Chapter 2

-o0o-

From this distance, it was easy to see the unmasked glee in the creatures' faces as they spotted their prey and unslung their crossbows. Elrohir dared not move, dared not breathe. He could not let go of Estel but exposed as they were they were easy prey for the monsters below.

Something rushed past him - Elladan, he belatedly realized. His twin was a dark shadow of wrath as he sprang from the wall and landed between the orcs before they could even string a bolt. With the speed of thought, he had unsheathed his sword and killed the first of them. Never hesitating, he turned to the next foul beast and its beheaded body slumped to the ground while Elladan already drew his dagger and drove it into the midsection of a third attacker.

Elrohir was relieved only for a moment before a new fear took hold. He did not like what he saw. There was no reservation to Elladan's attack, no plan, instead his fighting looked like a welcome release of pent up frustration - a frightening reminder of a distant past when rage and hatred had fueled his sword more than skill and training. It was a sure sign of the influence of the dark will of the vale. And for all his obvious supremacy, Elrohir could see that his twin gave little thought to defense, focusing only on destroying the threat of the orcs - but he was still hopelessly outnumbered.

"Estel!" Elrohir pressed between clenched teeth, his muscles aching from the strain of keeping both of them secure, "do you have a hold?"

He needed to get down there, get to Elladan's side before his foolish twin's luck would run out and sheer numbers would overpower his superior skill. Estel's feet scrabbled against the wall as he found a new foothold and he nodded up at Elrohir decisively.

"Yes. Go!"

His own descent was less dramatic than Elladan's had been. He lacked the element of surprise and one of the orcs turned towards him even as he half fell, half slithered down the cliff wall. His hand stung as he grasped his sword tightly, drawing it before reaching the ground. He ducked, both to lighten the blow of the impact and to avoid the wide arc of the orc's scimitar that passed over his head, too close for comfort. The glee on the creature's face was short lived as it first hit only thin air and was then impaled itself on Elrohir's blade.

He lost no time, freeing his sword and turning towards the next opponent, a brute of a beast that already raised its weapon ready to plunge it into Elladan's exposed back. Elrohir cursed as he leapt over the strewn debris on the path, pushing his arms, still sore from the climb and from rescuing Estel, to remain steady, to conjure the strength necessary for the next blow. He reached the orc before it could strike. His sword sank deeply into the orc's side, cutting through flesh and bone straight to its cursed heart. It would pose no more threat to his reckless twin, who still had not moved to cover his exposed flank, still cared only to decimate the orcs in front of him with nothing but brute strength and unbridled rage.

Few of the foul beasts remained, but it would take only one to break through Elladan's insignificant defenses. And even as he thought it, he spotted a wiley orc that stood off to the side, half hidden behind boulders, loading a crossbow. He turned and realized just how lucky he had already been. A pierced orc body at Elladan's side bore testament to the poor aim of Melkor's creature, but Elrohir could not rely on that luck to hold. From this range both Elladan and Estel – frantically scrambling down the wall to reach them, would be easy targets.

Elrohir vaulted the boulder the orc used as protection and rammed his dagger into the slim part between the orc's helmet and its roughly crafted cuirass, severing the jugular artery. Black blood spilled forth around the cut, dousing him in the vile spray as the orc fell gurgling, but the danger was eliminated.

By the time he rushed back to Elladan's side, his twin had dispatched the last of the remaining orcs. In the sudden tense silence the scrabble of Estel's climbing was unnaturally loud. The rush of adrenaline was slow to fade as Elrohir held his breath, waiting for the sound of alarm from the orc encampment that was all too close.

It never came.

Tense moments passed, but eventually Elladan sheathed his sword and Elrohir copied the move, too irritated to even berate his twin, to trust himself to find calm words when all he wanted was to shout. Elladan for his part seemed unfazed by the recent fight, unaware or uncaring of how many risks he had taken. As Estel reached firm ground and came to stand next to them, Elladan spoke: "We need to move. These corpses will be discovered soon enough."

Elrohir nodded grimly, their hopes of rest were dashed once more. He turned to look at Estel, and noticed him cradling his hand carefully, the telltale red of fresh blood welling between his clenched fist.

"Let me see that," he beckoned.

