A/N: Last chapter before Aragorn's appearance…. I know he's been gone for long, long days, but I've already begun writing the next chapter: *I* know what's happening to him…. *laughs evilly* Hope you like this one, I guess that Gandalf's a bit too emotional, but I just couldn't write him otherwise…. You should have seen my first attempts….a torture for everyone who loves the book-Gandalf!

Julia: Huge thanks for all your reviews! I truly appreciate them, and I'd be happy to get your e-mail address that we'd get to know each other better.

Snitter in Rivendell: Again huge thanks! I always try to review each chapter of your story, though I sometimes miss a new one on the day you post it, and I love to see how different 'similar' storylines can evolve!

Aralondwen: Another huge thanks! In one of your reviews you told me that you were writing a story of your own at the moment. I truly would like to see it and I absolutely promise to review *g*. You'd just have to tell me when it'll be online!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything …. it's a pity, isn't it?

So, enough of my ramblings, enjoy!!!

Darkness, and threat, and fear

Immediately after Gandalf had passed through the gap in the stony wall, an immense shadow, dark and fearful, seemed to claim his heart. It was as if the Dark Lord, even after he had vanished, tried to prevent the wizard from entering his Tower, from trying to help his friend, from bringing relieve to a dying man. The sun had not sunk yet, but its light could not reach into that darkest spot in Middle-earth. Shadows appeared to follow each of Gandalf's steps, an army of the past. Whispers floated in the air, speaking words in a tongue so foul that the air itself could not bear the sounds. Yet, Gandalf successfully withstood the urge to press his hands on his ears, instead he tightened the grip on his staff. With it, he had brought light into the eternal darkness of Moria, but not even his power could drive out the shadows of the Dark Tower.

For the first time in his entire life – and that indeed had been a long one – Gandalf felt fear. Not the undetermined feeling he had had when he had heard that the One Ring had been found again, not the one he had felt at fighting the Balrog. And neither the one after he had learned that Frodo and Sam had gone to Mordor on their own.

'Nay, this one is different,' the wizard pondered while slowly walking towards the dark, high gate of Barad-Dûr, leaning heavily onto his staff. 'It does not come from within my heart, and truly not out of my mind. No, this fear comes from outside, tries to swallow myself, attempts to make me giving up my purpose. It is not a feeling, it is a living being, breathing, speaking, and feeling itself. Sent by the Dark Lord, cursed to linger here beyond the end of the world, frightening each intruder. Alas, even I, being Gandalf the White, highest among my order, can hardly stand it! What would have happened to Legolas, if fate had not warned him? Alas, he would have been consumed by fear and thread! Truly, it is better that he is waiting outside. Even there his heart may not be free of despair!'

Sighing heavily, the wizard came to a dead halt and lifted his head. He was now standing right in front of the gate, the Dark Tower rising into the sky.

The walls were of black stone, seeming to have stood there since the beginning of the world, never having been erected by mortal hand. No single slit could be seen between the rocks appearing to have been hewn out of one mountain. The gate itself, though, was broken down, the Red Eye hardly visible on some remaining stones.

Nevertheless, a slight shiver ran down Gandalf's spine. He had not expected to feel such great evil, such malice. He had seen unbelievable cruelty in his life, had witnessed the rise of Sauron, yet he was not – could not – be prepared for such thread. It was beyond his worst imagination and a hint of shock was in the old wizard's eyes, as he stared at a small drop of red blood being used as paint for the pupil of the Eye. 'Is it yours, Aragorn?' sprang to his mind, but the rock kept silent and did not answer.

Images of torture and pain appeared again. A bloody mass that once must have been a man lay on the floor, Orcs were dragging away a body. Another one whipped a back, belonging to some unknown face. Five men, still fairly young, were chained to the wall, seeming more dead than alive. The room was painted in red, filled with the cruel laughter of Orcs. The captives' cries were ringing in Gandalf´s ears.

Aragorn's voice was among them. Yet, he alone did not beg for mercy. He cursed his tormenters, promised revenge if he ever came free again. Fury was in his words, and strength. But suddenly, his yells ceased, creating a strange silence.

Startled, Gandalf opened his eyes, not knowing that he had closed them at all. His blood was pounding in his ears, sounding like the drumbeats in Moria.

'Aragorn,' his heart cried, 'you cannot be dead! Tell me that you have just lost consciousness, your mind escaping the pain! Try to last only a few more minutes, then I will be with you! See, I am already at the gate, merely some steps are separating us anymore! Make your heart go on beating, do not stop to breath!'

But in his innermost soul the wizard knew, that he would come too late. That Aragorn had died from torture, pain or from the mere touch of Sauron.

