Chapter 6

A cold wind rushed down the mountain and across the bay, carrying with it a terrible wailing, an untimely darkness and a dreadful fear.

Aragorn bent to take up his own sword, just as Elladan returned from below deck, tossing his twin one of the two blades he had retrieved. The three brothers lost no time in tying the swords to their backs and jumping into the water, the cold momentarily forgotten as they fought to make their way to shore.

The sailors there had already descended into panic, the sudden cold and dark, together with the sense of evil that had flooded the entire bay, sent them running to the boats. They were flailing, splashing through the cold waters, and unheeding of their comrades that got left behind as too many a boat left mostly empty.

Only Callon stood ramrod straight on the shore, his gaze on the small copse of trees that his men had been decimating until just recently, his hands tightly wrapped around the cold steel of his sword.

"I thought the ghosts were only a story." Aragorn commented as he and his brothers reached the captain's side.

"So did I."

Cold, darkness and a terrible wave of dread rushed down the mountain. A sharp, supernatural, howl rent the air and, despite himself, Aragorn shuddered. He had not believed Callon's off-hand remark about ghosts on Tolfalas, had assumed that it was just another superstition of the sailors that seemed to have spent too much time on the lonely ocean for their own good. Yet before his very eyes shadows rose between the trees, specters formed of a cold silver light, vaguely human in shape and size, but with faces disfigured in eternal torment. Their mouths were open to utter screams that chilled him to his very core.

"Get everyone on the boats, Captain!" Aragorn surprised himself with the calm he felt in the face of such otherworldly assailants. "We will guard the retreat." He turned to his brothers and saw the same determination he felt mirrored on their faces.

As he surged forward to meet the first of the specters he briefly feared that his sword would simply pass through the ethereal being, but he was in luck. With resounding surety, the steel of his blade met that of the wraith in front of him, and the being slowed its progress, came to a halt and shifted its focus from the fleeing men and to him.

Its gaze was blue fire, ancient, filled with a rage that no amount of time would ever quench. Weirdly, it hesitated, measuring Aragorn with its depthless gaze, until it hissed a single word: "Numenor!"

A recognition. A curse.

Faster than Aragorn could evade it raised its arm and grasped his wrist. Cold fire raced up his arm, but worse than the pain was the images that accompanied the touch. Aragorn saw the shore of the bay, but impossibly high above the sea, a dale on the flank of a large mountain. It offered a prime view for the colossal tidal wave that raced across the ocean, small at first but growing, ever growing, in size and rage and force until it struck the mountain and burst the very stone asunder like a pile of sticks. It tore everything, rock, stone and lost souls from the stricken land and flushed them out to sea, leaving the mountain to sink ever deeper until the high dale was left barely above the water's edge. Until no living soul remained to bear witness.

"Estel!"

The vision faded, the darkness of the wraith's touch replaced by a blinding light that slowly resolved itself into the shape of Elrohir, his sword buried deep in the torso of the specter that still had a hold of his arm, until it simply melted away around the gleaming mithril.

He nodded his thanks to his elven brother, who waited for that confirmation of his well being before turning to face another of the apparitions, and hefted his sword again. His wrist burned with a cold fire but their enemies were still coming and his men had not yet gained the safety of the open waters.

He stepped forward to attack another wraith, now that he had seen them defeated he did not hesitate, did not bother to parry their crude attacks or puzzle about their origin. He spun and danced through the rows of specters, impaling them on his sword or severing ghostly heads from their wraithen bodies.

Whether it was due to the wraiths ethereality or a lack of training, the specters were easy targets, only the fear they wore like a shielding cloak and their numbers offered them an advantage. One by one, they fell to his blade and soon he drew level with Elladan, fighting beside the older twin with practiced ease and a welcome sense of familiarity.

In the dark, surrounded by the ghosts, his brother almost seemed to glow like the elven warriors of old that he had seen depicted on wall hangings around Imladris, as he spun and struck with his mithril blade.

Only .. Aragorn spun to spare a look at Elrohir fighting off to the right, remembering the bright light that had cut through his ghoul-summoned vision. His brothers were glowing. He had only seen this before when they or their father had summoned their healing powers, their fëa becoming a radiant cloak as they sent their energy outward. He had never seen them employ it in battle.

"Thorongil!"

