A/N: And there it is: I proudly (truly proudly) present chapter 16 – the long awaited revelation of Aragorn's fate. I hope that you'll like it; for weeks I didn't know how things finally would end, but since chapter 11 I have been determined to let it end like you'll read soon – I just thought it would be more suitable like that. So, I hope, I won't disappoint you, I really tried to have it sound as real as possible.

Great thanks to all my reviewers! You've been my hope and my encouragement! Love you all!!

As one of my most loyal reviewers recommended my story, I'll do so likewise with his: I truly love "Darkness of Mordor" by Snitter in Rivendell, and if you have enjoyed "Alda mi mornie", you'll probably like "DoM" as well. The most basic ideas are quite the same, but from there on there a totally different storyline evolves. Especially all those who have constantly asked me to write about Aragorn sooner will like "Darkness of Mordor, 'cause Snitter decided to build up excitement in another way. I think it to be very well done!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Shattered

The first thing the wizard noticed was a window at the exactly opposing wall. The night loomed in through it, bringing with it a soft glow of the stars. Their light was white, illuminating the stones upon it fell with a luminous shimmer. But only a small part of the chamber received the relieving shine, the other lay in dreadful darkness that even the gentle and innocent starlight could not surpass. An evil might have created this blackness to scare and torment the heart of any tortured even more.

It was cold.

The howling wind brought the chill of December through the never closed window, causing an icy temperature in the chamber. Blood was likely to freeze in the veins, his own cold breath touched Gandalf's cheeks.

Chains hung beside the window, of rusty iron, showing signs of frequent use. The wizard shivered at the thought of the many guiltless people that had had to suffer there, being at Sauron's mercy. 'Aragorn had hung there, either.' Gandalf trembled at this, but re-focusing on what he had actually been looking for. His friend.

His glance again found its way back to the window and the soft glow brought by the starlight. Slowly his eyes followed its trace on the walls and at the floor, suddenly tensing.

"Alas," he breathed out loudly. "Alas!"

Just where the last trace of the luminous shimmer touched the ground, hardly bringing light anymore, there lay a body.

Or at least it seemed so. Its upper part, the only visible, was waxen white, the other was hidden by dark shadows, swallowing the gleam. Gandalf thought that he could make out the outline of an arm lying on the naked skin.

Hardly breathing, the wizard drew closer, his steps so slow that he was barely moving at all. "Aragorn," he whispered, "Aragorn, my friend."

But the chamber remained silent, and the waxen body did not answer.

"Aragorn." Gandalf's voice again, hoarse and quiet. "Aragorn."

The wizard sank on his knees, for the first time realizing that he was right: It indeed was a body, waxen not only in the cold light of the stars. Black hair was covering the back of his head, falling on his shoulders, slightly moving with the icy wind.

"Aragorn."

And again no answer came.

The man was lying on his left side, his back towards Gandalf. His upper body was naked, the black leather breeches brutally torn. Aragorn was bare footed, his left arm pillowing his head, but desperately reaching out to touch the light.

His eyes were closed, an unbelievable expression of peace and relief softening his features. There was no pain evident on his face, mere release. Despite the dried blood staining the corners of his mouth, despite the dark bruises on his cheeks.

"Aragorn." This time something that came as close to a sigh as Gandalf would ever utter.

Gently the wizard touched Aragorn's right upper arm, the one that was laying over his right side, as if wanting to protect this exposed area of his body.

His skin was so white, so cold, so icy. For a short moment merely, Gandalf closed his eyes, looking old and drained. All hope had fled with the night wind, out of the window, broken by Mordor's malice.

Aragorn was dead.

A tear threatened to leave Gandalf's eyes, but he did not let it fall. Aragorn was dead. His friend had not survived. A man with a heart so pure had left this world.

Slowly the wizard sat down on the floor, crossing his legs, never daring to loose hold of Aragorn's skin. It was still so soft, yet all life had fled.

With an ever so gentle movement the Istari then turned his friend's body around, moving him onto his back, but never would he have him touch the cold ground more often than necessary. No, he took Aragorn in his arms, his upper body coming to rest on the wizard's chest. Gandalf was cradling him like a small child, pressing him against his own body as if trying to warm him. But it was of no use. Aragorn was dead.

Only now the wizard noticed the terrible wounds on the man's wrists, the welts on his stomach and chest, dried blood covering his whole upper body, arms and feet. There was no single spot on Aragorn's body that had stayed unscathed, had not received a blow, had not been whipped.

'Such terrible welts can only be caused by most brutal beating.'

Gently Gandalf stroked across Aragorn's arms, feeling the bones under the man's skin. He was certain that he had gotten hardly anything to eat for the past two weeks, so thin was the once strong warrior. With the pallor of his skin, the slashes on Aragorn's body became even more visible. Real pattern had been 'painted' on his torso, an ugly eye cut in the middle of his chest. Emerging blood had misshaped the clear lines, but it was still easy to make it out.

'They marked you, Aragorn, that was worse than anything else, wasn't it?' This question did not need any answer.

On the men's wrists was hardly enough flesh to cover the white bones lying underneath, the chains had cut him badly. The same were his ankles.

