of year wild food was scarce and he would find nothing in this empty land.  He had to reach Ithilien, where, hopefully, even now, there would be food of some sort in the Garden of Gondor. He might even chance upon some athelas and so rid himself entirely of the remnants of the Nazgul’s poison. And from Ithilien, he could skirt the Dead Marshes and finally make for home.

   He hitched up the knife again and on he trudged. He would keep going. He always had and somehow, in spite of his woes, he knew in his heart, he always would.

~oo0oo~   

    “They will come on you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help. Do you wish them to find you? They are terrible.”

   The hobbits looked at him, and saw with surprise that his face was drawn as if in pain, and his hands clenched the arms of his chair. The room was very quiet and still, and the light seemed to have grown dim. For a while he sat with unseeing eyes as if walking in distant memory or listening to sounds in the Night far away.

   “There!” he cried after a moment, drawing his hand across his brow. “Perhaps I know more about the pursuers than you do. You fear them, but you do not fear them enough, yet.”

   “Strider” The Fellowship of the Ring.