The shout tore him out of his musings and, impaling another wraith that came at him with a ghastly scream, turned to face Callon, waving at the shore next to what must have been the last boat. It was heavily loaded with the remaining sailors, all of them eager to set off and be free of the danger the wraiths posed.

He waved them on. "Go! We will take the dhow."

He did not wait to see Callon follow his orders and turned to Elladan. "Time to leave."

Elladan nodded, but did not move to turn, charging instead forward towards a new specter emerging from the forest. His blade met the ghostly sickle of his opponent and held it as he turned his head back towards Aragorn. "You first, littlest brother," he threw back over his shoulder.

Aragorn was about to protest, but Elrohir was suddenly at his side, tugging on his arm to get him moving towards the shore. "Save yourself the effort – you know how he is."

Aragorn sighed but turned obediently towards the beach. Elrohir was right, they both knew exactly just how stubborn Elladan could be in situations such as these.

Luckily, Elladan was not far behind him and Elrohir when they finally reached the water's edge and plunged into the chilling waves to make for their boat. For an irrational moment Estel feared the wraiths would simply walk on the water, stabbing down on him and his brothers with their cold weapons while they were helpless in the water. But as he heaved himself onto the deck of the dhow, he saw the apparitions gathered at the water's edge, their looks accusing, their mouths still open to utter violent screams of impotent rage. Aragorn shuddered.

Now, from a distance, he could see that they were only peasants, the souls of ordinary folk that had perished in the drowning of Numenor and that had somehow been awoken now to seek revenge on the living. He remembered the vision the wraith had shown him, the destruction waged during the loss of Numenor. The punishment intended for the arrogant fools that had let themselves be misled by Sauron had struck the men of Gondor with equal force -and they wailed at the injustice. The burning pain in his wrist was a fierce reminder of their anger and hatred. Aragorn raised his arm to look at the injury, hissing at the sharp sting of pain the movement brought.

"Let me look at that," Elrohir prompted gently. The younger twin had stepped up behind him, a blanket in one hand while he held out his other for Aragorn's arm. Aragorn held out his arm obediently, allowing his brother to probe the injury with gentle fingers. There was a slight tingling followed by a familiar rush of warm energy as Elrohir called on his healing skill to help mend the raw burn on his wrist. For a brief instant his brother's hand lit up, engulfed again by the glow of his own fëa as he stretched it forth to share his energy. The finger-shaped mark on his wrist paled and the pain disappeared almost immediately under his brother's gentle attention.

"When you fought the wraiths," Aragorn began, acutely aware suddenly of sounding like his much younger self, a boy who had constantly been awed by his brothers' deeds, "you and Elladan, your fëa …" He had a hard time phrasing his question in any semblance of a reasonable sentence, but at least his struggles awarded him a genuine smile from his brother. Perhaps, he, too, was reminded of Aragorn's younger years of hero worship.

"A skill Glorfindel taught us," Elrohir supplied in answer. "It dispels the darkness and the dread that is the chief weapon of those that are neither living nor dead. You should see him when he uses it, Estel, Glorfindel might well outshine the sun if he so chose."

"I thought his hair already did that."

Elrohir laughed. "Aye, little brother. He likes to claim that it does."

They fell silent once more and Aragorn let Elrohir wrap him in the blanket he had brought while he gazed back at the shore, watching the wraiths slowly melt away as Elladan guided their ship back out towards the open sea. "I hope they will find their peace." he murmured silently.

"They should never have been awoken." Elrohir replied with surprising bitterness.

Aragorn turned towards his brother. "You think this was the work of the evil that stalks us." It was not a question, he knew his brother well enough to recognize the self-recrimination that had swung in his voice once more. And before Elrohir could interrupt, could correct him, he continued: "No – us! Do not pretend this evil is not coming for you and Elladan as well. I am not so young anymore that I need your constant protection. And I would appreciate being told the whole truth!"

He gazed at Elrohir, who was visibly struggling to find the words, and the energy to deny Aragorn's accusations, but Elrohir had never been a good liar. He kept his heart on his sleeve at all times and was easy to read for those who knew him well. Eventually he admitted defeat, his shoulders sagged and he gave a single, weak nod.

"You know what is out there," Aragorn probed further, "tell me!"

Elrohir avoided his gaze, but he did answer. His voice was a whisper as if even still he feared to say it out loud. "An úlair, one of the nine."

