Chapter 9

The barren sands were dark underfoot, cold and deserted amid the raging storm. The waves pounded it fiercely, mountains of water that seemed intent on devouring the very land. The wind howled, laced with a dark voice dripping menace, overpowering all other noises, all indications as to where he must go, where he would find Elrohir. And then, suddenly, behind him the beach lit up as if Ëarendil himself had stepped from the heavens to alight on the sand. Aragorn stopped, cursed and dashed in that direction, back towards where he had come from. Fear hastened his steps over the uneven, treacherous ground. Fear for his brothers that hounded him almost like a physical thing, a cold hand that seemed to compress his heart and steal his breath. He finally knew where to go - now he just had to arrive in time.

'Please, Valar, protect them!'

For he had no doubt that the Nazgûl had come for them. And whether or not Elrohir was right in claiming that it was him, Aragorn, that the beast was after, it clearly had found one of his brothers first. Or both of them.

He cursed his choice of direction - opposite to where he had needed to go - and ran even faster, the dark shapeless sand a blur beneath his feet. The wind was still howling around him, a raging, thundering wall of force that seemed to twist around the beach ahead of him, but he pushed through it, never hesitating.

Elladan had gone in this direction he knew. The two of them had split up after their arrival on the beach, to increase their chances of finding Elrohir, and of finding him in time. Perhaps he should have guessed that Elladan would choose the right direction, guided by the twins' strange connection, even if outwardly he had seemed as uncertain as Estel about where to look for their wayward brother.

A sudden darkness fell and Aragorn's steps faltered. The light ahead had vanished - and a second later the storm followed suit. The wind stopped as if it had never been, clouds dispersed, ice disintegrated. Only the wet sand and his drenched clothes remained as a reminder of the torrential rain that had been striking him not moments before.

His heart constricted in fear, even as the cloying unnatural dread that had infested the air lifted as if by magic. It had to be a good sign. He breathed a prayer to any of the Valar that might be listening as he forced his feet forward once more. No matter what had just happened, he still had to find his brothers. The light of the moon now lit his path, breaking through the rapidly receding clouds. In the pale glow the beach seemed empty.

Except - suddenly a new glow sparked to life. A wavering light, almost lost in the vast expanse of the flat, dark sand. Fickle. Dying. As he got closer the light resolved into the shape of Elrohir. The younger twin was kneeling on the sand, hunched over what Aragorn realized with mounting dread was Elladan, his face and hands illuminated by the rush of his own healing energy directed at his twin.

Tears streaked down his brother's face, and Elrohir's lips were moving in a steady litany of words that were too soft for Aragorn to make out. But Aragorn did not need to hear the words to see the despair and exhaustion that clung to Elrohir. Both of his brothers' were frightfully pale, their forms almost translucent in the pale light of the moon and the soft glow of Elrohir's healing efforts.

Aragorn halted, hesitating just out of reach of the twins. He could not see the extent of Elladan's injuries. But his oldest brother's eyes were closed in unconsciousness and Elrohir's state spoke for itself; Elladan was obviously grievously injured.

There was no sign of the Nazgûl, yet fear still clung to Aragorn, spoiling his heart, unwilling to let go. He had found his brothers, finally, but what now? He wished that there was something he could do, some way that he could help. But he could not risk interrupting Elrohir's healing, he knew, not without risking greater injury to both of his brothers. His eyes roamed over the beach, but the evil had passed, the Nazgûl was gone. There was no enemy for him to strike at, no help for him to provide. All he could do was wait for Elrohir to come out of his healing trance, to trust in his brother to save Elladan.

Something glittered at Elrohir's side and Aragorn bent to retrieve it. It was a small weapon, its silvery surface tarnished and dark, its edge wicked and rough, the very point of its tip missing. Even as he lifted it up, the blade dissipated in his hands, falling into a black dust that mingled with the dark sand beneath. His breath hitched. His fear multiplied. A morgul blade.

He snapped his head back around, looking again at Elrohir, much more aware suddenly of the paleness of his brother's energy, now that he knew just what Elrohir was fighting against. He hoped, desperately, that the younger twin's decreased healing energy meant that he would pull himself out of his healing trance at any moment. Yet time dragged on, and the glow of his fëa only diminished.

And suddenly, something lost and half-forgotten tugged at his memory, a warning perhaps, something that Elrond had once said. Something about the dangers of a

"Elrohir?", he ventured, terribly aware of the risk of interrupting a healing trance but also knowing exactly what might happen if it was allowed to continue for too long.

His brother did not respond. Elrohir did not even seem to be aware of his presence, his eyes firmly shut as he focused on his healing, seeing with different senses. But the longer it lasted, the more, somehow, Aragorn felt that this was more than just his concentration, more than just a trance. His brother was losing himself.