'And the last would certainly have been the worst.'

 And with that, an image appeared in the wizard's mind that he truly would have liked to banish, but found that he could not.

'Aragorn, chained to the wall, blood running down his arms, his wrists hardly more than white bone. His torso naked, the black leather breeches torn into pieces. Bare feet. His head fallen onto his chest, black dirty hair hiding his face. Deep welts covering his stomach. Fresh gashes bleeding heavily. Breathing ragged. Blood staining the corners of his mouth. With each heartbeat, life leaving him through his various wounds.

From another side of the chamber, a dark shadow approached the tortured man, no visible form, just a feeling of fear, and thread, and terror. If it had had a face, it would have smiled cruelly. A gloved finger touched the sunken chin, almost gently wiping away the blood from the man's face. Suddenly, though, it violently jerked Aragorn's head up, the man's eyes fluttering open. Immediately, an expression full of horror replaced the indifferent gaze and Aragorn yanked his head away, his mouth opening as if to cry, yet never being able to utter a yell.

The man had died merely from Sauron´s touch, his broken soul still too pure to be able to withstand such malice.'

Gandalf shook his head in a desperate attempt to make these images vanish.

Slowly then, he turned his eyes from the Red Eye and stared at the dark interior of the Tower. The shattered door revealed only a deep darkness, an empty darkness. Nothing covered the bare walls, the black floor. Not even dirt. Slowly the wizard stepped over the threshold, entering the fortress of his greatest Enemy, and stopped again ere starting to cross the vast hall. There, exactly at the opposing end, he could make out a shadow, indicating the outline of a staircase. It had to be the one leading up into the Tower. Taking a deep breath, Gandalf took his first step within Barad-Dûr, straightening himself. Whispers were in the air, distant, murmuring words of thread. Straining his ears, Gandalf could make out some words, then knowing that the Black Breath had not left the world completely. It was still in the stones, in the wind, those innocent things poisoned by a being that had thought of nothing else for almost three thousand years.

"Ash … durbatulûk, … nazg gimbatul, ash nazg …

agh burzum-… krimpatul!"

'One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.'

A grim smile crossed the wizard's face. "The Ring is gone, Sauron," he said aloud, his voice determined, "you have lost and we have won. Victory is ours, despite anything that you did to Aragorn. Middle-earth is saved! He was tortured badly, maybe until he died, but his pain merely caused greater wrath in our people. They would never have given up fighting for his sake! I would have never had them doing such! You are defeated! And we will see to it that such evil will never come back to this world! This time you cannot return! The Ring is destroyed and never will one be made again!"

In the end, Gandalf was almost shouting. He still felt fury pulsing through his veins at each thought of Aragorn's fate, and he whished that he had someone to punish for. But there was none. So he could merely try to calm himself otherwise. Shouting helped.

Surprise claimed his heart at this thought. He had never before been emotional, likely to show his feelings. Always had he tried to hide everything, trying to be reasonable. And he had managed well. In his whole life he had never lost control, even not when he had discovered the treason of Isengard. Wrath had filled him then completely, his disappointment only adding to that, but he had not started to shout at an unseen enemy who did not even live anymore. At that time he had sat on top of the Orthanc, victim to rain and wind, but he had not cursed Saruman, had not let himself be consumed by his fury. There he had been thinking of ways to escape, of ways to warn the Hobbits, and, almost subconsciously, he had even felt pity for Saruman.

But now it was different: Unknown emotions were cursing through his blood, likely to weaken him, yet Gandalf could not banish them. They were a part of him, and if he had suppressed them, he would break at seeing Aragorn's body, whether alive or dead. About that the Istari was more than certain.

'Maybe admitting my fury right now prepares me for the things awaiting me in this Dark Tower. Surely it is better to feel right now than to collapse next to Aragorn. When I will find him, I will need strength. Even if he is still alive, I am likely to have to carry him down. His injuries might be so bad that he will not be able to stand upright, even less to walk.'

Absently the wizard fumbled in a small bag attached to his mantle. Yes, he still had some herbs with him. Even some athelas, which could make people standing at the brink of death return. Maybe there was still hope for Aragorn. Athelas, kingsfoil, why should it not help the king himself?

With slow, careful steps Gandalf crossed the vast hall. The roof, supported by isolated pillars, was high above him, hardly visible in the dark. The columns were not shaped in any way, just huge vertical stones rising from the floor. At the base of each, some living coals still told of the great fires once burning there, before Sauron had vanished. But these could not illuminate the enormous room, it merely was as if they brought even darker darkness. No red shine was cast on the surrounding rocks, the coals lived and were dead at the same time. Gandalf faintly shook his head. Fire had ever been a symbol of the evil, bringing good only when it was controlled, but in no other place he had ever seen that the flames did not bring light. Even the Balrog, the flame of Udûn, had lighted the eternal blackness of Moria, had made the walls seeming set aflame, had breathed living fire. But here, in Barad-Dûr, the flames were merely evil: No light, no warmth, a sign of death.

