Chapter 5

Aragorn eyes roamed across the luscious room taking in the floor covered in furs, the padded chairs and the securely bolted bed. Heavy tapestries hung from the inner wall and a good many blankets lay on the bed, all decorated with black and red embroidery of fine skill. Impossible as it may seem, a decanter and glasses of fine crystal were secured against the wall in a clever shelf shaped to hold them securely.

At the very least his brothers would not lack for comfort staying on this ship. Had he not descended into the bowels of the dhow himself he would not have believed a room like this, let alone four more quarters just like it could even fit beneath the deck of the smaller vessel.

But for all the comfort that surrounded him, Aragorn refused the opportunity to sit down as Elrohir had done. His eyes lingered on the younger twin who had sunk heavily into a padded chair, but Elrohir would not meet his eyes, refused to speak now even though his words on deck had set them on their current course. His insistence not to land on the Eastern shore had caused their detour to Tolfalas and that, indirectly, had forced Aragorn to 'exile' his brothers to the dhow - away from his superstitious crew. Still, even if Elrohir might acknowledge these facts, he refused to speak, refused to offer explanations rather than apologies.

And yet, Aragorn fought his frustration with the younger twin. It was hard to press it, he seemed forlorn in the oversized chair, haunted even. Something lay heavy on his thoughts and conscience.

Aragorn redirected his gaze to Elladan.

"A shadow stalks the Eastern Shore," the older twin offered without preamble, surprising Aragorn. "I can feel it growing stronger. Closer. It is hunting."

"Hunting? For what?"

"That I cannot say," Elladan admitted, though his gaze flickered briefly to his silent twin, "but it would be a mistake to stop here, now. Can you not sense it?"

The question made Aragorn hesitate. He had been preoccupied with the ships, their mission, with keeping Elrohir from jumping into the Anduin to swim after his twin – he had not spent much time considering their surroundings.

But Elrohir had seemed preoccupied with the eastern shore, even while concern for Elladan should have directed all his attention towards the south and along the river.

Aragorn did not have the same affinity to sense evil as his elven brothers, but he had been raised and trained in Rivendell. Closing his eyes now, he let his senses spread the way his father had taught him to, long ago. Though thinned by many generations, elven blood still ran through his veins and the inkling of the force of the Maiar still granted him sight into a world otherwise closed to mortal eyes. His hands were those of a healer, his life, if not shortened by violence or grief, would be longer than that of his peers, and his senses – his senses balked at a dark presence on the eastern shore.

He could feel it.

Evil permeated the lands, a shapeless horror that spanned for leagues, faint but unmistakable and … familiar. Even as he stretched his senses to detect more, to get a feel for what was lurking on land, watching them, he felt the force shift, felt it react and answer his curiosity in turn. It was searching, trying to locate him, to find him, to … Aragorn reeled at the sudden increase in force, snapping his eyes open and closing his senses to the sensation of the questing evil at the same time.

The world reestablished itself, but his breath was coming in sharp, quick gasps and he had not even realized he had bent over until he became aware of Elladan's hand on his arm, steadying him against his sudden vertigo. How had he not noticed this evil before?

Leaning heavily against the edge of another chair, he slowly righted himself, shaking off the lingering hint of evil that still clung to him. It was only now that he realized that Elladan's face was a grimace of discomfort and that Elrohir had slumped forward in his seat, clutching his head as if in pain. Whatever had happened when he had opened himself to the shadow on the shore, it had taken his brothers by surprise as well.

"The shadow," he began, "it is searching for us."

"No Estel, it is searching for you." Elrohir's voice was barely a whisper. The self-reproach in his voice was a palpable thing, the younger twin still held himself responsible for what had happened in Minas Tirith, held himself responsible for revealing his true identity to Denethor, to the spies of Mordor.

And now those spies were coming for them, following them from the stronghold of Minas Tirith all the way down the Anduin as if drawn by invisible tethers. And whatever it was that he had felt when he had searched for it, his brothers must have felt more keenly, their elven senses much more sensitive to the touch of evil.