Aragorn tried again. "Elrohir," he repeated, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder to gently rouse him. It had no effect.

Increasingly anxious, Aragorn removed his hand from the twin's shoulder and grasped Elrohir's hands instead, gently but decisively moving them off of Elladan and severing the physical connection that the healing required.

The response was instantaneous.

Elrohir's eyes flew open and he gasped like one who had been close to drowning and who had finally breached the surface. Only Aragorn's fast reflexes prevented Elrohir from tipping sideways into the sand. His hands still firmly held on to those of his brother and Aragorn used their connection now to steady Elrohir, to ground him once more on the mortal plane of Arda. He waited anxiously as Elrohir drew deep, shuddering breaths and as the younger twin looked around himself, painfully lost and forlorn. Aragorn waited with bated breath hoping that he had not just made a grievous mistake by severing the connection between his brothers.

Focus was slow to return to Elrohir's eyes, but suddenly he stiffened, his gaze finally meeting Aragorn's own. "Estel?" Aragorn almost breathed a sigh of relief. His brother's voice spoke of a dreadful weariness, but he seemed unharmed.

A second later Elrohir's memory caught up with him. "Elladan!" He tore his hands out of Aragorn's hold and turned to his twin, the movement making him sway dangerously to one side.

He caught himself at the last moment, exhaustion overridden by concern for his brother, by the need to make sure Elladan was alright. Aragorn let him be, knowing that any offer of help would only be met with fierce anger. He watched as Elrohir rested his hand on Elladan's cheek, visibly taking strength from the brief contact in a way that was hard to explain, and yet so common for his brothers.

Hoping that Elrohir would not be foolish enough to attempt another healing with his energy reserves clearly too low to be spared, Aragorn watched as Elrohir turned his attention to his twin's injuries, revealing them for the first time. It seemed the morgul blade had pierced Elladan's side, the soft suede of his shirt was torn and blood-stained, the sand beneath him discolored in a frighteningly large patch. But even though it must have bled profusely before, now fresh blood barely trickled from the cut. Probably a consequence of Elrohir's healing.

Aragorn sank to his knees on Elladan's other side, knowing without being told where to be, how to help. He knew better than to come between thie twins when one of them was injured but he did know what they would need and he could offer support.

The younger twin struggled out of his shirt then drew a knife from his boot and started cutting it into long strips with shaking hands. The knife slipped on the wet material, grazing Elrohir's own flesh but he continued undeterred, his only focus on caring for his twin. With practiced ease he created something resembling bandages and Aragorn helped him hold a wadded piece of the wet cloth to Elladan's wound so he could tie it fast.

"Thank you," Elrohir breathed, finally lifting his eyes off Elladan and meeting Aragorn's gaze, if briefly.

Once the makeshift bandage was in place, they lifted the older twin off the ground and with Elladan between them, made their weary way back along the beach, back towards their ships. His shoulder protested at the extra weight he carried, but Aragorn ignored the discomfort. He could not afford to be slowed now. It was clear that they would need to find medical supplies and a clean, dry place to properly care for Elladan. While the bleeding had all but stopped his wound remained terribly dangerous, the splinter of the morgul blade a festering poison within him.

And so they hurried on as best as they could across the moonlit beach. Aragorn chose not to comment on the way Elrohir swayed with each step, visibly struggling to set one foot in front of the other and maintain a firm hold on Elladan at the same time. Pointing out his brother's limitations and need for rest would be ultimately futile; he knew from painful experience that his normally gentle brother would not suffer anyone else to care for Elladan if the older twin was injured. Concern for Elladan would turn him unreasonable and his tongue acerbic. Many a word had been spoken that Elrohir had later regretted while caught in the depth of his self-appointed burden and despair.

It was a testament to how weak Elrohir truly was that he did not insist on carrying Elladan outright, and that he had not noticed that Aragorn favored his recently dislocated arm. Aragorn felt a pang of concern at the thought. How long could Elrohir keep up the strain of supporting Elladan while his own energy was so clearly flagging?

How long did Elladan have?

"Where to?", he asked as Elrohir slowed to gaze at the open, moon-lit beach with his elven eyes.

"There," Elrohir said, his voice a strained whisper, carried on a heavy exhale. He was breathing heavily, but stoically pushed himself forward once he had found his direction. And Aragorn had no choice but to follow, trusting in his brother's sense of direction.

Before long, he spotted what Elrohir had seen - a light on the beach. Close by the water a small storm light burned in the dark. And now that his gaze was directed towards the ocean he could see the rest of their ships as well, the caravel out in the bay, lights lit across the decks, storm lights on the masts burning brightly to help them find each other and back into formation.

The light on the beach was their dhow.

