Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings, and all of the characters herein are of the property of the Tolkien Estate. Nothing belongs to me, and as such no copyright infringement was intended.

Rating: Teen (high)

Warnings: Dark and disturbing images, themes, violence, and implied sexual abuse

Time frame: AU. An unknown number of years after Sauron has regained the One Ring.

A/N: It should be noted that Seren should not be allowed to read Ragnelle's story Where the Grass Grows Green shortly before bed, especially when she's tired. It should also be noted that Seren is not allowed to write anything directly after reading the aforementioned story. However, those rules weren't in place until after Seren had begun writing this, and she didn't want to give up on it. So this isn't by any means a copy of Ragnelle's wonderful story (go read it, if you have the time and the stomach for it, it's positively stunning and thrilling! If, for whatever reason, you can't handle this, or have difficulty doing so, then I'd suggest not reading hers, for her story is about ten times better written, more emotionally poignant, and dark than this is.) but if there are any slight similarities between the two, then I am terribly sorry. I attempted to keep it to my own ideas as much as I could, but it was written on the fly, so there could be small things...or whatnot. This was not in any way meant to be a copy of her story, however. If anything, this was meant to honor it, and to show what an impact it had on my mood and my night.

I hope that you enjoy reading this...if you can. I'm not entirely sure how well my ideas and emotions translated to paper, but I did my best, and I hope I accomplished it at least somewhat. I'd love hearing from you though - what you think of it, whether you like it or not, what you think I could do better, what you think I do well with. I can only improve if I know what needs improving! Most of all, however, I sincerely hope that you all enjoy this...

=Hope Fails=

The cell door clanged as it was thrown violently open. There was a scuff of flesh against stone, the rasp of cloth, a grunt, and then came the thud of a body hitting the floor. Then the door was closing once more, and the grating of a heavy bolt being shoved into place.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the Elessar, heir to the thrones of Gondor and Arnor, did not move from where he had landed. It was not even truly the pain that staid his movements any longer – the pain he was well used to, as it had been his constant companion for longer than he could recall. Nay, it was something else; an exhaustion that pierced far deeper than the flesh and that sunk down into his very bones and stole the breath from his lungs that kept him from moving.

"I had wondered when they would bring you to me." The voice was quiet and raspy – broken, as if spoken from a throat that has shredded itself beyond repair from screaming. That voice was so very familiar, memories of the old, golden days, of summer rising slowly, lethargically in Aragorn's mind. Peace and safety – that was what that voice had meant to him oh so very long ago. Peace, safety, and joy. And then of something more – of teaching, warning, and no longer with that warmth that he had known. Danger lurking, expectations unfulfilled, and judgment. The darkness that had momentarily been driven back fractionally by the long-forgotten fragments of memory returned. And Aragorn would not speak. "Come." And there came the clink of chains as a hand was raised.

Aragorn went, slowly, crawling across the stone floor of the cell on ravaged knees and splintered hands. A hand touched his face, and Aragorn flinched away instinctively, expecting a blow. None came.

"Our time has come." The voice was even softer now, and somehow gentler. "We are of no more use to Sauron, and so our time has come. I had thought that it would be you that they would bring."

"And why is that, my lord?" Aragorn asked, finding his voice – as broken as his companion's – and speaking at last.

There was silence in the cell for a long moment before the other spoke again. This time his voice was dead as if all emotion had been bled from it. "Elladan and Elrohir are dead. I watched with my own eyes as their heads were cut from their bodies and mounted upon pikes." There was a long silence, in which there was no sound but the slow and steady drip of water in a corner of the cell.

Aragorn did not move – could not move. He had known, he realized, that the twin sons of Elrond were dead. He had known it in his heart that they had died, and he knew in his heart now that they had died protecting their father. The last memory of their father.

"He has other plans for Arwen Undómiel, who is said to be the likeness Lúthien walking upon Middle-earth once again," the other continued. "That much I know, and beyond that I will not dwell. And so that leaves you, Estel, the final son of your father. And like me, your purpose has run dry."

Still Aragorn was silent. He should feel something, he knew that he should. But he did not – could not – despite what his companion had said. He simply wanted it all to end, for this torment to cease, and this pit of despair to fade away. There was nothing left for him – for anyone. There was no hope. There was no light. There was no room for love any longer.

