It had happened in the space of a few seconds.
The battle was lost. Every last hope had fallen to two small hobbits, facing insurmountable odds and praying that they might conquer them. But it had been too much; their hopes had been in vain. Frodo had fallen.
And it had taken no more than a few seconds.
He had been ready to fight to the death, if only to distract Sauron's all-seeing eye from the ring in the center of his own kingdom. He had told himself, he had known in his mind, that the chances were one in a million that they would succeed, but he had not been able to extinguish a small flame that had kindled in his heart when he heard that Frodo and Sam were still alive. It was the flame of hope, burning brightly despite its size, and now it had gone out entirely, and the pain was unbearable. The sorrow ate at his heart: sorrow for Frodo, sorrow for the Fellowship, sorrow for the fate of Middle-Earth.
He cursed himself for having let his heart hope. It had been a foolish endeavor from the start. How could nine beings from races that didn't even get along expect to conquer the most evil and powerful sorcerer Middle-Earth had ever seen? None of them had any real power, except perhaps Gandalf. But the wizard's abilities also drew unwanted attention from those by whom they did not wish to be found. Himself? He scowled. How could he have possibly thought that he might be able to break the bands that had been handed down his line, the ties that bound him to the very object he sought to destroy? Isildur's curse had tormented him at first, but then… then Gandalf had taught him to believe that it would have no sway over his life unless he allowed it to. And he had dared to hope…
But his hopes were all in vain. He was cursed.
This is why, when he was forced to his knees by an orc, in the middle of the huge, stone hall, he could not look at his captor.
He knew he was there. He could feel his presence, a cold, icy fear that permeated him to his very soul, and the presence of the Ring. So they are indeed united once more, he thought bitterly, staring hard at the floor beneath him, and Middle-Earth is condemned.
"We meet at last, Aragorn, son of Arathorn."
He made no reply to the cold, inhuman voice that addressed him. Look up, you coward, he told himself furiously, defy him with every last breath.
Still he could not.
"Silence?" the voice sneered. "I daresay I expected quite a different greeting."
He did not answer.
"Look at me, son of men, heir of Isildur's Bane."
Look at him. You are a coward. Look at him!
He could not.
"You are weak," the voice said scornfully. "You are as foolish and weak as Isildur. Dared you to think that you were better than him? That you could right his wrong and bring your line back from the depths of disgrace? No, Aragorn, it is too late for that, and you are not strong enough. Isildur's fall has passed to you. You could never defeat me."
Aragorn felt the anger brought by shame and defeat welling inside him. The voice was right. Isildur's weakness was his own. He had failed.
"Aragorn," another voice said. His head came up. He knew that voice.
Legolas was there, to one side of the room, his hands chained behind his back. He had been stripped of his tunic, and with a grimace, Aragorn realized that he had been severely beaten. His torso was covered in bruises and cuts, with blood dripping from several wounds. He had been destroyed.
But he was not defeated. His eyes blazed with a fierce fire that defied his fate. The elf's ice-blue eyes were boring into his own.
"Aragorn," he said softly, "you are not Isildur. Remember who you are."
Their eyes locked for one brief moment, and their bond blazed with light, a blessed friendship that would last throughout the eternities.
Then something struck the elf in the chest.
Aragorn knew he was dead before he even knew what happened. His body fell in a graceful arc to the floor, lifeless. There was no arrow, no visible weapon of any kind, but Aragorn knew what had happened.
Sauron had killed him.
Something surged within him. Legolas' last words came back to him softly. Remember who you are. Slowly, stiffly, his head turned to look at the source of the voice.
He had a tangible body now. He was garbed in black armor, with two narrow slits in his helmet, through which glowed two eyes like coals. On his finger he wore a narrow band of pure gold, one that Aragorn had seen so many times.
The One Ring was again united with its master.
The sorcerer reclined lazily in a huge stone chair, twirling a scepter around in his fingers. Aragorn could see his eyes smiling malevolently.
With Legolas' words echoing through his soul, Aragorn stood slowly. His hands were bound behind him, but he did not care. Slowly, deliberately pacing himself, he walked towards the sorcerer.
The orcs lunged after him, but the scepter waved them back. They shrunk into the shadows.
"Do you intend to fight me, son of men?" he asked softly, rising from his chair. "Don't fool yourself with the illusion that you can beat me."
Aragorn said nothing.
"Will you not talk to me? Say something, son of Arathorn."
Still he remained silent. They began circling each other slowly.
"Alright," the sorcerer said to his orcs, not taking his eyes off Aragorn. "Give the man his sword and free his hands. Let him prove his incompetence."
Remember who you are.
Contrary to the sorcerer's belief, Aragorn had no illusions as to who would win this duel. But he knew just as well that he could not die without fighting for what Legolas had died for.
One of the orcs tentatively crossed to him, unlocked the manacles on his wrists, and handed him a sword. Aragorn was startled; he had not expected this one.
It was Andúril, from the shards of Narsil, Flame of the West.
As he grasped the hilt, something flashed from the sword into his body. For a split second he could see the wars that this blade had survived, the foes it had vanquished, the battles it had won. It was the sword of his ancestors, and it would die with him, the last of his line.
Remember who you are.
"Come and meet your death, King of Gondor."
Aragorn slowly walked towards the sorcerer, sword raised. He could feel the evil growing stronger as he came closer, but it had no influence over him. It was as though Andúril's keen edge had cut a sphere out of the evil for him to walk in. The evil could not abide the presence of Good.
The blades crashed, sending a shower of sparks into the air. The force of the blow forced him backward a step, and even though he pushed forward with all his might, he was forced to his knees. He knew he could not fight this battle with strength; only with speed and agility could he endure. He ducked from under the pressure of the blade and brought his elbow into the sorcerer's stomach. It made contact with the black armor, not harming his opponent.
Another blow, another parry, another sidestep, another thrust. It went on for longer than he had believed possible. And somewhere, from the very dregs of his soul, came the impossible idea of winning the fight.
But suddenly it seemed possible. He could do it. He had to keep his wits about him, but he could do it.
His next stroke was bold, confident. Fatal.
The sorcerer parried his blow and exploited the opening, forcing Aragorn to jump back. He lost his balance as he leaned to avoid a second lightning attack, and found himself on his knees once more, sword clutched tightly in his hand.
The son of Arathorn could see, as though in slow motion, the fiery blade singing towards him, lent strength by the One Ring.
There was no pain; he was past feeling. He could see the blade buried in his chest up to the hilt, the ruby-red pommel gleaming in the firelight. White fog was eating at the corners of his vision, and his strength was fleeing fast.
His eyes landed on Andúril, clutched in his fist. And he remembered what he was fighting for.
With one last burning surge of might, blood pounding in his ears, he thrust upward, into the belly of the man who had killed his friends, killed his kingdom, the man who had killed him. And in that moment, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, the red wine of death flowing over his hands, he realized; he was naught but a man, a mortal man of flesh and blood, and he could be defeated.
Remember who you are.
He thrust his sword deeper, until it could go no further. With this final effort, the fog engulfed his senses.
His life did not flash before his eyes. There was no sudden revelation, no immense understanding, no burning will to defy death. There was only an overwhelming sense of peace. He had done what he could, fought for what he believed in, and now it was over. It was his turn to rest. Whether he had done well or not, there was nothing he could do to change it now.
And so it was that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, last in the noble, unbroken line of the Kings of Gondor, died.
He died with honor.