It was completely quiet in this hall, Gandalf realized after some minutes, his footsteps echoing through the immense emptiness. He could hear each of his heartbeats, blood pounding in his ears, his breath appearing as loud as the one of a whole battalion.

'Sauron knew how to keep his Orcs under control, knew how to frighten them.'

At length, the wizard had finally crossed the hall, standing at the opposite end of the door, below the first step of the staircase. It was winding up into the Tower, disappearing out of sight after a few meters. The steps were still completely intact, neither broken nor split. The passage was wide enough to have four men going down next to each other, a lone wizard would have no problem climbing up to the top. And there he supposed Aragorn to be. Furthest away from the desired gate, but closest to the stars, thus merely adding to his agony. Looking into the sky while being tortured most cruelly, seeing the shining stars while trying to withstand deepest pain, his mind bringing back images of the pure blue of the roof over Rivendell.

Leaning heavily onto his staff, Gandalf began his long ascend, fearing the worst, but hoping for better. For long he saw nothing than the endless darkness of the passage, a faint light coming from his stick. Gray shadows were moving with him on the walls, seeming to pursue the Istari. The black stones seemed to reverberate the cries of the tortured, echoing from base to top, from top to base. Yells of agony, of fear, of pain, some appearing older than a millennium, caught to live on within this prison. The bodies belonging to them having died a thousand years ago, or having become shadows, still alive to haunt the living. But most of the terrible shouts were young, telling of things that had happened not one hundred years ago. They were not voices anymore, they had ceased to speak words, the only thing that remained of those killed was the anguish they felt in the moment of their death. Gandalf strained to make out a distinctive nuance that might belong to Aragorn, but that was impossible. The wizard was still allowed to hope. Nevertheless, the cries hurt his ears, remembering him of the various ways to kill a man so slowly that his struggle lasted for days and weeks. Only people tormented most cruelly would be able to utter such a yell, its very sound piercing the heart of any listeners.

'Aragorn,' Gandalf thought in the darkness, 'Aragorn, my dear friend. You are abandoned by all living people, even the Orcs have left. You are alone, maybe at the brink of death. I recall your words, uttered once in a beautiful night, flowering stars in the sky. A night, when the evil of Mordor had still been far away, and we did not have to think of it for all the time. We spoke of Arwen, of the Elves in general. I told you some of the old tales and you listened intently. It was a good night, and our friendship filled it with life. But maybe this was also the first night from which on I knew that you would have to endure an ill fate. Completely out of connection, slowly smoking your pipe, my last words having been 'Rest well, my friend', you showed that you possess the foresight of your people, and at your words a shiver ran down my spine. You said it with such earnestness, so seriously, that I knew that it was not just an absentminded spoken sentence, but something that had bothered you for long. 'I fear of dying alone.' That was the only thing you whispered, and yet it was so much more. You were sitting there, your hands holding your pipe, completely calm, your hair hiding your face, I could merely see the shadows cast on it by the flickering flames. You looked so noble, as if Elendil himself was at my side in this moment, and yet so frightened. A blanket was drawn around your upper body to protect you from the cold, and yet you trembled. You tried to hide it, but I noticed nevertheless. I wanted to embrace you, tell you that I would never leave you, but I could not, for it would have sounded like a lie even in my ears. I knew, that once you would have to go your way on your own, facing your own fate with no one at your side. The only thing I did, and until this very day I still wonder whether I should have acted differently, was to reach out and lay my palm on your knee. I whished to comfort you and I know that you stopped trembling, but the fear had not left your eyes when you lifted them to watch me. In a way I was embarrassed and I feel ashamed that I had done nothing else to soothe you. From this day on, the innocence had disappeared out of your eyes and was replaced by something that others interpreted as indifference, sometimes even coldness, but I and some others knew that you merely tried to hide your true feelings. Arwen did, and Legolas. Maybe Gimli got a closer look as well, and I know that you deeply cared for Frodo and the other Hobbits. But what did Boromir see in you? Did he see your soul, or only the king that he must not like? I have watched you two often, Aragorn. There always was uncomfortableness in your behavior towards him, but he also did not conceal his anger towards you. After all, you were the one that was to take away his seat as a ruler of Gondor. Legolas never told me, whether your attitudes changed after Moria, or if you both only relented in the moment of his death. Maybe Legolas does not know, but I wish that it had happened: That you perceived his soul, not the part of him that wanted to take the Ring, and that he saw the emotions you are truly feeling. You are not of stone, my friend, although I know that it sometimes would be better. In this night, long-passed, you began to change, and I deem that I have fault in this, either. I should have reacted differently to your utterance of fear. Elves are unused to admit such, and so were you. For the first time, maybe, you opened up and I could hardly comfort you. Never have we spoken of that matter again, but I have remembered your words since that night. They have never left me, and now, so it seems, they are becoming true. 'I fear of dying alone.' And no one is with you.