Elladan argued: "Elrohir, there is no time! We…", but Elrohir cut him off.

"There has to be time," he snapped, satisfied to see Elladan actually taken aback by his forceful tone. His own annoyance with his twin's recklessness coming to the fore as he was offered a small release for his pent up frustration. "This needs to be bound now, or Estel will leave a trail so obvious the orcs will follow it blindfolded."

Even as he spoke he withdrew a roll of bandages from his pack and wrapped the clean linen around Estel's hand with quick, practiced moves. It took mere moments to cover the cut, a deep laceration probably caused when Estel had tried to grab at the jagged rocks of the cliff to try and slow his fall. "We will need to clean this properly once we find a place to rest," he said to Estel, striving to find his calm once more, as he tugged the edges of the bandages under and secured them. "But this will do for now."

Elladan who had been keeping a close watch on the path leading back towards the orc encampment lost no time to move past them, silently taking the lead once more, radiating his displeasure. Elrohir let him be.

They crossed over and around the littered bodies of the orc patrol, strewn across the path like a beacon painted in black blood. There was no hiding it, no way to avoid what was coming. The orcs would know they were here. They would be looking for them now.

-o0o-

The gloom of dusk came early to the Morgul Vale. Dark clouds arose in the east, black and laden with ash from Orodruin they stretched over the edges of the Mountains of Shadow, swallowing the deep cleft of the Morgul Vale, shrouding it in darkness.

The path ahead of them remained mercifully empty, and no shouts of pursuit had risen behind them yet, but still their trek was silent, hopeless. As they plodded on, minute after minute, hour after hour, Aragorn watched his brothers traversing the path ahead of him, heads bowed, each contemplating their own thoughts, both irritated with the other. It was not often that they were this out of sync and it troubled him more than he would like to admit.

It was the dark sense of dread, of despair that lay so heavy over the vale that was affecting them, he knew. A feeling like the dark rush of evil he had felt in Minas Tirith when Denethor had used the palantir. He shuddered in remembrance. It was clear, now more than ever, that the palantir was deeply infested with the will of Sauron's servants, or that of the Dark Lord himself. He remembered the feeling as the questing gaze of the seeing stone searched for him, teasing out secrets about his identity, ever lusting, seeking to destroy him.

Denethor was playing a very dangerous game; The price for the information he gathered on Sauron's movements and intentions was steep indeed. How much information did Sauron gain in turn? How many people were suffering under the watchful shadow of the seeing stone? His own gaze went back to Elrohir, remembering the emptiness in his brother's eyes after he had encountered the dark force of the palantir, had been forced to reveal his, Aragorn's, history in Rivendell. He remembered the lingering despair that had plagued his brother for weeks and he could tell now that their being in the Morgul Vale was bringing that shadow back to life. There was a listlessness to his brother's steps, a desperation to the way he would occasionally turn his head abruptly, as if tearing his eyes from a sight he did not wish to see.

Elladan looked little better. He was hiding his emotions behind the stubbornly blank expression that was so very typical of him, but Aragorn could see the minute tremor in his hands, the small flinches he could not hide whenever something jostled his side – where he had been stabbed with the Morgul blade.

As Elladan flinched again, concern creased Aragorn's face as he wondered what lasting effect the enchanted weapon might bring to bear against his brother this close to its master's will. He considered asking Elrohir, but thought better of it. The very fact that the younger twin had not spoken of it, had even stopped to comment on Elladan's obvious discomfort spoke volumes - as did the permanent frown of worry that marred his features.

It seemed a miracle now that Elladan had fought those orcs so fiercely earlier on the path - though not quite as big a miracle as the fact that he had come away from that encounter unscathed. Aragorn shuddered and pressed his own still smarting palm closer to his chest. He would just as soon forget how close they had come to an abrupt and early end of their quest.

His own heart was heavy with the possibility of failure, with the dark evil that clung to this valley and the mountain faces. Ever as he set one foot in front of another, tormenting thoughts of a future drenched in darkness and despair invaded his thoughts, Arwen's face, grief-stricken and pale as she wandered the edges of this world alone. Was that the fate he was condemning her to? Were these images born of his own thoughts, or merely an effect of the lingering presence of the Nazgul, or was it the future, true and unmasked? Did he not also, theoretically, share in the foresight that Elrond and Elladan possessed?

