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 25: Isildur’s Bane

   In the early night Frodo woke from deep sleep, suddenly, as if some sound or presence had disturbed him. He saw that Strider was sitting alert in his chair: his eyes gleaming in the light of the fire, which had been tended and was burning brightly; but he made no sign or movement.

A Knife in the Dark                                                                    The Fellowship of the Ring                                

~oo0oo~

   The fire was burning low. Fortunately Nob had left a plentiful supply of logs stacked neatly to one side of the chimney breast; enough to ensure the fire could continue to blaze through until morning if properly tended. Aragorn carefully picked his way around the row of sleepy hobbits lying side by side in front of the hearth. Briefly, he studied the assortment of instruments propped against the chimney before selecting a suitable poker to stir the charred, but still glowing, timbers in the grate. Immediately they sprang to life. And as the fire strengthened its grip, he pulled a couple of logs from Nob’s tidy stack and threw them into the grate. The newly kindled flames spluttered and dimmed before finding a hold on the fresh timber and the small fire roar fiercely once again.

   Aragorn returned to his chair and pressed it tightly against the door before sitting on the simple wooden seat. His four charges had now ceased their chatter and were wrapped up snugly in their blankets, their woolly feet pointing towards the fire. Slowly, they settled down for the night, though Pippin continued to wriggle as he sought a more comfortable spot on the hard floor. Frodo, Aragorn observed, was wedged securely between Sam and Merry. One by one they dropped off to sleep. But Aragorn would not be joining them in slumber this night. Instead he sat wide awake, listening to every sound beyond the walls of the small parlour that was to be their sanctuary until morning. His alert ears caught the slam of an outside door being shut and a few light footsteps hastily retreating down the corridor. There was no sound coming from the common room. But then it was getting late; the guests had most likely retired for the night.

   Soon all was quiet and Aragorn could hear nothing but the soft sound of the hobbits breathing and the occasional hiss or crackle from the grate, though once in a while, the shutters on the windows would clatter noisily as the wind toyed with them. Somewhere in the village a vixen cried, her ear-splitting bark shattering the silence. The eerie sound made the Ranger jump. He breathed out slowly and would have smiled at his foolishness, only he knew he would be very fortunate if he heard nothing more sinister the entire night. According to Merry, at least one Black Rider had arrived in Bree already and, from the hobbit’s account of events earlier that evening, Aragorn had to assume the Wraith would by now know of their presence at the inn.

   The Nazgûl would soon be upon them.

   Sitting here alone, guarding these four hobbits, one of whom carried the Enemy’s Ring, Aragorn felt exceptionally vulnerable. From what he knew of the Ringwraiths, he doubted they would attack the inn that night; it was not their way, but he was by no means certain of this. There was no telling how desperate they would be by now to find the Ring. But of one thing he was certain. Whatever happened tonight beyond that door, and whatever terror permeated through it, nothing must get passed him; he must holdfast, no matter the cost to himself.

   His stomach tightened at the prospect of confronting even one of these creatures, but more than one would come, that he did not doubt. He must expect the worst and assume all nine would be here by morning. A nauseating wave of fear swept over him and refused to subside. He wondered how could he possibly hope to keep the Ring from falling into their hands if they all attacked the inn together. The answer was terrifyingly simple. He could not. He would do everything in his power to drive them off, but he knew, in his heart, he would be unlikely to even survive such an encounter.  

   He wiped his now sweaty palms on his cloak and took a deep breath. He told himself it was not inevitable this would happen. He must have faith that his plan would work and that, come the morning, they would all escape safely and in secret. Right now that was his best hope. In truth, it was his only hope. Barliman, Bob and Nob were the only ones who knew that the hobbits were not in their rooms. If they all laid low and remained silent, maybe, just maybe, they had a chance of eluding their terrible pursuers.

~oo0oo~

   Slowly the minutes ticked by.

   Aragorn looked at the four sleeping forms stretched out in front of the fire. He had never before had such charges in his care. They were so unworldly and innocent; he wondered if they fully understood what is was they carried. They really had behaved quite ridiculously in the early part of the evening, and yet, already he sensed hidden strengths within them. Bilbo had told him something of his nephew and he knew both he and Gandalf held Frodo in the highest regard.  But how they would cope out in the wilds, he did not know.