Finally! He felt a rush of new energy as they came closer to the ship, to the salvation it offered for Elladan. Now they could take him to the Shakalzagar, and to the well-stocked operating room aboard. Elladan was cold beneath his hands, but he was breathing, was still clinging to life, to remaining in the physical realm. And they would save him.

"Captain!", Egrahil shouted from the deck of the dhow, relief in his voice. He jumped off the ship and hurried across the sands towards them, though he slowed as he approached, his eyes full of true concern as they came to rest on Elladan.

"What happened?"

Before Aragorn could reply, Elrohir spoke: "We need to get Elladan to the Shakalzagar. Now." Despite his exhaustion, Elrohir's voice was full of command. It was the tone he used when ordering the border guards of Imladris, and Egrahil rushed to obey without even waiting for Aragorn's approval, his body reacting before his mind could fully follow. Only Aragorn could hear the edge of despair that lay hidden behind Elrohir's commanding facade.

Egrahil helped them bring Elladan onto the ship, then climbed off to push the dhow into the waters. The tide was coming in, lending a helping hand, the waves lifting the dhow and carrying her back out to the bay. It was opportune timing and Aragorn wondered if the Valar had finally decided to listen. Ulmo had long guarded the house of Turgon and Ëarendil, a little help now would not go amiss.

Without being asked, Egrahil hoisted the main sail and took the helm. He spared a glance at Aragorn, offering a reassuring nod. "I can get us to Shakalzagar, Captain."

Aragorn nodded in response, thankful, but hesitated before joining his brothers. Elladan lay between the rowing benches, his head pillowed on a wet blanket that had somehow survived the storm without falling overboard. He remembered the cold feel of his brother's skin under his hands and made a quick detour, grabbing an embroidered silken pillow and a handful of furs from below deck.

Elrohir looked up at him gratefully when he draped the warm furs over Elladan's still form. His eyes spoke of a dreadful weariness, but Aragorn knew he would not rest until Elladan was safe.

"He was struck by a morgul blade." Aragorn had not intended it as a question, but Elrohir nodded to confirm it, regardless.

"Yes, and a piece of it remains in the wound. It will seek to reach his heart, to poison his body and soul, to drag him to the shadow realm." Elrohir's voice was a forlorn whisper as he caressed his brother's cheek, seeking comfort.

Aragorn grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. "We will not let that come to pass. What do you need?"

It was an obvious ploy, a simple attempt to drag Elrohir out of his despair by giving him something to focus on, by letting him take charge. And it worked. The younger twin seemed to catch himself, his eyes snapping into focus, the lingering weariness overridden for now with stoic determination.

"I need to operate. The piece of the blade must be removed. And we will need athelas."

Aragorn nodded, taking stock, mentally planning the way to get Elladan onto the Shakalzagar and into the ship's infirmary. "You will need your supplies", he observed, referring to the healer's kit that both of the twins always carried – a long habit forced upon them by their father.

"Below deck."

Aragorn got up and went down the stairs once more, retrieving the collection of tools and herbs that was as familiar to him as his weapons. He, too, had a pack like this, stored away among the few possessions he had taken from Minas Tirith and brought onto the Shakalzagar. The boat rolled gently under his feet, cutting through the now quiet bay, as he found Elrohir's healing kit. It was buried beneath the clutter of the twins' arrows that must have fallen from their quivers during the storm, but the contents seemed undamaged.

When Aragorn returned to the main deck, enthusiastic voices greeted him. They had been spotted by the Shakalzagar and sailors were gathering on her starboard side to look over the railing at them. They were already lowering the ladder.

A few minutes and a mighty effort later they managed to get Elladan onboard and to the infirmary. A nervous small man fumbled with the keys on the heavy oaken cupboards that made up the entire side wall and contained the ship's medical supplies, before hastily excusing himself. Aragorn let the doctor go. The man seemed only too happy to leave, the injury he had heard discussed clearly beyond his skill of pulling teeth and splintering broken bones. Or maybe it was who was injured that kept him from offering his help more readily.

In either case, Elrohir would not need the doctor's fumbling help. The younger twin had placed his brother on the room's single operating table and was already removing Elladan's rain slick shirt and his blood stained bandage. Aragorn leaned back, closing his eyes against the sharp sting of pain as he experimentally rolled his shoulder, trying to loosen cramped muscles. When he opened them again, he paused, for all the casual normality of seeing Elrohir take on the healer's role with practiced ease and seemingly fluid moves, something was wrong.

Elrohir's hands were shaking.

-o0o-

A/N: I am so so tired. I cannot think of anything smart to say, or references to quote (for information on Ulmo and Turgon I will refer you to the Silmarillion :D) - but I am also proud that I did manage to edit and post today. I hope you'll enjoy this new chapter - it was entirely powered by reviews and sheer determination ;)