'There was nothing they did not try, was there? Did they pause at all? I do not want to know how long it took you to lose consciousness to forget the pain for a while. Long, certainly, I feel. Alas, I see your wounds and think 'Why could I not do anything to help you?' Did you die from the tortures or did you finally succumb to the darkness and refused to wake again? I will never know. But I feel that you have kept your dignity. Your arm reached out towards the light when I found you, on your face did you wear peace. You were not defeated by the Unnamed, or his servants, you might had even hope left. Otherwise you would not have longed for the soft glow of the stars or the bright rays of the sun.'

With an effort of will, Gandalf averted his eyes from his dead friend and turned them to the window, staring into the cold night. But there a twinkling star caught his gaze and he focused on it, finding relief. But only for a moment.

It was the evening star.

"Alas," Gandalf murmured. 'Undómiel, have you been watching all of your beloved's tortures? His pain? Did you have to? Alas, certainly you caused him even greater anguish by laughing at him with your white face! Ever did he have to think about you, Arwen. What could have tormented him worse? Nothing, I guess. All those hours of hurting and when he finally was left alone, he felt your mocking grin on his skin. Or did he see his hope in you? I do not know. Maybe by gazing at you he sensed that he was not alone, that there were friends who cared about him. Out there.

Do you believe that I am afraid of telling you of Aragorn's death? What will your reaction be, I wonder. Pure despair or will you pretend being strong? I fear that you will loose what Aragorn came to love about you: Your innocence and the inner fire burning in those blue eyes of yours. He often spoke of you, do you know that? In that very moment, 67 years ago, walking through the woods of Rivendell, you captured his heart and until now, you still have occupied every part of it. Certainly will you depart from Middle-earth with your father and your brothers, your lover not returning from a victorious war, and the time of your sailing westward will come soon, I deem. You will not wish to dwell here anymore, memories of him living in each room, in each wall, in each stone of Rivendell. Blissful memories of times that will never come back'

The wizard sighed softly. "And with Arwen the last of her kindred will leave, and gray and joyless will Middle-earth remain behind. The age of the Elves will come to an end, and so will ours either. With them we have lived and with them we will die. And when the Fourth Age will have come to its end, the Fair Kindred, the Ents, the Hobbits, the Dwarfes and the Dúnedain, which once roamed across the plains, will be forgotten and no memory will remain upon the land. Lothlórien and Rivendell will be abandoned and only the wind and the mountains will still remember our breath and spirit."

For some short heartbeats Gandalf pressed Aragorn's cold body even closer, wishing to comfort the dead man. Then he loosened the grip, and with a soft sigh he laid Aragorn on the icy floor, careful and gentle as if not wanting to hurt him further. The man's black hair cascaded down on his shoulders, creating a sharp contrast against his pallor. Some strands lingered on Aragorn's forehead. Lying across his lids, they made him looking vulnerable and young. Absentminded Gandalf noticed that Aragorn's beard had hardly grown in the time of his imprisoning, it was still scarcely more than stubble on his chin and cheeks. Deeply black.

Gently the wizard intertwined Aragorn's fingers on his stomach, cautiously avoiding to touch the ravaged wrists, and stroked softly across his brow, brushing a dark strand of hair behind his ear.

'He looks as if already buried,' came to Gandalf's mind, 'so calm, so peaceful. If there were no wounds on his body, you could think that he would merely sleep, waking soon to a fair morning after a night in Arwen's embrace.'

Never even averting his gaze from Aragorn's body the Istari fumbled a white piece of cloth out of a small pocket and opened his water-filled leather bag. With his friend's body being marred with dried blood, he was not able to carry him down to Legolas. It would take away Aragorn's innocence, stealing everything that had remained of the living man in that dead body.

Quickly Gandalf wetted the fabric with some water, put the bag away, and began washing off the bloody smears. Ever so gently he cleaned Aragorn's brow, wiped across his cheeks, and brushed over the chapped lips, a trace of red staining the white cloth.

Dark bruises stood sharply on the dead man's throat, telling of choking grips, of desperate attempts to suck precious air into tortured lungs – at the brink of consciousness, his body crying for oxygen.

Again Gandalf poured some water on the cloth, trying to wash the blood off Aragorn's chest, the fatigue reddening fast. Uncountable slashes covered his friend's torso, some deep, others mere scratches that had just sliced the skin. Brushing downwards, the wizard felt broken bones under his hand, ribs that had been cracked in violent beatings and had caused excruciating pain with each intake of breath. Gandalf still felt the urge to wrap leather strips tightly around Aragorn's chest, preventing him from damaging them even more and easing his friend's anguish.

But the man was dead. He was oblivious to Gandalf's gentle care, and would not mind it either way. Never would he feel any living being's touch again, whether soft or cruel, whether hating or loving.

Slowly the wizard cleaned Aragorn's arms, pouring some cool water over his forearms. Great amounts of blood had dried there, staining the white skin, having run down from cut veins in tortured wrists. Gandalf could still imagine it being warm, flowing freely, the vital liquid leaving Aragorn's body with each heartbeat, taking his life with it – uncaringly.