   Hobbits he understood to be capable enough creatures when needs must, but they were well known for liking their home comforts. It would not be very comfortable where he was going to take them. But they had no choice and neither did he. Somehow he had to guide them safely through all the long, empty leagues to Rivendell. He knew without a doubt that this was the most difficult and yet the most important task he had ever faced in his entire life; the final chapter in the long war with Sauron had begun. But he had no wish, at that moment, to dwell on the larger picture. It did his taut nerves no good whatsoever to contemplate exactly how much rested on what happened here, in this very inn, in the next few hours.

    The fire was burning low again. In total silence Aragorn got to his feet and, picking up the poker, he gently stirred the fading logs.  Once the fire showed renewed signs of life, he purposely selected the drier logs which were less likely to spit and placed them gently on the embers.   Aragorn knew if he achieved nothing else this night, he had to keep the fire going; Glorfindel had told him, on more than one occasion, that fire was his best weapon against the Ringwraiths. It did not seem nearly enough. He would much prefer an enemy that could be vanquished by the sword. Then he might feel some confidence in his chances of defeating them. It would be far preferable to go forth and challenge these Wraiths, openly and swiftly, than sit here in the shadows, hiding, with fear and dread rising within him. But he knew it was not possible to slay these things in such a manner. The Shards of Narsil, cherished though they were, would be of no help to him against the terrible foe that was drawing nearer with every moment that passed.

   He crept back to his chair and put his ear to the door. Hearing nothing, he sat back down again.  It was still early in the night, so he made himself as comfortable as he could and resumed his lonely vigil.

  He could not be sure how much time had passed when he suddenly heard a noise that appeared to come from somewhere within the inn. His heart lurched, but he sat very still, and, straining his ears in every direction, he listened intently. He was sure he had heard a crash and what was more, it was coming from the direction of the hobbit-rooms.

   There it was again. It sounded as if the bed was being moved. Someone, or something, was searching for the hobbits.

   His heart was racing now. Had the Wraiths come here after all, or was it their accomplices, the likes of Bill Ferny and his squint-eyed friend? He could not tell. He made no move, but continued to focus all his senses on whatever was out there. He gripped the arms of the chair; his knuckles turning white from the tension within him. As he listened, he slowly became aware of Frodo’s eyes resting upon him. The minutes passed, but he heard no more and at length the night seemed as silent as it had before. It was probably too much to hope that there would be no further trouble, but, for the moment, it seemed any immediate danger had passed. He noticed Frodo had already drifted off to sleep again. Wiping sweat from his brow, he let out a long breath, yet he remained as alert as ever.

It was going to be a long night.

~oo0oo~

   It was a strange feeling to know the One Ring was in this very room. He had only seen it briefly; that quick glimpse when Frodo removed it from his finger. He had not heeded it at all after that. There had been so much to discuss earlier that it had not even crossed his mind.

   Until now.

   The thought took shape at last; the Ring of Power lay within his grasp.

   It was a startling realisation. The same ring that Isildur had claimed all those years ago now lay but a few feet from him. He and his men had guarded it for years without the thought of him taking it for himself ever remotely entering his head. But it would be such an easy thing to do. All that stood between him and the Ring was a defenceless hobbit. He had to wonder sometimes what Gandalf had been thinking of in allowing something this important to remain in the hands of someone so weak. The Ring was clearly a burden to Frodo. There would be no need for violence. If he explained their predicament to them fully, the hobbits would probably be glad to be rid of it; they might be grateful even. And, now that he thought about it, it would be quite proper for him to have it. He, after all, was Isildur’s Heir. Arguably it was his by right. Had not Isildur kept it as wergild for his father? Certainly he had more claim to it than any other.

   Suddenly, wild visions of himself commanding a vast and powerful army formed before this eyes. He was no longer ‘Strider’, the despised Ranger, but a great captain and leader of men. If he took the Ring, the people of Middle-earth could unite behind his banner, Sauron would be defeated, the crown of Gondor would be assured and Arwen would be his. Everything he ever desired would come to pass.

