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A Long and Weary Way  by Canafinwe

Note: Bilbo's verse from The Fellowship of the Ring; J.R.R. Tolkien

Chapter XI: The Flowers of Morgul Vale

Aragorn made a single abortive attempt to slow his fall, but in his haste he reacted instinctively rather than rationally, thrusting out his lead foot to brace himself against the rock wall. The anguish of driving the wounded limb so violently against a hard surface blinded him, robbing him of both the will and the strength to resist the chaos that had engulfed the world. He did nothing more to arrest his progress, nor could he take any action to lessen what harm might come to him as he tumbled down the stiars.

It was over soon enough: he could not tumble forever and abruptly he found himself motionless. He lay there long, crumpled upon the unyielding rock, dazed and almost insensate from the pain. Distantly he berated himself. Fool, arrogant fool, to take his thoughts off his feet ere the danger was past. Though he could not quite remember how he had come to stumble, nor why he had failed to keep from falling, he remembered his vainglorious self-satisfaction at reaching a place where he could walk properly down the steps. Fool. Fool!

Try though he might, he could not muster much anger. A muzzy detachment was wrapping his mind in comforting folds. Why trouble to think, or to move, or to feel? Far better to remain here, still and insensible, until the inviting oblivion already encroaching on the borders of his mind surged forth to claim him.

Yet there was an insistent presence that refused to let him sink away into the gentle arms of unconsciousness. It needled at his brain and goaded him, pinching and throbbing and burning as mercilessly as the fires of Orodruin. Aragorn bit back a moan as the pain in his wounded leg refused to allow him the mercy of a well-earned swoon. Unable to resist it, he remained as still as he could, stalwartly enduring what he was powerless to control.

Slowly, tortuously, the anguish faded to a deep, searing discomfort and he was able to categorize and weigh the other, lesser pains. His left cheekbone stung, and he raised his unsteady right hand to touch skin rubbed raw on the rock. His fingers crept over his ear to the place where he had struck his skull on the rock: a hard swollen mass that ached until he touched it, whereupon it exploded into blinding agony for a moment before settling into a dull throb. Aragorn did not feel especially nauseous, which was ordinarily considered to be a good sign after a blow to the head. He was about to attempt to sit up when he remembered what had happened immediately before the knock, and terror seized him. If he had done serious harm to his left hip he would die here, for without at least one good leg he would be entirely helpless, unable even to move from this spot.

Gingerly he attempted to wriggle his toes inside his left boot. When he found he still could, he ventured to roll his ankle. It, too, moved without pain. Encouraged, he began to raise his knee, drawing up his leg.

Suddenly, every muscle in the long limb contracted, twisting and cramping in fiery torment. Aragorn could not help a strangled cry as his hamstrings tensed into knots. The pain was familiar, but no more welcome for that. Ordinarily he would have leapt to his feet to walk off the cramps, but he could not do so now, with his wounded head and other unknown hurts. He screwed his eyes tightly closed and flexed his foot, slowly stretching the overworked leg. The taut muscles protested, making known their displeasure in fresh spasms of agony, but as he locked his knee and drew in a halting breath the knots loosened and the leg relaxed.

Aragorn exhaled through clenched teeth. At least he knew his hip was not fractured, he reflected dourly, slowly allowing his foot to go limp. There was that to be grateful for.

He braved the pain in his thigh to move his right foot. The ankle that had failed him was tender, but did not appear to be broken or even inflamed. He began to hope that he had had a little good fortune at last: if his only hurts after falling down stairs uncounted were a crack to the head and a scraped cheekbone, then he was lucky indeed. Gingerly he rolled onto his left side and tried to prop himself up on his elbow. He fell feebly back.

His eyes drifted closed. He had to get up: he could not remain here, exposed at the foot of the stair. He was in Morgul Vale – he could smell the sickly-sweet stench of decay even now. He was not safe here. But he was sore and he was weary, and he lacked the strength to stand. He toyed briefly with the notion of simply slipping into sleep with no regard for his continued safety, but in the end such folly was beyond his ken. His right hand groped for the all-but-empty skin hanging from his belt, and he tried to fumble with the knot that held it in place.