Aragorn, I hasten upwards to come to your aid. And I promise, that I will see to it that you will never be in danger on your own again, if you are still alive. Never have you spoken of any other fear, and of this one only once, and I desperately wish that the foresight of your people failed you in this particular moment. You shall not die alone!'

From time to time Gandalf came across an iron door in the walls, most of them were closed, but the wizard was able to open each. Every entrance reawakened the hope in his heart, behind each Aragorn might be lying, bleeding but alive. Yet, still believing that his friend was imprisoned in one of the topmost chambers, Gandalf could not proceed as fast as he had wanted, seeking to miss none of the doors. Five had he already passed, behind each nothing which indicated that Aragorn might have been tortured there. Four had been empty, filled with mere blackness, and the last had been packed with armors for the Orcs. Some black helmets, a few swords, quite a lot of spears, nothing of importance for the wizard. Yet, he did not give up hope and stopped in front of each entrance, hoping to find Aragorn in there.

How long had he already done nothing else than ever going up and up? For hours, it seemed to the wizard. The darkness had engulfed him completely, his only twinkle of light was the small crystal on his staff. With a tight grip he clutched Aragorn's necklace in his hand. He had not given it back to Legolas in that night under the trees of Fangorn, he had carried it himself, being a tiny spark of hope, a symbol for Aragorn's life. As long as he had the necklace, his friend would not die. The leather felt smooth in his fingers, had lost its roughness by years of lying on Aragorn's soft skin. The man had never borne it over his clothes, it had always been hidden from any other's sight. Only Aragorn himself had known that it had been there, the small pendant grazing his chest. Arwen had been with him for all the time, not only in his memory, and Gandalf could hardly guess how bad his friend's situation had been when the man had had to leave his most precious thing behind.

'He will be pleased to get it back,' Gandalf pondered while stopping in front of another door, the sixth. 'I am certain that he missed it dearly while being imprisoned here. After all, it is a touchable token of freedom, of a world without pain. Alas, what had I given to make him have it?'

He pushed the door open and peeked inside, his staff illuminating the darkness, creating flickering shadows. No, this chamber was empty as well, the air inside dry and stuffy. No living being had drawn a breath here for many years, and Gandalf left it without looking more thoroughly.

Further upward the steps led him, coming closer to the top of the Tower, but getting steeper and more difficult to climb with each passing minute. The wizard stopped on a small landing, pausing for some heartbeats. Only then he noticed that it had become significantly cool. Breathing caused a fine mist in front of his mouth, and a strange chill ran through his feet while standing still. Moving, he had not become aware of this, but now it made him feel uncomfortable. Aragorn had certainly not been given any clothes to protect him from the cold, more likely had he been stripped to the skin, making him shiver and freeze. Lifting his head Gandalf tried to pierce the darkness with his eyes, but he could not see beyond the next turn of the staircase.

Tightening the grip on his staff, the wizard again began to climb up further. He could not be far from the top anymore, having been at the evil walls' mercy for so long. The dreadful cries of the tortured were still tormenting his ears, sometimes increasing in intensity, never ceasing at all. It seemed that they became louder and filled with even greater horror, attempting to scare him.

Gandalf shook his head, causing his long beard to tremble. No one and nothing would be able to stop him now, he had promised his friend, and after all, he was an Istari. Shadows of cries, shadows of armed hosts could not frighten him. Any lesser person might have fled, but he would not. A grim smile crossed his face. Saruman had not defeated him, he had escaped from the Orthanc, and he had been the only one that had dared to withstand a Nazgûl. The wizard straightened himself again, but kept calm otherwise. He did nothing else, did not cease ascending, did not move his hand, yet his hidden power surfaced suddenly and within one heartbeat, quietness returned to the dark passage in the heart of Barad-Dûr. For many thousand years had such not happened. Ever had there been these horrible yells, the scaring whispers of evil, murmuring the words craved into the One Ring. Now merely the howling of the wind, appearing gentle to the tortured walls, lay in the air, bringing a fresh smell, a new breath.

