Disclaimer: If you like it, praise Professor Tolkien for creating such a wonderful world. If you don't like it, blame me.
Rating: T… as Torture
With great thanks to openmeadow for her help with grammar and to Windsurfbabe, Firefly-Maj, Ilada'Jefiv, StarLight9, lindahoyland and openmeadow again :) for the encouraging reviews.
2. He chanted a song of wizardry
A high shriek echoed on the field of Pelennor. Chilling the blood. Freezing the bone marrow. The Dúnedain rushed from their tents, swords in hand. Something was wrong, very wrong. As if the hope was gone, the spark lit by their victory extinguished. A dark shadow passed across the sky, bringing despair in its wake…
Nazgûl.
They ran. The two sentries were found; their features twisted in a mask of horror. Dead… Next two that would not return to their families on the North. A gasp… a quick prayer… a curse. The servants of the Eye had returned… But what for? To take revenge? To quench the courage of the Children of the West?
One of the rangers glimpsed something shimmering on the ground, a few steps away from the dead bodies. He drew nearer… halted in his tracks, held his breath. A sword. A magnificent sword with elven script on the blade and hilt, reflecting the dim light that was beginning to lighten the sky. And his heart sank, for he knew that sword and dearly loved the one that had the right to wield it. Andúril… He fell to his knees. The others came to his side, and saw what he did.
"Fetch Mithrandir!" One of the older rangers said as his voice trembled with sorrow. A younger ranger nodded, and ran to the Citadel in search of the wizard. Nobody dared to speak, nor lift the sword. In quiet they waited for the wizard, a quiet as heavy as a dark mantle, pressing them down and suffocating them.
Finally, Gandalf arrived with the sons of Elrond in his heels. His white robes were covered with a grey cloak, and he looked old and weary, but the young ranger barely managed to hold his pace, such was his hurry to see the disturbing news.
He himself felt that something evil has transpired this night that the hope was waning, replaced by despair. His first thought was on Frodo. Had the quest failed? Was Middle Earth lost to the darkness? If Sauron acquired the Ring, they would know soon enough…
The Dúnedain stepped aside silently, letting him see the corpses and… Gandalf stopped as if frozen in place. He stood there for a moment, his head bowed and eyes closed and the full weight of what he heard before dawn and what he saw now, lay on his shoulders. Andúril, the Flame of the West. Oh Valar, they have Aragorn! A single tear found its way to his eye and down his cheek. Slowly, he knelt, and with great care and honor lifted the dropped sword. It was as cold as ice.
When the sons of Elrond saw what he held in his hands, their faces paled.
"Ai! Alas for Aragorn son of Arathorn! Alas for Estel!" exclaimed Elladan, his voice trembling.
Elrohir bowed his head and whispered "Alas for our brother…"
Dark thoughts whirled in the wizard's mind. What fate awaited the heir of Isildur in the hands of Sauron? The tortures of Barad Dûr were terrible, and Sauron knew already who Aragorn was. But if he finds out about Frodo, then the fate of all Middle-earth is lost. And he will ask. He knows that the Ring had been found and the heir of Isildur had revealed himself at the same time. He will connect the two things… The heir of Isildur has the Ring, or knows where it is. Sauron will ask…
The only hope for Middle-earth is in the two hobbits that carry one burden: the one that the wise wouldn't dare to touch. But the hope for these hobbits had the name Estel. His will was the only thing that stood between them and the Eye now.
A ray of sun was reflected from the blade of Andúril, and lit the tear falling off Gandalf's eye. It shimmered for a moment like a star beneath the Western Seas, and then fell to the ground and was gone.
When Aragorn came to himself, there was a strange feeling of rising and sinking and of wind on his face. He was flying, clenched in the talons of some beast. They dug painfully into his back, and blood dripped from his shoulder. He moaned quietly. But the pain was good – it anchored him in this world. It circled through his body, making him aware of it. Anything was better than the shadows…
His eyes were closed, but he knew where they were taking him. The air stank of death and was full of poisonous fumes and ashes, and unnatural quiet lingered there, as if no living thing dared to walk this land. Mordor… Aragorn trembled, and cold sweat rippled on his brow.