Unable to release it, he moved his left arm, and was met with a sharp pain that shivered up into his shoulder. Aragorn tensed, hugging the injured limb to his ribs. What had he done to himself, and more importantly, how severely would it impair his efforts to survive? He tried to raise his head to look at his hand, but the effort made the world spin precariously around him. Closing his eyes against the whirling gloom, Aragorn moved his right hand to unbuckle his belt. Then he was able to slide the strap off, and he tucked the skin between his elbow and his side as he worked out the stopper with clumsy fingers.

His hand shook and he could not help but spill a little, but in the end he got the vessel to his lips and took a long swallow of the orc-liquor. He lay back, panting like an invalid and waited frantically for the vile concoction to take effect. When it did, the easing of the pain brought with it such merciful relief that Aragorn rather wished to weep. He restrained himself, and turned his attentions to gaining an upright position.

When at last he was sitting, leaning heavily upon the rock wall to his left, he looked down at his injured wrist. It was swollen and glossy, but did not appear disfigured. He probed the joint – an action that would have been excruciatingly painful had he been entirely sober – but he heard no grinding of broken bones, nor did he feel any shifting of torn ligaments or tendons. Merely a strain, then: doubtless he had landed strangely upon the limb at some point in his ignoble descent. Aragorn reached out, stretching his right arm to grab his belt and tugging it towards him until he could lay hold of his knife. Another four inches of cloak were sacrificed, and he wrapped his wrist tightly.

A cursory inspection of his leg told him that he was bleeding again, but slowly. Aragorn weighed his choices and decided to leave the bandage undisturbed for now. If the wound was not pouring profusely, any interference with the dressing would only serve to do more harm than good. He would wait and see how he fared in a few minutes.

With his injuries for the most part tended, he was at last at leisure to assess his surroundings. He was at the foot of the stair. He could not say how far he had fallen: the worn stone steps gave no sign of his passage. Doubtless if he dragged himself up the stairs he would find traces of blood where he had scraped his cheek, and perhaps even the loose stone that had proved his downfall, but he had no strength to squander on such fruitless endeavours. Truth be told, he did not wish to know how far he had toppled: whatever the answer, it would not please him.

His pack was still on his back, and that was something for which to be thankful. His water-skin, still looped around his cast-off belt, had not burst, and that was something more. He still had his knife, and – he shook the other skin gently as he replaced its cork – a few drams of orc-liquor. On the whole his position was less than favourable, but he had the means to survive if he could find the will and determination had always been his strong suit. A grim ghost of a smile touched his battered face. He was not dead yet.

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Aragorn lingered there awhile, trying to rest. He could not bring himself to eat, nor did he dare to sleep, but he let his mind wander for a time in the realms of distant memory. Even with the blessed numbness of the orc-draught, his hurts ached and tickled, and his thoughts were ringed about with a fog.

He remembered the first time he had been wounded in the Wild. He had been sixteen years of age – Estel son of Gilraen, then, with neither sire nor heritage nor lofty and burdensome destiny – cocky and eager and imbued with the particular enthusiasm of one whose academic pursuits had at last found practical application. His foster-brothers had seen fit to take him with them on a patrol south of Imladris, down towards the Angle. Riding at dusk the two Halfelven warriors and their mortal charge had found themselves beset by a hunting pack of fell white wolves.

Though they had made quick work of dispatching the beasts, Aragorn had sustained a wound to his side where a particularly audacious animal had attempted to maul him with its foreclaws. The hurts were not deep – more like whip-weals than proper wounds – but nevertheless Elladan had insisted upon cleaning the marks and dressing them with care.

'Never leave a wound untended in the wild, Estel, no matter how small;' he had said as he applied balm to the injuries and his patient exerted every effort not to squirm with embarrassment. 'Even an injury like this can fester, and you may find yourself in dire straits far from any aid. If you are wounded and alone, find a place to secret yourself in as much safety as you can find, and rest until you can continue on your way without placing yourself in further jeopardy. A day of rest will do more to heal your hurts than any herb or tincture.'