Yet despite the obvious evil that hounded their steps, it irked him to flee, to cower from this encroaching darkness. And, he admitted to himself, he was disquieted by his brothers' apparent choice to do so. They were proud warriors. He had seen them face the darkness that encroached on Eriador, had witnessed them battle the ghosts of the Witch King in Angmar and was keenly aware that they had done so for well over two thousand years.

To see them so hesitant now, staggered Aragorn, and – surprisingly - angered him. For there was only one explanation for their unwillingness to face this threat, the same reason that Elrohir continued to berate himself instead of seeing reason.

His brothers were trying to protect him, trying to coddle him like the infant he had once been. And he would have none of it.

"We should face this threat!"

He spoke the words to Elrohir, but it was Elladan that answered, uncharacteristically gently. "Aragorn," he began, "consider the cost. This foe will not be stopped by mortal men."

And Aragorn understood. The ships, his men, they were what he would place at risk if he chose to face this nameless evil. Elladan was right to hesitate. He should have seen it sooner, should have understood. Then again -he glanced at Elrohir once more, still a figure of silent misery- while he could respect Elladan's reasoning he was not so sure Elrohir's warning was driven by the same motivation.

Still, his oldest brother's reasoning was sound. Aragorn gave a nod, trying to shake the lingering feeling of anger of being treated like a wayward toddler that had stumbled into danger beyond his grasp. "We will avoid the eastern shore." Aragorn finally said, repeating it again, if only to establish a measure of control. "And make for Tolfalas. This shadow will have to be persistent indeed if it plans to follow us to Umbar."

He nodded at the interior of the lush quarters, happy enough to change the topic and to try and lighten the mood. "I wonder - if Callon had known what the quarters on this ship looked like, if he would still have suggested to let you two take command of this ship."

"He would have found room on the Zimrabel instead, I'm sure," Elladan replied, his laughter like silver bells, "below the water line."

Aragorn joined the laughter letting it chase the cloying darkness away for a moment. Even Elrohir relaxed, obviously relieved that some of his dreads had been spoken out loud and that Aragorn would heed his warning.

But the moment of levity was all too short. Despite the offer of opening one of the pilfered Umbarian wine barrels, he had other duties to return to. He would need to speak to Callon about the damage on the Zimrabel and about their course to the bare island of Tolfalas. Leaving his brothers to lounge in the soft Umbarian chairs like only elves could, he made his way back to the Shakalzagar, their flag ship. Back to face the harsh winds of the Anduin, the uncertainty of the shadow that hunted them and the superstitions of his crew.

-o0o-

Darkness had fallen. The moon's rays played on the surface of the churning river. It was wilder and untamed now as they approached the sea and Ulmo's domain. Colourful fish, servants of Uinen, had joined them some leagues back, joyfully splashing in the wake behind their boat, unheeding of the dark presence that still lurked in the east.

On the western shore, tall, forbidding granite rose in a ragged cliff that severed this arm of the Mouths of Anduin from the next, a jagged, broken reminder of the destruction wrought by the Drowning of Numenor when the coast of Middle Earth was remade. Tolfalas, too, their destination had been torn from the mainland, and had sunk until only the peak of its highest mountain remained above the waters. So much had been lost then, not merely the island of the Seafarers. Wanton destruction caused ultimately by Sauron's dark designs, by the hold he had gained over the descendants of Elros.

Again his treacherous gaze drifted east and Elrohir had to force himself to look ahead, to keep their dhow on a steady course, well away from the bulk of Aragorn's flag ship, lest the two ships collide.

"It is not gaining on us. Let me take the helm, you need to rest" His twin's voice was calm and meant to be reassuring, but Elrohir did not need another reminder of the dark presence that haunted their steps, or of his own inability to tear his gaze from scanning the horizon.

"What I need," he replied testily, "is to be free of your hovering."

Elladan sounded amused when he answered. "As I am sure, Estel would like to be rid of yours."

"I am not hovering. Estel is not even close by."

"And yet you glance up at the Shakalzagar almost as often as you glance east."

