The metal door slammed shut with a clang. The raucous, jeering noise reverberated up and down the hall outside the cell; the hall that led to freedom. A form lay in the tiny chamber, curled up in a small ball. Aragorn shivered, the cold seeping into his bones not from around him, but from within.
Twenty-five years of life had done nothing to prepare him for the sight of fifteen elves and Rangers slaughtered, one by one, before his eyes. He, too, would have met the same fate, except for the (mis?)-fortune of a shattered sword of great lineage being found in a scabbard. His scabbard. So he sat there, waiting for torture, for interrogation, for something. Anything was better than this waiting, the stillness bringing back the memories of desperate screams and wide, lifeless eyes.
But the visions would not stop. Aragorn finally succumbed to despair, his shoulders shaking with sobs.
But the walls of Dol Guldur were merciless, echoing the silent sounds of a desperate soul within.