Over the years, Aragorn had done what he could to heed this advice. He had found through repeated experience that there was almost always some thicket or cave, some hollow of the land where a wounded man might take shelter, there to rest and eat and gather his strength once more. But now he was in the heart of Imlad Morgul upon the very threshold of the Witch-King himself. Even if there was by some miracle a hidden place where he might be safe from the ceaseless vigilance of the Nazgűl and their servants, he would perish of privation if he tarried here. There was no clean water in Morgul Vale, nor could the vile foliage be trusted. With his stores rapidly dwindling to nothing and his injured body demanding greater consideration than was its wont, he could not linger. His only hope was to retreat to more hospitable lands where food and water might be found, and to attempt to convalesce there. The time had come to move on.

Cautiously, Aragorn got his good leg under him and with the help of the rock wall he managed to stand. He shook out his belt and eased it around his waist, giving consideration to his sore wrist. He buckled it snugly at the next-to-last notch. Then, arranging his cloak more comfortably upon his shoulders he limped forward.

The path bent in a sharp curve, and he stepped out onto a ledge overlooking the valley. His eyes were drawn inexorably across the desolate waste of putrescent blossoms and poisoned grasses to the eerie iridescence of the river, and thus to the winding road that led up to the Dead City itself. Though Aragorn tried to turn away, to shield his eyes from the horror of that dread place, even his will was not sufficient to overcome the spell of Minas Morgul.

It rose like a pinnacle of woe above the blighted plain: tall and fell with its great, ghastly summit rotating slowly in the swiftly-falling darkness. The high walls, once held to be wondrous and fair, glowed with an unearthly death-light that offered no illumination to the surrounding lands. The gaping maw that was the front gate seemed to draw to it all hope and courage, leaving only a vacuous pit of terror and hollow despair. As he stood transfixed it seemed to Aragorn that his very life was ebbing away, stolen by the silent watchers behind the empty windows of the City of the Nazgűl. Before such unearthly power, what hope had one man, wounded and alone in the Enemy's lands? How could he possibly defy the Shadow? What could a lone warrior hope to accomplish before all the vast might of Mordor?

Aragorn drew in a sharp breath as he attempted to startle himself out of the unnatural despondency that was settling on his soul. Though he could not shake off the despair, he managed at least to close his eyes and turn his head away. A chill wind blew, and he drew his cloak about himself, striving to reason away the Morgul-spell.

Verily he had no hope of assailing those walls. Even at the height of his vigour such a task was too much for any man. But he had not come here to challenge Sauron. That day might come, but it was not yet at hand. No, he reminded himself; he was here for a very different purpose. He sought only one small creature, one malicious wretch whose knowledge might be put to use to bring about the defeat of the Shadow. He did not need to ride to war: he had only to discover his prey, and in the interim to escape discovery himself.

With as much haste as his wounded leg would allow, Aragorn moved down the path. Night had fallen, and all was darkness save the unnatural phosphorescence of the accursed tower. Aragorn kept his eyes upon feet he could not see, and moved swiftly down from the ledge to a place where the path took on the glowing aura of the Morgul-road. Here the stench of the tainted blossoms grew stronger, and his head swam. There was nowhere to hide, and indeed he hesitated to halt in this place even for a brief respite from the labour of moving. Keeping his ears alert to any whisper of a patrol, Aragorn moved forward with what haste he could.

The way was treacherous, for he did not dare to follow the road too closely and the terrain was uneven. As he went he crushed the stinking flowers beneath his boots, and their malodorous fumes grew swiftly nauseating. More than once he was obliged to halt, shaky and lightheaded from the reek.

Yet worse than any vile odour was the feel of the sightless Watchers in the haunted city behind. Long had Aragorn dwelt in fear of the Shadow, his identity hidden beneath many layers of disguise, and many names, and many deeds both secret and overt. Now it seemed the gaping windows of Minas Morgul bore down upon his back, stripping away the pretense and laying bare his shivering soul. With each step his heart sank deeper into despair and hope fled further from his weary heart.

So long had he laboured, so long had he waited, and no nearer were his goals now than they had been on an autumn's morn long years ago, when a gallant boy had strode forth from Imladris to pursue his destiny. Each year the Shadow grew, and each year the might of the Wise was diminished. Gondor was a land under siege, and however wise and capable Denethor was he could not endure forever against the incursions of Mordor. As for the Dúnedain of the North, their numbers dwindled with each passing season. If the hour of reckoning came at last, who among them would remain to ride to battle with their lord?

