Chapter 4

-o0o-

Elrohir's heart skipped a beat. He rushed past Estel, rushed to the mirror behind which his twin had disappeared. The glass was smooth and unmarred, coated with a milky patina and the dust of years. It looked as if it had always been here, just another fixture, another mirror like the ones that had lined the corridor before. He raised his hands to touch the cold, unforgiving material - it was quite solid. Fighting the urge to call Elladan's name he hit the glass, hammered against it with his fists, but it did not budge, did not crack, did not break.

"Where is he? Is he on the other side? Can you see anything?" Estel's questions rushed out, silent but hurried in his panic, as he joined Elrohir's side. He, too, raised his hands and pounded on the mirror – to no avail.

Copying the move he had used earlier in the corridor, Elrohir cupped his hands around his eye and pressed it against the dark glass, looking for a place where the silver had peeled off, where he should be able to see through if it really was just glass. But the darkness behind the mirror was absolute. Nothing stirred on the other side, no hint of the all-pervading green glow passed through the mirror that had so suddenly appeared in their path and that had swallowed Elladan.

He fought to remain calm, to suppress the sudden fears that sprang to life. This was hardly the first time, he tried to remind himself, that he and Elladan had been separated behind enemy lines. He would find Elladan. He always did.

But his heart was pounding furiously in his chest and his mind was screaming with fear, with the whispers of the Nazgûl's threats suddenly come to life.

"Nothing?" Estel asked and Elrohir shook his head dejectedly. "We will need to find another way," his human brother decided, keeping mercifully focused, clinging to hope for the both of them. "Elladan will …"

"Shhh!" Elrohir interrupted, forcefully hushing Estel. His brother looked surprised, taken aback but Elrohir had no time to elaborate. He had heard something. Blood rushed loudly in his ears as he strained to listen, praying to any of the Valar that might listen that he was mistaken, that they were still alone.

Then the sound came again.

"Yrch!"

This time they were no phantom whispers, no discordant echoes of their own steps. Orcs were coming, and very many of them by the sound of weapons dragging over the floor, of heavy metal boots and discordant rowdy chants. Hatred woke in his soul with sudden fervor, nurtured by the sense of evil in Minas Morgul, it drowned out even the dread he had felt before. At last there would be an enemy to face, a target for his mithril blade, something real after the enchanted emptiness of the corridor maze. A dark part of himself was disconcertingly eager.

The sound of the orcs grew louder and Elrohir could see the moment when Estel heard them as well, his face growing pale. "Where?" Estel asked, already drawing his sword, and Elrohir spun around, straining his ears, listening.

It was impossible to answer. The strange walls threw the sounds of the footsteps back and forth, creating an impossible web of reverberating sound. It seemed to come from a corridor on his left, but when he turned towards it the same corridor was void of echoes.

Movement caught his eyes as he turned once more. It was too late. The orcs had come. They were out of time.

"There!" he told Estel and raised his sword. Fighting was their only option now. And his sword thirsted for blood.

The orcs were upon them with surprising speed, the wicked yellow glint of their eyes, only enhanced by the green non-light of Minas Morgul. "Meat!" they screeched, delighted shouts that were taken up by the orcs in the back even as the ones in the front raised their scimitars and threw themselves forward to attack.

Elrohir parried the first blow and ducked instinctively under another swing as he saw movement out of the corner of his eyes. He turned and spun his sword in a deadly arc, severing the arm of the orc that had attacked him from the side. How had they got around him so quickly?

He had no time to ponder the question. More orcs were taking the place of those that had fallen instantly, without creating an opening, without respite. He ducked again, alarmed at the last minute by a shadow moving at his side. The move brought him back to the middle of the corridor, away from what he now realized was a potent danger – the orcs were scaling the walls.

Dark shapes flooded the tiny corridor, rushing above and around him to strike at Estel or at his own exposed back. How he wished for Elladan to be here, for the ease with which they completed each other's moves on the field of battle, keeping their enemies at bay and their backs covered. But Elladan was not here and, ducking beneath another blackened scimitar, Elrohir turned around, slashing his sword out in front of him and hitting a grinning orc right in its foul teeth. The beast fell and Elrohir struck again, killing another, fighting now to get to his other brother, realizing too late that the orcs were trying to separate them.

They had driven a wedge between him and Estel already, crawling around him via the walls. As he spun, he found a barrier of a dozen of the foul creatures between him and his younger brother.

Estel was holding his own so far, another one of the foul orcs fell to his sword and then another. But the numbers were overwhelming, the distance between them only increasing, and Estel was losing ground. A step backwards here, then another to evade a sly attack from the side, and little by little he was pressed further down the corridor. Away from him.

Elrohir intensified his own struggles, but he was facing the same problem. The numbers of orcs were overwhelming. Already he felt his arm begin to tire from the strain of hacking at exposed flesh or mail, from the shock of reverberation as his mithril blade struck blackened steel. There was a sudden screech, and he turned just in time to see a goblin throw himself off the wall. He caught the beast on his raised sword but the momentum forced him back and to his knees and he struggled to retrieve his sword from deep between the ribs of the dead creature.