Gandalf felt his often suppressed strength cursing through his veins, the light on his staff had increased in vivacity. The walls now seemed to reflect the soft rays, no longer consuming them, swallowing them. At once the complete darkness disappeared and a faint glow appeared to engulf the wizard while taking the next steps.

An immense power had entered the Dark Tower and had made himself visible, a might merely compared to the one of the Unnamed, but white. The stones seemed to sigh, an enormous weight having lain on their chests had vanished.

The wizard himself sensed his hope increasing, like a huge wave crashing onto his body. Pure water that drove out the blackness in his heart, returning light to it. Suddenly he was sure that he would find Aragorn alive, merely having to free him from his chains and then the three of them would return to Minas Tirith where Aragorn would be crowned as Elessar Telcontar of Gondor and Arnor, his own people giving him the name that had been foretold at his birth. The wizard could almost picture the man standing on an ornate balcony at the White Tower, the white jewels on his crown flashing in the early December sun. Arwen had her arms wound around his waist, both laughing happily at their people cheering to them. Gandalf's lips curved in a smile. Peace would finally return to the so long tortured lands of Middle-earth. Under Aragorn, Elessar, the new age would begin in concord.

With new faith Gandalf now hurried upwards. He knew that the top could not be far anymore now, an inner sense told him that, also urging him to hasten. Steps diminished to a blurring way under his feet, the wizard was almost running. He did not feel the speed, though. To him it still appeared too slow to be truly fast. For the first time since he had left the hall at the base of the tower, he passed one of the iron doors without opening it. He did not even hesitate to think about it, for him it was enough that he did not feel a breathing body behind it. Absently the wizard noticed this sharpening of his senses, the certainty in his heart. His whole mind was focused on going up and up and up…and suddenly Gandalf stumbled over another landing. His feet had become so used to the ever following steps that it was almost a shock to the wizard that there was none anymore.

With a flash in his eyes, Gandalf lifted his head, hoping that he might see how far from the top he still was. But there were no further steps leading upward, a stony wall with a mighty door was opposing him there where the staircase should have continued. Finally the wizard had reached the top of Barad-Dûr, his destiny since many days.

Nearly taken aback, Gandalf stood there, surveying his surroundings, sub-consciously wanting to get some more minutes ere having to open the iron door staring at him.

The passage had narrowed in the last few turns, and now the black walls were almost touching the wizard's sleeves, elbows and shoulders. The chilliness from before had also increased, wanting to pierce Gandalf's flesh, and a slight tremor ran down his spine. The stones were covered with a strange liquid that was no water, glimmering oddly in the light of his staff. Carefully he touched it, causing a prickle on his fingers, the skin getting cold and numb. Hastily he withdrew his hand again, staring at the fluid ere shaking his head.

Then Gandalf turned again, now facing the iron door that seemed to challenge him with a mocking grin. A hint of anger flashed through the wizard's eyes, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He knew that Aragorn would be behind this last barrier that separated him from his friend, but Gandalf did not feel well at this thought. Ever since he had learned about Aragorn's fate from Legolas, his heart had been in a constant turmoil: For the most time despair had ruled in it, but hope had ever and anon peaked through the thick layer of darkness. Now, in this very moment, the wizard did not know what exactly was on top. On the one side he felt that his friend had to be dead, that there was no other possibility, but on the other he had an even stronger feeling that Aragorn was alive.

'He cannot be dead,' Gandalf mused while staring at the door, 'too many people are relying on him. What would have happened to the Fellowship, if he had not been there to protect them? If he had died in Moria, killed by the Orcs or the Balrog? If his body had been pierced by the arrows instead of Boromir's? Alas, I do not even wish to think about it! Aragorn was the only one I could trust with leadership, and all of the others counted on him. He cannot have died, the good have to be rewarded and not punished with death! Alas, I do not want to delay further, too much time has already been wasted on our way!'

And with these final thoughts, Gandalf drew a deep breath as if to prepare himself of the things waiting for him behind the closed entrance. A sudden paleness was displayed on his features, his hand shaking slightly while reaching out to grab the iron bar bolting the door. Images of happier days, of Aragorn defending himself vigorously against a band of Orcs, of Aragorn discussing something with him, his face so earnest and solemn, and of the man smiling at Arwen, his expression so soft and gentle, flashed through the wizard's mind. The cold fingers of fear gripped on his neck. Again a deep intake of breath followed and with that, Gandalf pressed the bar back and pushed the door open.

A/N: Am I not evil?! Hm, I know, but I just couldn't hinder myself from stopping just at that moment when everything's gonna be revealed. Guesses are still allowed! Wanna know your opinion!