Elrohir sighed. His brother was right of course. But he did not need to admit that. Besides, he was not being unreasonably paranoid -Aragorn was, in fact, at risk. He knew this instinctively, could feel that the evil was looking for their younger brother, the heir of Numenor, searching, always searching …

He shuddered and glanced east again. Whatever was stalking them, it was using him, Elrohir, as its guide. He could feel its sleepless gaze, its pervading touch still lingering, still grasping at him, reaching out to him in his dreams. The evil was a constant presence that had been following him since Minas Tirith. The Black Breath may have been lifted, but this connection remained. He was sure of it.

"So you are a subtle mother hen." Elladan's voice interrupted his increasingly dark thoughts, taking up his earlier argument. And Elrohir found himself smiling.

"Subtlety is a skill that you, dear brother, have never mastered."

"Alas, no." Elladan conceded, "but as the older brother I can just order you to sleep."

"What if I refuse?"

Elladan placed an arm around his shoulders, gently prying him from the rudder and steering him towards the ladder that led below decks. "Ah, foolish brother. Three thousand years and you still believe you could."

-o0o-

Darkness engulfed him. It strangled his cries, blinded his sight and clogged his ears, muffling even the sound of his own cries. Bereft of sight he was all too aware of the evil that lurked inside the all-pervading cloud of blackness. A mighty, evil mind, old and powerful, and filled with resentment.

It hated him.

Hated him with an intensity that burned as bright as a thousand silmaril. It wanted him dead, wanted him broken. It wanted his soul, it lusted for it, hungered for it - yet there was something it wanted more.

"Tell me!" the disembodied voice demanded, and the pressure of the dark tendrils that still held him increased. His breath came in gasps as he tried to squeeze precious air past the sudden pressure on his throat. "Tell me what I want to know."

Elrohir closed his eyes, though he could not see anything regardless, it helped to focus, to fight against the pressure on his mind, even as the pain in his lungs increased. Somehow he knew that this was not just an illusion, a conjuring of fear and despair - his breath was running out.

A different kind of darkness rose up to swallow him, even as he gathered his strength, mustered it all to keep the questing tendrils out of his mind.

"Never!" he gasped.

"Then all of you will perish!"

Darkness took him.

-o0o-

Tolfalas was a mountain rising from the very middle of the sea. It's ragged edges were sheer, its peaks snow-capped and beautiful in the glint of the rising sun. It was impossible to believe that this place had once housed life, the edges were too harsh, the drops too steep, the air too freezingly cold.

But there had once been a civilization here. Abundant and carefree, the settlers on Tolfalas had found a sudden and dreadful end when Numenor was lost and the coast of Gondor remade.

A cold wind rushed in from the ocean and over the deck of the Shakalzagar, but that was not the only thing making him shudder as he gazed at the forbidding mountain. It was an impressive, foreboding sight.

Aragorn glanced back, northeast, towards the last remnants of the shore of Southern Gondor and the dark peaks of the Shadow Mountains at the horizon. Back towards the shore where he could still feel the throbbing evil of their pursuer. It seemed to seep aboard together with the unseasonably cold wind that had gripped their ships and filled their sails. The icy gusts seemed not entirely natural.

All over the ship he could see the seamen wrap themselves tighter in spare blankets, and a steady stream of soldiers and deckhands was running to and fro from the galley, handing out warmed ale and steaming soup to warm the ailing men.

Aragorn turned to Captain Callon. "Are you sure we can land here?"

"Aye, there's a natural port not far around that bend", the man pointed ahead at an outcropping of the Tolfalas mountain that stretched far into the sea. "Not much to look at, but it should be big enough for us and the Zimrabel. And there is wood there, if what we carry is not enough for the repairs." He paused a beat before adding with a grin: "We'll just have to watch out for the ghosts."

"Ghosts?"

Callon made a throwaway gesture with his hand. "Just another sailor story we tell ourselves. But seeing as how your companions have not turned anyone to stone yet, I'm willing to assume this one might not be true either." There was mirth in the sea captain's words, but Aragorn was oddly unsettled by his words, and by the inadvertant reminder that his brothers were still the object of the sailors' suspicion.