Who was to say that what he saw would not come to pass? And even if it did not, could he take that risk? Could he condemn the woman he loved to so terrible a fate; Bound to a Middle Earth that was under an everlasting shadow? Bound to a mortal man, whose life was so fleeting for one as old as her? Forever parted from her family?

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, to focus instead on the path ahead of his feet. The small stones and loose rubble, the scree that piled at the edge of the cliff wall to the side. Anything, everything, was better than entertaining these dark thoughts.

His scrutiny of the path around them granted him the glimpse of a plateau overhead. He halted in his steps as he examined it more closely. It seemed large enough for the three of them, reasonably level and far enough above the path that they might be safe, that they might remain hidden there. His own fatigue suddenly returned, dragging at his limbs, reminding him that they had not rested since they had set out this morning.

"Elladan!" he called softly and both his brothers turned.

He pointed out the cleft in the rockwall overhead, the wide ledge beyond it. "That plateau might be a good place to rest." He tried to keep the pleading from his voice but knew he had not succeeded when Elrohir looked at him with obvious concern. Clearly his brother did not realize just how ready to fall over he looked himself.

Elladan hesitated, but eventually nodded slowly. "I will have a look," he said as he removed his pack and moved to face the cliff wall. "Wait here. Stay hidden."

Together with Elrohir, Aragorn waited, following his oldest brother's slow progress up the cliff wall. Elladan heaved himself up and over the edge of the bluff and disappeared from sight. A moment later his head reappeared over the edge. "You were right, Aragorn. It is sheltered and secure."

Elrohir flashed him a smile, oddly out of place among the gloom of the Valley of Decay. The younger twin's relief at finally finding a place where they could all rest was palpable. After their long and tedious trek under the dark cloud of dread, and after their fight against the orcs they needed this respite. The sun must have been close to setting, though it was hard to tell from the way the dark clouds overhead had long since swallowed most of the light of day. He was reasonably sure, at least, that night had not yet fallen - still it had been a long day.

Following Elrohir, who had retrieved Elladan's pack much to the complaint of his oldest brother, Aragorn climbed the wall himself. His bound hand stung sharply at the new pressure placed on his injured palm, but he ignored the discomfort and plodded onward.

The plateau, when he reached it, was a pleasant surprise, a wedge in the side of the cliff wall; The upper edge of it formed an overhang, making the plateau more of a shallow cavern than a mere spur of rock. Large boulders had fallen some time ago, and some still remained at the ledge's outer edge, forming another barrier that kept some of the chill wind at bay. It whistled ominously and sharp around the edges and through the cracks, but the bite of it was much diminished. That was a blessing all its own, as his chilled and aching bones could attest.

Elladan deemed it safe enough to light a small fire and in the glow of the softly dancing flame, Aragorn could feel some of the exhaustion of their long trek and multiple climbs lessen. As his oldest brother placed a pot of water over the fire Elrohir beckoned him gently: "Your hand, Estel."

With the practiced, gentle touch of a healer Elrohir unwound the bandages, soaking the last layers with a bit of water from his canteen to loosen the dried blood that held the linen in place. Once uncovered, he inspected the cut critically, asking Aragorn to turn his hand this way and that, to form a fist, but eventually he nodded, seemingly satisfied.

"We will rinse it with athelas and bandage it again, but it is a shallow cut. You will be able to hold your sword and fight."

Aragorn nodded, grateful for the help, and watched as Elladan dropped some of the dried athelas leaves into the warming water. The effect was instantaneous. A sweet smell sprang up, the soft scent of a spring meadow after rain. It was so compelling he could almost hear the birds frolicking between delicate blossoms. The very gloom of the clouds overhead seemed to lift, and a soft rose and orange light lit their edges for a moment - a reminder that beyond the darkness of Mordor, light still prevailed in Middle Earth.

His own spirits rose as the dark taint of the Morgul Vale was lifted, as the lingering despair was banished, exposed for the wicked treachery it was. The effect on his brothers was obvious as well, they breathed deeply, and the burdens of the day, their doubts and quarrels seemed to fall off their shoulders. A hint of the normal light in their eyes returned with the passing of the dark veil.