A slash of a scimitar caught his arm, cutting through leather and fabric and trailing a line of fire in its wake, but Elrohir grit his teeth and fought back to his feet. He finally freed his sword, cutting off the offending arm of the orc that had attacked him, then rammed the sword into its black heart to stop its howl of pain. But even as he looked up over the sagging corpse of the orc, his heart sank. He had lost sight of Estel. The corridor behind the swarming orcs was empty.

Frenzied, he turned, looking the other way in case he had gotten turned around, but there was no sign of his younger brother behind him either - and the move left him dangerously exposed. He jumped, but was too late to evade the stab of the gleeful goblin that had noticed his inattention, scoring another fiery cut across his side. Another slash had him lunge backward, ducking out of the way and he only just raised his sword in time after he regained his balance to block the brutish strike of a scimitar aimed at his head.

And more goblins were still coming, stabbing at him from the sides, striking while his sword was still locked with that of their comrades. He ducked and rolled, surging to his feet again instantly but losing valuable ground. Just like Estel before him he was being pushed away from the place he had been, from the corridor-turned mirror that had swallowed Elladan and from the last place that he had seen Estel.

With regret he realized that he was fighting a losing battle. Elladan was gone, Estel was out of reach - and his own time was running out.

Barely evading another strike, Elrohir realized he had to make a decision now. To stand and fight was to die. Something dark whispered that leaving the orcs behind was worse, but he forced himself to focus. He could not help his brothers if he got himself killed.

He threw a long, last look at the corridor ahead, at the milky mirror that had separated him from his twin and at the corridors that Estel might have disappeared into. He burned the image into his mind, tried to create a map, a guide that would help him find back here, to find his brothers, once the orcs had been dealt with.

Then, with a last wide slash of his sword that opened up some room, he turned and ran into the darkness, the sound of the pursuing orcs right at his heels.

-o0o-

The orcs were relentless. Their push against his defenses never faltered and it took all Aragorn's training to keep the slashing, eager scimitars of the orcs at bay. He blocked another swing, aimed at his side, and threw the slender goblin who had dealt it back into the writhing mass of its comrades, halting their forward momentum for a moment. It mattered little for more were already striking at him from the other side. There were always more.

He dodged, then blocked another attack, his arms aching with the force of parrying yet another blow. He took a step back, buying himself minimal room to breathe, to block, but the truth was, he was losing ground. Another step back followed as his sword collided with that of a large, brutish orc. Their weapons interlocked and the beast threw its weight behind its scimitar, using sheer force to push Aragorn back - further away from his brother.

Aragorn stepped to the side, giving up ground to upset the orc's balance and brought his sword down mercilessly on the exposed neck of the beast as it stumbled past. But the small victory had cost him valuable ground, the distance between Elrohir and himself was ever increasing as the orcs efficiently kept them apart, blocking all their attempts to reunite, to fight back to back.

A screech tore through the air and Aragorn looked up, his heart freezing as he spotted a goblin hurling itself at Elrohir and then saw his brother faltering beneath the attack. Driven to his knees, his brother disappeared behind the mass of orc bodies still hurrying in to attack. They would not hesitate to exploit a possible opening, any weakness from Elrohir. Aragorn had to reach him.

He pushed forward, slashing at one orc and hacking at another, but a knife hit him sharply in the side. It was deflected by the light mail he wore but it was painful nonetheless. He gasped, took a step to the side and another orc rushed in, lunging at him with hands outstretched, no weapons but its wiry fingers that it ached to close around his throat. The small goblin careened into him, tearing him down, wrapping arms and legs around his torso. Aragorn struggled futilely, but the little beast's hold was too strong. It would not give.

Time seemed to slow. He was entirely exposed, unable to wield his sword, to defend himself. Fighting to free his hand, to get any kind of leverage, he struggled. And at the last moment, as the orc's questing fingers moved up his torso, reaching for his windpipe, he grasped the dagger at his belt and thrust it upwards. It hit the goblin square in the eye. The beast fell without a squeak, finally releasing him.

Not even stopping to catch his breath, Aragorn jumped back to his feet. He was only just in time. Another attack was aimed at him already. He brought his sword up sharply, barely parrying the blow, and dodged a second scimitar, still fighting to regain his equilibrium. The continued, relentless attacks were keeping him dangerously off balance, at any moment his luck might run out. Gone was his chance of fighting back, his hopes of fighting through to Elrohir's side. Instead, he was continuously being pushed back, back into a small side passage that loomed dark and forbidding behind him. He cast about but could not catch a glimpse of Elrohir. Where was his brother?