"I know your thoughts, Estel Elrondion," the other said quietly, "for they are also in my mind. Fear not, for it shall all come to pass soon enough."

The grate of the lock, and then the grind of the door as the cell was opened once more. The lumbering of Orcs as they entered, laughing and cackling, jeering in their own black tongue. Aragorn did not resist as he was seized roughly beneath the arms, and hoisted to his feet.

There came the rattle of chains from beside him, and Aragorn realized that the Orcs were bringing his companion with him. Then the Orcs were dragging both prisoners out into the hall. Aragorn glanced sideways, squinting in pain as the light of the ruddy torches assaulted eyes that had been for too long in absolute darkness. He caught just a glimpse of silver hair, and then he allowed his head to loll forward listlessly.

Through the dungeon's twisting passages, then up, up, up into the palace. The smooth obsidian floors reflected the distorted image of the sickening procession. Orcs in front and behind, all bearing curved cudgels, all leering unpleasantly. And carried at the center of the Orc ranks came the two prisoners who hung in their captors' arms and who no longer even had the strength to fight.

Through the long palace halls to the very center of the black fortress where twin doors made of ebony wood rose as high as five men. The door was carved with strange and fantastic images – Dragons, flame issuing from their maws; Balrogs, whose tined whips snapped in the air; Wolves howling; Vampires caught half-way between man and bat; Orcs dancing gleefully atop a battlefield; the battlefield covered in the dead, both Elves and Men, and above which contorted a thousand slaves all chained, all screaming, and all bleeding. Two tall Orcs – who indeed looked to be more Elf than Orc – stood to either side of the doors, dressed in gleaming armor and helms, with the Great Eye emblazoned in fire red upon their breasts.

As the procession drew near, both of the guards stepped forward, opening the massive doors. They swung open silently, revealing a cavernous hall made of the same obsidian as the rest of the palace. But here the obsidian sparkled, as if a thousand diamond crystals had been caught amid the stone. Pillars lined the walls, gargoyles and even stranger beasts peering out from top, bottom, and even from within the columns. Mighty torches burned orange and red in sconces along the walls between each of the pillars, and braziers filled with glowing coals stood at the foot of the dais at the far end of the hall.

Upon the dais sat a dark throne that seemed to tower above the rest of the room, and not simply because of its size, or its height. Indeed, the throne itself was simple enough in make – simple, straight lines, carved from a single block of black marble, with hard edges, and sharp spikes. But there was an air of greatness that emanated from the throne that overpowered all else.

Or perhaps that sense came from the one that sat sprawled upon the throne. He was as dark as all else around him, yet even so was as beautiful as the viper about to strike. And darkness seemed to come within him, although he himself was fair to behold. With white-blond hair that framed a pale face and pointed chin, arching brow, and thin lips, it was only his eyes that were dark – black so deep that they seemed almost crimson, and filled with unspeakable malice. Indeed, he was the very image of a lord of the dark, and none could mistake him as anything but.

The two prisoners were brought before the dais, and there were forced to kneel. For a long moment all was silent in the hall, the many courtiers and beasts that thronged the hall stilling to watch the event that they had been gathered together to watch.

Then Sauron sat upright, and he leaned forward, one hand going to his lips, which were twisted into a cruel and savage smile.

"Long it has been since I have last seen you, Celeborn the Wise," Sauron said, his slithery voice filling the entirety of the hall. "You promised me that I would never bow your knee before my throne. And now look at you – a great Elf lord, a prince of Doriath, the one who won the hand of the fair Noldorin princess Artanis who you named Galadriel – kneeling silent before me." Celeborn did not speak, but Aragorn could sense that he looked up, his gaze meeting Sauron's steadily.

The Dark Lord merely smiled, and then turned his gaze upon Aragorn. "And look, the proud, would-be king. The descendant of Isildur, whose weakness it was that allowed me to return. The one who, despite his nobility and his duty and his oh so righteous sense of loyalty, at last is broken." Laughter filled the hall as Sauron's minions cackled. "You wish for death, do you not, Elessar?" Sauron asked, his voice filled with poisonous seduction.