    It was all so obvious to him now; it would be better by far that he should have it than for it fall into the hands of the Wraiths. And, trapped here as they were, there was every possibility that would happen. More than that, with Gandalf missing, their hope was already diminished. No one would blame him in the slightest. If he took it now, he might not even need to use it at all. He had only to take it away, far from the Wraiths; take it anywhere, anywhere at all, but here, in this room, with those things closing in on him. Any moment they would be at the door. He had only to reach out his hand. He must act quickly ….….

   Aragorn sat rigid in his chair; his hands had clenched into fists as the thoughts raced through his mind and his breathing quickened. He stared vacantly at the flames. He was sure he could feel it calling to him. He could hear no sound, but it was there, in his head, playing on his weaknesses and his fears, offering him a solution to all his problems.

   Then a grim smile formed on his troubled face. Yes, it might well be that simple, but he had not the slightest intention of doing this. He bent all his will against the voice and banished it forcefully and completely. The turmoil that had so swiftly arisen within him dissipated just as quickly and he felt a strange peace settle upon him. Slowly his fists relaxed and his breathing settled. He knew he had just defeated the greatest enemy he would ever face in his entire life; himself.

    He closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer of thanks that his blindness had not prevailed. And, as the moment passed, he felt furious with himself, and not a little ashamed, for listening to that voice at all, even though the temptation had persisted for only the most fleeting moment. Both Gandalf and Elrond had instructed him often enough on the dangers of doing anything so foolish. He knew very well that, as a mortal man, he would not have the strength to withhold it from Sauron if he came to take back what was his. It he had claimed it, his victory over Mordor would have needed to be swift and total if he was to avoid that torment, but, in any case, he knew, in his humility, he did not possess the strength to wield this thing and that, if he attempted to do so, it would utterly corrupt and destroy him. A descent into evil would be his only reward, no matter how it might appear otherwise or how noble his intentions at the outset. Isildur, in his pride, had paid a terrible price for his folly. He would not make the same mistake.

   The Ring fell silent; it did not speak to him now. He would never listen to it again.   No, he knew his duty. He had sworn to save the hobbits and give his life, if need be, in doing so. He did not take such oaths lightly.

    Isildur’s Bane would not claim Isildur’s Heir.

   Aragorn looked across at Frodo who was sleeping peacefully. He was glad that he was resting; the hobbit would need all his strength in the weeks ahead. He marvelled that the hobbits all managed to remain so untouched by the presence of the Ring. He realised he actually knew very little about them, in spite of his friendship with Bilbo. Gandalf clearly had a far greater understanding of the Shire folk than he did. Not for the first time in his life, he felt enormous gratitude at being the beneficiary of the guidance and counsel of such a wise friend as the Wizard. 

~oo0oo~

   The night dragged on. It seemed unending; the longest night he could remember in many a year. The hard, wooden seat of his chair was becoming uncomfortable now. He stretched one leg at a time to earn a few minutes relief from contact with the unyielding elm beneath his thighs.

   As the night slowly passed, his hopes began to rise, and his thoughts turned to the morning. He ought to make plans. Getting the hobbits to Rivendell was going to be anything but easy. They had ponies of their own; that was something. They would need to carry a plentiful supply of provisions, enough for the entire journey, though quite how long it would take to get there with the Black riders about, he could not be sure. He would try and get an early start and take the twisting paths out of Bree in the hope of losing any pursuit in the woods. He knew those paths well, so he was fairly optimistic that ploy would succeed. But beyond that, the terrain became far more difficult and he greatly feared the hobbits would be easy prey for the Wraiths.

   He sighed and reined in his depressing thoughts. He was getting ahead of himself. They still had to survive the rest of the night. There was no point in worrying unduly about all the days ahead. He must take this journey one small step at a time.

   The pile of logs was getting smaller, but still the fire burned brightly. There would be enough to keep it blazing until morning. He heard a cock crow in the yard. Quietly he got to his feet and stepped softly over to the window. He opened the shutter a fraction. The welcome first light of dawn was already breaking in the sky.

   This long night would soon be over.

~oo0oo~

   In that hour I looked on Aragorn and thought how great and terrible a Lord he might have become in the strength of his will, had he taken the Ring to himself. “Not for naught does Mordor fear him,” thought Legolas. “But nobler is his spirit than the understanding of Sauron; for is he not of the Children of Lúthien?...”

The Last Debate                                                                                The Return of the King