Small pools of red blood had formed next to Aragorn's body, telling of a slow and painful death. After he had finally lost his strength and had collapsed to the floor for one last time, it seemed to have taken hours for him to die, to leave his anguish behind. Certainly had he known that he would not be able to stand up again, that he would die where he had fallen. Aragorn had not even had some strips of cloth to wrap them around the most heavily bleeding slashes, the leather of his leggings was too resistant to be torn into pieces.

'He had to lie there for hours, consciously feeling the life leaving him, knowing that he could do nothing to prevent his death. Alas, he was not even given the mercy of a fast death after days of torture!'

None of the wounds would be life-threatening on its own – if it had been tended to. But the methods of injuring Aragorn had carefully been chosen to inflict as much pain as possible, never to relieve the tortured by dying soon.

However, there were no bloody fingerprints on the surrounding stones, no red smears telling of frantic movements in the throes of death. Aragorn seemed to have given in to his fate, not struggling anymore after he had realized the hopelessness of his situation. Gandalf felt another tear welling up in his eye, threatening to fall. His friend had not even continued to fight, he had surrendered to Sauron's torments, his soul not being able to take the pain any longer. He had died just like he had fallen, maybe just reaching out to touch the last traces of light shining into the chamber. To touch the evening star.

Gandalf sighed. It was a horrible picture that there was in front of his eyes, and he knew that he would never be able to forget it again. A child of the light that had had to die in the darkness, alone, in great pain, without anyone who had wrapped his arms around him during his last slow intakes of breath, who had given him comfort while his heart refused to go on beating. Maybe he had thought of Arwen, maybe he had even been able to imagine her being at his side, or he just lain there – unable to think anymore, mere hate and anguish in his clear eyes until they had closed to spare Gandalf the terror he would have felt at looking into this lifeless gray. The wizard sighed again. He would not be able to remain here forever, staring at his dead friend's body, he had to return to Legolas waiting outside Barad-Dûr.

"The Elf has to know what has happened to Aragorn," Gandalf murmured quietly, "he is waiting there anxiously to learn about his friend's fate, and I do not return to tell him. Alas, I do not want to smash his hopes and confirm his worst fears!"

He again looked at Aragorn. Still, the serene and quiet expression on his features made Gandalf wonder. 'Maybe,' he thought almost helplessly, 'I was wrong, and his death was not as dreadful as I am imagining. There is too great peace on his face to have died in mere pain and agony. Was it mere relief to escape the torture?'

Once more pressing Aragorn's body tightly to his chest, the wizard once more lifted his head to look at the evening star twinkling bright in the dark sky.

'Might you have brought him relief in his last hours, minutes?' appeared in his mind, still trying to deny the thought of his friend dying in greatest suffering. 'Did you make his love appear in front of his inner eye? Made her caressing his face? Brushing through his hair? Easing his thirst with cool water from fair hands? Alas, what would I give had it been like this!'

Taking an almost shaky breath, Gandalf loosened his grip on Aragorn and reached up to his own throat to untie his gray cloak. The Istari could not have stood carrying Aragorn hardly clothed down through the dark passage, through the vast hall with having to look at the reminders of the cruel tortures the man had been enduring. And after all, a hidden part of his mind still told him not to have Aragorn shiver and freeze. It had become cold in the Dark Tower.

Quickly had he undone the few strings fastening it to his neck and taking it ere it could fall to the floor, the wizard ever so gently wrapped it around Aragorn's naked torso, covering the slashes, the welts. The Red Eye, however, did not disappear under the warm fatigue, it still marked the man's body in the most possessive way.

Gandalf inhaled deeply, and then almost slapped himself mentally. He had nearly forgotten the first thing he had wanted to do when having found Aragorn: Giving him back Arwen's token. His hand trembling slightly, the Istari fumbled the man's necklace out of a small pocket, and lifting his friend's head carefully, he slowly fastened it around his neck. The silver pendant grazed Aragorn's chest, resting just above the Red Eye cut into his skin. Light and darkness seemed to duel for a moment, then the shadow appeared to have lost. The Elvish 'A' reflected the starlight, creating a luminous shimmer on Aragorn's chest.

"Your star is with you again," Gandalf said in a low voice, tucking another strand of dark hair behind a pale ear. "It did not leave you. It never would."

With these final words, the Istari put his left arm under Aragorn's back and lifted his upper body, the man's head lolling against the wizard's shoulder. Then placing his other hand in the hollow of Aragorn's knees, Gandalf stood up, breathing heavily. Surprisingly light, his friend was safely in his arms and waited to be returned to the fair world. Smiling sadly at his serene face, Gandalf turned and left the chamber which had brought so much suffering to Aragorn with slow and calm steps.

Never would a living being enter the Dark Tower again. It would decay with the millennia passing until no stone remained to tell of the unbelievable malice that had dwelt there once, long ago.

A/N: Just two more things: First, I would like you to tell me whether you would have preferred to see Aragorn survive, and secondly, if I have met your expectations for this chapter.

Ah, and third *g*: Don't worry, there'll be some another chapters to follow. This is NOT the end!