Unsure of how to respond he excused himself and gave Callon full command. The sooner they could land, repair the Zimrabel and be on their way the better. The cold was making the men restless and the shadow of the mountain towering above them made him uneasy in a way he could not quite explain.

Below the sterncastle, on the main deck a commotion broke out as two sailors fought over a cup of soup. It was quickly settled, but it highlighted the strain that they were all feeling. And it was not just petty disputes; Rumours spread like wildfire, faster even than normal on a ship at sea, and a dangerous unquiet had claimed many of his men. And as his eyes roamed northeast again, he found himself wondering if it was just the cold that had put them on edge, or if the oppressive evil that lurked somewhere behind them had conjured both this foul wind and the crew's foul spirits.

Another gust tore at his hair, rippling through their sails and sending the men wrestling the main sail cursing to their feet as the cloth suddenly and fiercely fought back against their touch. The rocky outcropping of Tolfalas had seemed close enough before, as if a few more minutes would have been enough to see them to their goal. But now that the wind was turning, setting its will against them, Aragorn rescinded that opinion. And rightly so, as it turned out. It took them the better part of the day just to round the island, beating against the wind, the sailors manning the oars cursing in increasingly harsh and creative tones. At long last, and with luncheon long gone, they passed into the sheltered bay that Callon had spoken of, a natural harbor that blocked the worst of the wind and gave them a welcome respite. Even though the Shakalzagar was going to stay well offshore along with most of the other ships, the bay's inlet was large enough to shelter them all.

Only the Zimrabel was being towed closer to land by the smaller row boats the fleet had stored among the different vessels. Aragorn was happy enough to let Callon and the fleet carpenter handle the matters of the repairs and instead made his way to another smaller row boat that would allow him to join his brothers on the dhow. After the extended chill of the ocean winds he found he could no longer resist the call of that Umbarian wine.

-o0o-

The dhow was silently bopping on the waves, halfway between the Zimrabel and the shore. With its smaller size and even keel it had no trouble in the shallow waters. It would even be able to land, provided that a towboat was available to set it loose again.

As it was, the waves created a gentle rhythm, and with deep, rich wine and good company, Aragorn was happy to let the time drag on. He could almost forget his earlier qualms and the feeling of foreboding as he allowed himself to simply rest on deck in the company of his brothers. Soon enough he would have to take command again, and only a few meager days still stood between them and their arrival at Umbar, where men under his command would fight and perish. He would take all the rest he could get before then.

"It might have been a mistake of Captain Callon to have given the carpenter command of the repairs." Elladan eventually broke the silence, gazing with barely concealed amusement towards shore.

Aragorn looked up and was surprised to see the shadows already lengthening, the high cliff walls of the mountain blocking the sun out early. He assumed that was part of the grievance his sea captain was bringing before the carpenter. Callon gestured widely, indicating the many men on the beach, cutting lumber and carrying it to the smaller boats, many of which were lying deep in the water with the heavy load. Surely the Zimrabel would have sunk already if she really required this much wood to fix.

The carpenter raised his hands in a placating gesture, looking suddenly quite meek, like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Aragorn smiled, it seemed they were going to be packing up shortly.

He was just about to turn to his brothers when Elrohir leapt up, his gaze suddenly fixed on the top of the mountain rim to their right. He was taught as a bow string, his hand moving to his side, only to grasp upon empty air. The twins had left their swords below the deck, but the movement was telling. "Elladan," he pressed through gritted teeth, his voice a call to action, a warning of impending doom. The older twin was up already and on the move to, most likely, retrieve their weapons from below deck.

And a second later Aragorn felt it too. A surge of dread rushed down the mountain wall, unstoppable as an avalanche -and equally cold. The few torches that had been lit at the bows of the transport boats against the gathering darkness went out.

Cries went up.

They were under attack.

-o0o-

A/N: I am sorry for the slight delay, but you would not have wanted me to post yesterday - I did not have the brainpower for proper last minute editing -_-
But at last we have made progress, Aragorn is aware of the shadow that stalks them, the ship with the terrible name will get repairs and Tolfalas definitely has no ghosts whatsoever, none, nope, I'm quite sure ...

I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. If you did - drop me a line?