He hoped fervently that the younger twin had recovered from the earlier attack, was still fighting, was still alive. Some of the orcs seemed to have left and Aragorn shuddered to think what it might mean. The thought of his brother, defeated and impaled by orc swords, or worse yet, abducted and brought to the masters of the fortress sent a wave of fear down his spine - but it brought a new rush of strength in its wake.

Hatred for the dark beasts stirred within him, defiance against their dark plans. He slashed out, uncaring now of finesse or form. Brute strength would serve him where superior training could not. He would not let these orcs have his brother!

Aragorn pushed forward again, hacking at another head, slicing off an arm, dispassionately watching as the creature in front of him howled in pain and scrambled backwards, clutching at its bleeding stump. His next slash hit its heart, providing a mercifully swift death.

He spun, stabbing another orc with the dagger he still held, mechanically, ceaselessly. He dismembered, hacked, devoured. He could feel the rush of something dark coursing through his veins, guiding his hand, giving him strength, but he did not stop to question it.

Finally, he felled the last one of the dark, hateful beasts. In the following silence his own breathing was harsh, grating, haunted. And it was almost as if a whisper caressed his senses, more felt than heard, borne of the dark rage of battle and amplified by the evil of Minas Morgul.

"Such beautiful destruction. Come."

He shook his head, ignoring the whisper, clearing the cobwebs brought by adrenaline, and quenching the dark sensations, the scream for blood, for revenge, and for destruction. He needed to focus. He needed to find his brothers!

But where to start? He strained his senses but could not hear anything in the corridors but his own strained breathing, and could not see anything beyond a few meters. The green gloom of the corpse-light walls did not help, it was not bright enough to reveal anything, more confusing than revealing. He carefully made his way forward, over and around the corpses of slain orcs forever stuck in unnatural deformation. Making sure to step lightly, to be prepared for a possible attack he inched forward - orcs were not always quite as dead as they first appeared. But nothing stirred.

He came back to the main corridor, back to the mirror he thought had swallowed Elladan, though truthfully he was not entirely sure. Everything down here looked the same, permeated by that perverse green corpse-light and yet steeped in a darkness that seemed to lurk at the edges of his vision no matter where he looked. There were more mirrors lining the corridor, enough to cast doubt upon his initial assertion. But it did not matter, in the end he could not break them down, could not risk even trying for fear of drawing more of the vile beasts that had attacked him and Elrohir.

And, he figured, Elrohir should be his main concern. Elladan had disappeared behind the mirror, but Aragorn had no reason to believe him in danger. It was entirely possible that the older twin was scouring the passageways, trying to find a way back to his brothers even now, entirely unaware and undisturbed by the hordes of orcs. Elrohir on the other hand - Elrohir had been fighting the vile beasts, had been fighting a desperate, losing battle. Aragorn recalled the moment of terror when the small goblin had thrown itself off the high wall and onto his brother, when Elrohir had faltered and disappeared under the onslaught of rushing orc bodies crowding around him. Aragorn had lost sight of him then and he could find no sign of him now. He still hoped that the younger twin had left of his own accord, under his own strength, but he could not be sure.

Unconsciously he slowed his steps as he approached another pile of orc corpses, this one left behind mostly by his brother. This was where the initial ambush had happened, where the orcs had come upon them and where they had then slowly but irresistibly driven them apart. Forcing himself to breath through his mouth, Aragorn climbed over the disfigured, deformed creatures, their arms splayed at odd angles in the aftermath of a violent death. There was no sign of Elrohir.

Aragorn released a breath he had not even realized he had been holding, a quiet prayer of thanks. His fear, too terrible to be put into words, proved unfounded. Wherever Elrohir was, he was not amongst the fallen.

But where was he? There was no further sign of him beyond a short trail of more dead orcs that he eventually spotted, leading around a corner and into a side passage. But the corridor beyond it was empty; empty of sound and orcs - and his brother. Perhaps Elrohir had been forced to retreat that way, or perhaps it had been the scene of his last stand as he was overpowered and taken by the vile creatures.

Aragorn forced himself to consider that scenario though his mind balked at the very idea of it. Still, he had to face it, had to accept the possibility that his brother might even now be a prisoner in the hands of the Nazgûl. A cold shiver of dread rolled down his spine and he breathed a forceful whisper, a prayer to the Valar to watch over them.

It went unanswered.

And before Aragorn could turn, before he could make a decision on which way to go, on how to find Elrohir, a dark shadow sprang from the ground behind him. With terrible finality a wooden club connected with his temple and Aragorn knew no more.

-o0o-

A/N: I am terribly sorry that I kept you waiting for so long after the last chapter. To say that RL is hectic would be an understatement, even now I'm running late as I try to squeeze in a few minutes to finally post this update. I do hope the wait was worth it and that you enjoy this newest cliffha... chapter :D

In story-related ramblings: You cannot imagine how happy I was that the orcs in the Rings of Power show called their prisoners battle meat :D I also like when orcs refer to humans and elves as meat (as proven by this chapter ;) )