But for all the pleasant smell and its near magical qualities, the athelas water still stung as Elrohir poured it over his hand, washing the last remnants of broken stone and dust from his cut. The younger twin looked at him apologetically, before he folded his hands over the cut in his palm. A warm glow and a soft prickle accompanied the familiar rush of Elrohir's healing energy as his brother extended some of his fëa to aid the healing along. When he removed his hands, the cut was almost gone, a faint red line against his palm that barely even stung when he moved it.

No matter how often he saw or experienced elvish healing, it would probably never cease to amaze him. "Thank you."

Elrohir gave him a small smile and a nod, but he was quick to sober as he turned to Elladan with unusual trepidation. "Will you let me look at your side?"

Elladan sighed, but relented. "If it will appease you, little brother." He bore his twin's examination silently, answering, from what Aragorn could tell, truthfully about the pain he was experiencing, and the impact that their proximity to the Nazgûl fortress was having. The wound itself had healed, nothing more than a raw scar that marred his side, still pink but fading.

"The pain comes in waves, waxing with the sense of evil that permeates this place, but gone now that we have brewed the athelas." Elladan hesitated, gave a rueful smile, and then continued a little sheepish: "Maybe we should have stopped to rest earlier."

He was silent for a while, then continued slowly, reluctantly: "There is ... a pull, as if from the castle, a call from the wraith world. The Nazgûl are near!"

Elrohir looked stricken. "The splinter was removed. There should be no lasting effects." His voice was a whisper edged with despair.

Elladan clasped his twin's shoulder. "They will fade," he said with conviction. "I have no intention of becoming a wraith." He aimed for levity but it fell short of the mark. Elrohir, at least, did not look appeased but he let the matter rest and Aragorn had the feeling that something passed unspoken between his brothers, some further confirmation that Elladan would be alright, would not give up. Whatever it was it served to realign their spirits further, to dispel the fretful worry, the barely concealed irritation they had displayed earlier.

Aragorn allowed himself another deep breath of the athelas-infused vapor that still rose from the pot Elrohir had replaced over the fire. And for a moment he let his concerns and worries be carried away by the sweet smelling herb.

"You should eat something, Estel." Startled, he opened his eyes, surprised that he had let himself drift so far and took the provisions Elrohir proffered for him. The dry berries they had found in Ithilien were still sweet and a welcome addition to their otherwise stale waybread.

They ate in silence, the night slowly settling around them, with their small fitful fire the only friendly light. A green ghostly glow shone somewhere in the mist ahead, the walls of Minas Morgul, radiating an otherworldly fire, while behind and below them on the path larger fires sprung up, marking orc encampments. It was strange to think that just yesterday they had still been in a stretch of green land that had shown little sign of the decay and death of Mordor. This valley in comparison was utterly ruined, forever lost and corrupted.

He shrugged deeper into his coat as the wind howled around the boulders of their little campsite once more. His eyes still roamed over the valley below, its green glow and the tower of Minas Morgul ahead of them. Their destination.

Elrohir, too, had been studying the distant tower: "The palantir of Minas Ithil," he murmured, silent as if to try and not awaken the memory of his own experience with its sister stone in Minas Tirith. "It must extend the Nazgûls' reach. The evil in this valley is far beyond what the Witch King could conjure in Arnor."

Elladan nodded contemplatively but remained silent and Aragorn realized that the twins were speaking of the Siege of Imladris during the Witch King's reign over Angmar. The dark time when Arnor had splintered and fallen, when the Dunedain of the North had been overrun by the hill tribes and the orcs of Mount Gundabad. Erestor had taught him of the siege, of the battles, up to the final confrontation in Fornost when Glorfindel and the forces of Rivendell, Mithlond and Gondor had faced the Witch King and routed his forces. When they had brought a fickle peace back to the lands of the North.

Glorfindel had told him of the battle itself, back when Aragorn had been an excited, easily impressed novice, but few in Rivendell ever spoke of the siege that had lain on Imladris, of the dread and despair that had covered the Hidden Valley for years at that time. Even his brothers skirted the subject, preferring to talk to him of battles won, of skirmishes with orcs and goblins, and of the great deeds of the Dunedain rangers - not the downfall of Nûmenoreans' erstwhile kingdom.