Aragorn drew in a sharp breath. A nazgûl was a formidable foe indeed. No wonder his brothers would choose not to fight, would instead try to shake off its pursuit while on the open sea. Ringwraiths did not cross water. But this one was still following them, at least if Elrohir's guess was correct and the residents of Tolfalas had been woken by its unholy touch.

How could they hope to stand against a ringwraith?

Except - a new thought occurred to him then. "And this ... skill of yours, can you not use it against the nazgûl?"

"We do not have the strength of Glorfindel, Estel." Elrohir's voice was barely above a whisper as if it pained him to disappoint his baby brother. "We cannot hope to defeat one of the nine."

There was still that accursed note of self-recrimination in his voice that was starting to feel frustratingly familiar. Elrohir held himself responsible for bringing the evil that stalked them.

His brother must have seen his doubt, for he continued before Aragorn could interrupt: "I have faced the witch king of Angmar at Glorfindel's side, Estel. The nine are powerful beyond the powers of this age. The fear they wield alone is a deadly weapon." His gaze flickered to Elladan for a second, and Aragorn wondered at the story there. He had heard the account of the battle of Fornost from Erestor and had seen the tapestries, yet even though his mind told him that, logically, his brothers had been at the battle, this was the first time he had heard either of them speak of it. His curiosity sparked instantly, but he recognized that now was not the time to probe further.

"What of Minas Morgul – you were planning to infiltrate the very fortress of the Nazgûl."

Elrohir winced. "Infiltrate it, Estel, not rout it. We were trusting to secrecy. And now, because of me, we might very well have lost that opportunity as well."

And there it was again, finally voiced openly - the guilt that Elrohir felt for the events at Minas Tirith, for the truths revealed and the events set in motion as a consequence. It was just like him to claim responsibility for every failure, every stroke of bad luck, every new obstacle in their path. But Aragorn would not let those words stand unchallenged.

"You might have lost an opportunity, Elrohir, but I know you and Elladan - you will find another way." He clasped Elrohir's shoulder and looked him in the eye, willing his stubborn brother to see the conviction in his words, the sincerity of the forgiveness he had offered time and time again. "I will be right beside you when you defy this evil and when you set foot in Minas Morgul. The whole of Mordor will not be able to stand against the sons of Elrond united."

His words lingered in the air. Aragorn hoped that Elrohir would hear the truth in them, the promise. Whatever had happened, however fate had shifted, he and his brothers would always be together, would always face danger side by side.

Elrohir remained silent for some time, long enough for Aragorn's conviction to waver. Even his optimism might not be a match for the twin's stubborn refusal to see reason. But eventually something did change, a subtle shift in Elrohir's stance. He turned and ruffled Aragorn's hair the very same way he had been doing for almost fifty years.

"Sometimes I forget just how aptly father has named you, Estel." A wistful smile was on Elrohir's lips, but Aragorn knew his brother. This was Elrohir's promise to move on, to leave his perceived failing behind. It might take time, but the most important step had been taken. Elrohir had finally accepted his forgiveness.

And now, at last, Aragorn would be able to focus on only one challenge – their impending attack on Umbar.

-o0o-

My dearest Arwen,

the light of the moon and stars dances on the vast, dark ocean the same way it would play in your hair. The cold winds hounding our ships only make me long the stronger for your warm embrace…

Aragorn broke off composing his letter for Arwen once more as another icy gust of wind tore at his hair, making him question the wisdom behind his choice to remain on deck. He had rejoined the crew of the Shakalzagar, leaving his brothers behind on the dhow and in the amiable company of Egrahil, who had heard whispers of Umbarian wine. Aragorn allowed himself a smile, for all the prejudices some of the sailors harbored his brothers, his lieutenant made up for it in barely concealed curiosity.

A moment later his smile froze.

"I'm telling you – I saw 'em glow!"

"Yeah, right."

"'Tis true. I swear it by Ulmo. Them elves are just as unnatural as whatever 'twas that stirred on Tolfalas."

The wind carried bits and snippets of the seamen's conversation to his ears occasionally, but this one chilled him more than the icy gusts. This, he realized, was what Callon had already heard, what he had tried to warn him of.

"'Tis not right - that Minas Tirith Captain trustin their directions, playin' with our lives." The first voice came again, disgruntled. Aragorn abandoned his letter, his questing gaze searching the ship around him. But there were huddled groups of sailors at each of the stations that needed to be manned day and night. It was impossible to tell who had spoken.