He felt a presence, an ancient malice, and with every movement of the beast it was stronger as he neared its source. Its burning gaze turned his way, piercing his heart. A tremendous pain exploded in his body, as if it was caught in fire. He arched his back and his eyes went wide in shock as he screamed in the sudden agony. A poisonous voice pierced his mind like a white-hot spear. It was the voice of destruction, of pure evil that drew its strength from suffering and darkness.
"Welcome, Heir of Isildur, to my kingdom…" it said mockingly, and Aragorn writhed in a new wave of agony. Darkness grew tall above him; a wave dark as the depths of the sea where no light reached. From a high place he saw it coming for him; a deadly wall of crushing pressure… nearing… nearing…
It washed over him. No breath. No thought. The whirling streams of darkness extinguishing the light of his soul, hammering into him from every side, pulling him deeper and deeper into the colorless world of shadows. There was failure, despair, betrayal, flood… the fall of Númenor…
He fought the darkness, struggled for breath, and resisted the pull. For how long? Time had no meaning here, but it was long, so long… and he was so weary… He fought for the light. Valiantly, he fought… He fought for… for… For what? Why did he fight at all? All resistance was in vain, the voice told him. So why not succumb to the darkness? Why not allow himself to rest? Come to me, said the voice, and I will make you my new Captain. And yours will be the crown that you long for. Come to me…
For a moment Aragorn saw a picture of himself on the Gondorian throne. He was the King, proud and strong, and at his side… Arwen, the fair Evenstar. And he ceased his struggles. This was everything he longed for, and he could reach it now. With the crown he would gain her hand, such was the condition of her father. Without it he was unworthy of her ancient grandeur, but the voice promised… it promised to fulfill everything that he strained for so long… And he let the darkness to carry him…
But then the picture changed, and he saw tears in Arwen's eyes, and she was clad in black as though in mourning. What does she mourn for? She chose a mortal life, knowing that it will end with mourning her love. But he saw himself at her side and he was not dead. What does she mourn for? And he saw his eyes and they were shallow and his face was a mask of a shadow. What does she mourn for? And he knew. She mourned for the Middle-earth. The Middle-earth that had fallen to darkness – because of him.
No! This won't happen! He began to fight again, to resist the pull of darkness. The voice sounded angry now, and its wrath was terrible. The dark streams tossed him wildly, attacked him angrily from every side like a swarm of black crows. A blur of sharp beaks and talons… Sharp pain. No reprieve… No… He was determined to fight – fight to the last breath, despite the weariness, despite the pain. I won't allow myself to become this! Never! Never… The voice changed to a high scream that brought waves of agony to his body, but he fought, engulfed in pure darkness of whirling wings.
There was no time, no directions. His lungs screamed for breath… his soul cried for light. He wanted to swim to the surface but he didn't know where it was. The blackness was absolute, with no light that he could follow. He longed for a star that would give him some direction, some hope, for a small spark of light in the dark. Oh Arwen, where is your star? O Eärendil, please… O Elbereth…
And behold! There was a light! A small flicker of light, almost lost, choked by the darkness but it was like a beacon to Aragorn. Estel… And he realized that the light wasn't outside in the darkness. It was in him… He followed it, retreating into the depths of his soul. Retreating to a place in his mind that Elrond had seen when he had given name to him. It was weak - like a wall of glass that could shatter under the weight of the shadow, but it was a quiet place in the storm, where his weary spirit could rest. Just for a while. A little while… Outside the shadows were whirling and hammering into the fragile wall but here, here it was calm…
An excruciating pain yanked him out of the calm place and again he was aware of his body that was squeezed forcefully in the talons of the beast. He couldn't breathe, and felt his ribs cracking beneath the force. A shrill scream echoed in the air like a swarm of ice-cold needles, but the fiery eye was averted from him. For a while… In one terrible split of second he realized what fate would await him if he succumbed to the darkness. He would become a wraith under the will of Sauron. And he would tell him all of their secrets. He would tell him about Frodo… But he withstood. Never would he become this. He might die but he wouldn't become a traitor.
But he couldn't hold these thoughts for long. They were angry - angry that he resisted. One of his ribs broke and he opened his mouth in a futile attempt to scream, he didn't have enough air for it. Dark spots swam before his eyes, and he dig his nails into the flesh of his palms as a second rib broke. His lungs were in fire, they longed for the precious air but he couldn't give it to them. His vision faded and only blearily did he realize that they were landing high in the tower as the grip of the beast loosened.
Rewritten July 28, 2009 with thanks to Ragnelle