He had hoped that the discovery and interrogation of Gollum might prove the catalyst that at last might turn the tides of fortune in their favour, but Aragorn had to admit that success in that quarter was beginning to seem as unattainable as a victory against the hosts of Sauron. If the creature had not been devoured by the spider months before, like as not he had been captured by the servants of the Enemy. He might even now be languishing in some hidden dungeon high in the circles of Minas Morgul. Mayhap he was a prisoner of the Eye, wracked with torment in the bowels of the Barad-dűr where he had long since poured out his secrets. Even at this moment, agents of Sauron might be descending upon the Shire, felling the Rangers who guarded its borders and cutting a broad swath of destruction as they rode for Bilbo's old home...

Aragorn could not breathe. He felt as if his lungs were collapsing under a great weight of unspeakable hopelessness. It was as if he were drowning in a sea of despair, sinking ever deeper into darkness, never again to resurface. Nevermore to draw breath in living lands, nevermore to look with hope to the Firmament, nevermore to lay eyes upon his beloved... nevermore...

At once he recognized the aberrant pall settling upon his heart, and his hand flew to the hilt of his knife. He dropped to his knees, welcoming the pain that shot up from his wounded thigh as it drove back the most insidious tendrils of despair. What he felt was not a genuine failing of hope and courage. It was the incursion upon his mind of an unseen evil: wickedness unclad was wandering Morgul Vale tonight. Though he could neither see nor hear the threat, he knew that he was not alone.

A Nazgűl wandered nearby.

By dark the Ringwraiths were a terrible foe, and he had neither blade nor fire with which to defend himself. Aragorn's limbs began to tremble, but he fought the rising tide of terror. Perhaps, he told himself, it was unaware of his presence. A ragged spy, wounded and alone, he might prove to be beneath its notice. He would cast a shadow in its mind, but if he remained in control, utterly unremarkable, it might pass him by. He had done nothing to draw attention to himself – or at least he did not think that he had. Perhaps, perhaps...

But he was afraid, and his fear conjured up visions of horror and desolation. It seemed that he could see all those he loved laid low by the Enemy's slaves: his folk, his friends, his kin, all gone. And Sauron raised upon a dark throne, and on his finger the Ring of Doom—

No. He must remain innocuous. Unworthy of the attentions of the wraith. He could not be the architect of his own defeat. He filled his mind with the only thing that came to him in his hour of need, rising up through the Morgul-mists like a swimmer fighting the deep, unseen currents that washed all others away. It was a scrap of verse, a simple riddle-song written with love by a kindly hobbit in a serene valley far away: its words meaningless in this land of despair. Meaningless, save only to him.

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

The second part eluded him, but Aragorn fixed his mind upon what words he could remember. It was better this way: the other lines were bold, defiant, perhaps prophetic. Better that he remembered these alone; the puzzle-words, the hidden truths, the many layers of dissembling and disguise, protecting his mind as they had guarded his identity.

Not all those who wander are lost...

There was a whispering of wind and the air grew cold. Aragorn closed his eyes. He had encountered these wraiths before. He knew their power, but he knew also their weakness. If he could hide his mind from the searching thoughts of the Nazgűl... it was not seeking him, or it would have found him long ere this. There was still hope. He was older now. He was wiser. He was strong enough to resist.

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

He was shaking now, trembling with the bitter cold and with the terror that sought ever to gain a foothold in his heart. Bilbo's verses rang in his ears and his heart pounded. He felt that he would swoon, and then, then the Ringwraith would find him, would bear him off to torment and disaster in Isildur's fallen city.

All that is gold does not...

Then suddenly, like the summer storm that strikes with all its force and then abruptly dies, leaving behind the battered fields beneath a scattering of hailstones, the assault upon his faculties ceased. His mind was clear. The treacherous despair was past. The Nazgűl was gone, and in its place was only the empty night, and the reek of the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale. Quaking violently, overcome with the strain and with a surging relief, Aragorn hid his face in his right hand as the rest of Bilbo's rhyme came welling up from deep within his heart. Whether they were a portent of things to come, or merely a reflection of his friend's blind optimism and endearing good faith, the words brought comfort sufficient to ease his soul even in this terrible place.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.





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