And even if he did find the speaker, what then? This voice of dissent was unlikely to be a single man's opinion, and he stood little hope to silence what was in essence a prejudice given shape, a mistrust that had been tended for centuries. How could he hope to sway such unreasonable fear and hatred?

Almost unwillingly, his gaze drifted east, towards the shore of the South Gondorian desert. He could not see the coast in the darkness, but he could feel its presence there, could feel the taint of fear and dread carried by wayward winds coming in from the east. The very air tasted of death and decay.

The Nazgul, if Elrohir was right and that was what was following them, had not given up its chase. And the events on Tolfalas showed just how far its reach extended. Aragorn had little doubt that his fleet was not as safe on the open waters as he would have liked. Sending a quick prayer to Ulmo he asked for favorable winds to outpace their pursuer.

Preferably, he added silently as he huddled deeper into the blanket he had draped around himself, warm winds.

-o0o-

Darkness was everywhere.

He floated in a sea of blackness, dark, icy waters tugging at him, dragging at his boots, his clothes, insisting that he join them in their eternal dance on the ocean.

With effort he dragged himself onward, forth from the black water and onto shifting, treacherous ground. Sand, he realized, black sand shifted beneath his boots as he tried to hurry away from the demanding waves, hurried towards …

He did not know what he was hoping to reach, but suddenly he became aware of a pressing need to move, to hurry forward. He could not delay! He must not be too late!

Ahead of him, the blackness shifted, coalesced, until it formed a human shape, wrapped in a black coat, its features hidden beneath a deep hood. He could feel its gaze linger on him, could hear its snarl as it lunged, in its hands a black blade. Jagged. Deadly.

Elladan snapped back to awareness.

His gaze was still fixed on the dark waves ahead of their boat, their movements playful, their darkness just an echo of night, not the effect of a sinister touch of evil. Stars were reflected on the waves, dancing with a freedom they could not achieve in the skies above. The haunting images, the terrible feeling of dread was already fading, a wisp of dark memories blown out to the sea. But what had it been?

His eyes roamed the boat, but all was peaceful. Egrahil was sleeping soundly between two of the rowing benches. Elrohir must have placed a blanket over him at some point, but otherwise he lay exactly where he had settled himself after indulging in a little too much of the strong Umbarian wine.

Elrohir was at the rudder, steering their ship with by now practiced ease, though his gaze was fixed on Elladan. Not his twin's dreams then, that had disturbed him. Elladan swallowed uneasily at the alternative: a vision.

And Elrohir had figured that out already. There would be no use denying it now. With a sigh, he rose from his position at the starboard bow and joined his twin. He might as well sate his brother's curiosity before Elrohir started using his "subtle" fretting on him - and before he lost the last remnants of the vision. It was fading still, but talking of it would help, and perhaps they could even figure out its meaning. One thing seemed certain, however, there was a nazgûl on their trail - and it was coming for them.

-o0o-

A/N: I am finally feeling a bit better and up to editing and posting this chapter - if you find any typos or something 'off' I will definitely blame the sickness though. :D This chapter was a lot of fun, finally some more action, some more foreshadowing, and lots and lots of cold wind. A few quotes that served to inspire parts of this chapter and my personal head canon about glowing elves during combat with wraiths are below. Glorfindel certainly made it seem like a skill he could use more or less at will and Gandalf explains that it is a skill of the elven-lords who have lived in the Blessed Lands at some point - in that way I am stretching canon by having Glorfindel teach the twins about it - but well, bear with me? :D

I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I will do my best to get the next one ready by Monday to get back to my 'normal' publishing schedule.

"[The shores of Middle-earth] were much changed in the tumult of the winds and seas that followed the Downfall; [...] But the Isle of Tolfalas was almost destroyed, and was left at last like a barren and lonely mountain in the water not far from the issue of the River."
The Peoples of Middle-Earth, The Tale of Years of the Second Age

"[...] For those who have dwelt in the Blessed Realm live at once in both worlds, and against both the Seen and the Unseen they have great power."
"I thought that I saw a white figure that shone and did not grow dim like the others. Was that Glorfindel then?" [Frodo asked.]
"Yes, you saw him for a moment as he is upon the other side: one of the mighty of the Firstborn. He is an Elf-lord of a house of princes."
The Fellowship of the Ring, Many Meetings