The palantiri in the weather hills and in Annuminas had been lost in those days, Aragorn recalled. And as his gaze wandered again to the dome atop the highest tower in Minas Morgul, an old thought was stirred, an idea that had been hatched already when they had left Minas Tirith. "The palantir is a mighty weapon to leave in the hands of Sauron and his creatures. If we could retrieve or destroy it…", he began.

But Elladan was already shaking his head, his gaze unreadable as he looked at his twin. "It is too dangerous," he said eventually. "Reconnaissance is all we have come here to do, and all we can reasonably hope to achieve. If we do not come close to the palantir or its sight we should count ourselves glad." There was a heavy finality to his words - he would not accept an argument.

Aragorn sat back, dissatisfied. He knew, rationally, that Elladan was right, but if his brothers admitted to the overwhelming strength of the Nazgûl stronghold so readily, were so willing to accept that stealth and trickery were their only chance of success against the might of Mordor, then what chances did Gondor have to ever stand against Sauron?

How could Middle Earth ever be free of the shadow, her people safe, their future unbounded? The athelas was still holding the shadow of dread at bay, but Aragorn felt the same treacherous thoughts from earlier stir in his subconscious despite its influence, could feel the doubts whispering. For though the Nazgûls' presence amplified his fears and doubts, he had to accept that they were his own to begin with, an undeniable part of him.

His fate had always been a heavy burden to bear, his ambition to retake the crown of Elendil, of reuniting Arnor and Gondor once more, had always been lofty beyond measure. And to achieve his goals he would have to face the threat in the east, would need to unite the free men in their fight against Sauron and purge his evil from Middle Earth. Only then would he be worthy of ruling Gondor and Arnor, only then would he be worthy of Arwen.

He had accepted his lot and his path many years ago, and though it was daunting he rarely hesitated, rarely faltered in his belief, but this was different. Now nothing seemed certain except for failure. The future seemed hopeless, already lost.

In part his own hesitance was caused by the obvious unease his brothers showed, by their readiness to accept that they could not risk open combat, could not hope to achieve daring feats that might turn the fortunes of a future war. He knew them as fearless warriors, ceaselessly seeking to destroy the creatures of the Dark Lord, never hesitating, never swerving from their self-appointed path, never wavering in their conviction. To see them now, cowering before the strength of Minas Morgul, was unsettling and Aragorn felt himself grow increasingly irritated.

He stoked the small fire at his feet harshly, suddenly angry. A flaming branch fell, causing a small shower of sparks and for a moment a bright flame shot up before being quickly smothered once more - the way everything seemed to be smothered in this valley; his hopes, his brothers' ambitions, light itself.

He felt Elrohir's eyes on him, but did not look up. He did not need to see the look in his brother's silver gaze, knowing that Elrohir could probably guess at his thoughts. Out of his two brothers, Elrohir had always been the one most likely to notice when he was troubled, the first to offer guidance and advice. As a young boy, it was always to him that Aragorn had turned in times of doubt or distress. But he did not need his brother's pity now, did not need to see the understanding in his gaze - half because he knew that his anger would evaporate in the face of it.

Eventually he did look up - he never could match the patience of his brothers and Elrohir's, especially, was limitless. He had expected the calm understanding in his brother's eyes, but he also found there a promise of unwavering support, and, surprisingly, a mirror of the same flame that burned in his own soul. Elrohir was as dismayed by the strength of Mordor as he himself, as determined to stop this evil, of ridding Middle Earth of the scourge of Sauron. His brothers, he belatedly realized, were not cowering, they were merely cautious. Delaying the battle for another day, rather than abandoning the fight altogether. They would not sail West to the Undying lands, no matter what the hiss of the Nazgûl might have whispered in his ears, they would not abandon him.

Elrohir's words confirmed this. "We will do what we can, Estel."

He nodded, finding surprising relief and reassurance in the simple words, and a bit more of the darkness of the Morgul vale seemed to lift off his heart. Not arguing when his brothers divided the watch between themselves, he used his pack as a pillow and wrapped his cloak around him as best he could and sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.

-o0o-

tbc...

A/N: What's this? A chapter without cliffhanger? I must be getting rusty :D I'll try to do better next chapter - I promise. In the meantime I would love to hear from you; Reviews feed the muse as they say.