It was only then that Aragorn saw the figure sitting at the foot of Sauron's throne. She was naked but for the long, raven tresses that flowed down her chest and back. She was watching him, silver eyes fixated upon his face. There was sorrow, and fear, and such hopelessness in her gaze that, for the first time in a very long while, Aragorn felt something stir within him: pity, and sorrow of his own, but most of all anger, and a feeling that he had not felt for what felt like an eternity – love. Her name fell from his lips before he could halt it.

"Arwen."

Sauron's grin widened. "So I see your spirit is not so broken as I had thought. No matter, it will only make today's entertainment all the more pleasurable." Looking over his shoulder, he beckoned two people forward who, prior to this point, had been hidden in the shadows behind his throne.

Two Elves stepped forward, and the light of the torches seemed to glitter off of them. But it was not the healthy, golden glow that should have hung about Elves. Rather, this glitter was like steel in firelight, like ice in winter sunlight. It was somehow cold, and above all, wrong.

Those in the hall bowed low.

Circlets were upon their brows – his of gold, and hers of silver – and they were dressed finely, like the Elven kings and queens of old. And they were not only dressed as such, but they appeared as such, as lordly and as great as any legend that spoke of Finwë. And yet they were cold, their eyes as chilled and filled with malice as their master's, and those who saw them knew in an instant that there would be found no mercy in either.

"You know what you are to do," Sauron said, and then settled back into his throne, folding his hands in front of his chest, elbows propped up on the armrests.

The two Elves descended the dais side-by-side, and the Orcs parted before them with bows. Aragorn watched as they drew closer, a sick feeling in his newly awakened heart. No, no, surely not…

The two halted in front of Aragorn and Celeborn. From the folds of her dress, the black-garbed lady drew forth a shining silver dagger, and with a cold twist of her lips, she approached. The Orcs holding Celeborn stepped away.

"I forgive you," Celeborn said, his voice ringing strong throughout the hall. "I forgive you, even as I curse the ring upon your hand. But I forgive you. I will meet you again, before the end. I love y-"

His voice was silenced with a gurgle, as his throat was slashed wide open. Blood spurted from the deep gash, his heart continuing to pump even as he crumpled to the floor, released from the lady's hold. He fell in a boneless sprawl, the life long gone out of his body.

Aragorn looked up, his heart racing. Was this not what he had wanted, a release from the pain and the despair? Yes, it was, but not like this. Not by his hand. By any hand but his, please!

But he would not beg. He would not plead. Elladan and Elrohir had died to protect the final memory of their father. He would do so as well, if he could. He would not bow, he would be strong, if only for this one last moment.

Aragorn's eyes met Arwen's, and something intangible and indescribable passed between them. Aragorn's bloody and mangled heart thrummed harder, reawakening as the memory of life and love coursed through his veins. He nodded once.

I will wait for you to join me.

And then he looked up into those silver eyes that were so cold. Aragorn smiled – his first smile is years – and then he spoke. And his voice did not sound like the broken husk that it had been, but strong, and clear, like in the days before the world had fallen.

"At the end, we shall be waiting for you – all of us," he promised. "You will be forgiven, of that I am sure. Until that time, however…farewell..."

If he had thought to see a flash of pain, or even of recognition in those dead, silver eyes, he was wrong. They remained cold, with only cruelty and malice where love and warmth had once been.

Light reflected off of a blade as it was drawn from the scabbard at his waist, and Aragorn watched as the sword was lifted, ready to perform the killing blow.

A flash of pain, a moment of confusion as his mind attempted to register the shock of the blow. And then nothing.

Peace. At last.

Elrond turned to face Galadriel, a smile curling his lips. Then as one, they turned to face their master.

"It is done," Elrond said, his voice strong, yet brittle all at once, the blood of the man he had loved as his son dripping to the floor from the edge of his blade.

"Good," Sauron replied, a hand going to stroke Arwen's hair. He smiled all the wider. "Very good." He beckoned Galadriel and Elrond to come to him, to stand return to their positions on either side of his throne. As they mounted the dais, he looked past them and down to the Orcs who had brought the prisoners from the dungeon.

With a grand sweep of his hand, Sauron gestured to the corpses lying in growing pools of blood on the floor. "Feast, my children," he bade. The Orcs needed no second urging.

Elrond and Galadriel stood to either side of Sauron's throne, awaiting their master's next command. And they watched impassively as the corpses of those who they had loved were devoured by the Orcs.