Chapter 5

-o0o-

Elladan's patience was running thin. The corridors in front of him stretched endlessly, never changing, a terrible, sickening maze, designed to confuse, to confound, to ensnare. And he had fallen into its trap.

For minutes now, hours maybe, he had wandered the corridors, increasingly agitated, desperate to get back to his brothers. But he could not find them. There was no way to another path that would take him back to the other side of the mirror that had so suddenly severed him from his brothers, no way to even know whether he was walking in circles making no headway at all.

He cursed.

There was no doubt that an enchantment rested on these halls, probably on the entire Morgul tower - it was what kept him from his brothers. Concern was increasing in equal steps with his annoyance for he knew his brothers were in danger. He could feel his twin's anxious worry, could feel the faint echo of injuries that Elrohir had sustained. His brothers had been attacked and he had not been able to help them.

The mirror, or whatever enchantment it had been, had swallowed all sound, all light. It had been impervious to his attempts to break it, to splinter it into a million pieces and let him be reunited with his brothers. His fists were still aching with the raw, blunt force of being repeatedly smashed against the smooth, cold surface. But the mirror had not budged.

He had been forced to give up, to find a different path and had been wandering aimlessly for an eternity, frustrated, worried, useless. Elrohir and Aragorn needed him. The thought ate at him, inflaming the anger he felt, the rage towards the Nazgûl who were to blame, who had caused them so much trouble ever since they had first arrived in Minas Tirith.

The thought brought a sting of pain from the wound in his side, the wound that should have healed entirely by now but that frustratingly, persistently, continued to cause him pain. It reacted to the presence of the foul master of the Morgul blade that had carved the wound, that had carved a connection of sorts.

A connection…

Elladan halted at the thought. Could it be?

He closed his eyes, willing his frustration and worry to a dark corner of his mind, clearing his awareness and limiting it only to the persistent throb in his side. The pain was constant but it was not unchanging - it fluctuated, coming and going in what he had assumed was a random pattern, related to his movements perhaps or his own growing anxiety.

But it was not so. It reacted to the presence of the Nazgûl, was stronger where they were near, where their dark power hung like a choking miasma over the corridors. And it was stronger in some areas than in others.

Not even opening his eyes he followed his instincts, followed the pain, ever deeper into the maze, down corridors that he would otherwise have assumed would lead him back to where he had come from, taking turns that seemed to take him nowhere, but were in truth correct. He was making progress. He could not quite explain the knowledge, the feeling that he was finally on the right path, but with the slight increase in pain in his injured side, came a heightened pressure on his mental defenses, a stronger feel to the evil that ruled this place.

Elladan persevered. And when he finally opened his eyes he found himself in front of a large stairwell. At last he had found the center of the maze. The very darkness of the Nazgûl had shown him the way. He had come to find his brothers and found the lords of the tower instead. Still, he had a feeling that as long as he was moving towards danger he was moving closer to his brothers as well - they had a knack for finding trouble. Smiling a humorless smile he took the steps up towards the top, passing like a silent shade.

And there, as if conjured by his grim prediction, only a few steps up the winding staircase, lying in a silent corner but sparkling in an errant beam of light, was the Ring of Barahir.

Elladan's breath hitched, his heart stuttered. Aragorn!

It was the sign of his brothers' passing that he had hoped to find and it was the fulfillment of his greatest fears. His brother had come up these steps - and he had not gone willingly. There was no further sign of struggle, or of blood, but the ring was proof enough. It was all the information he needed.

Elladan gripped the hilt of his sword hard, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat. At least he now knew he was in the right place. Stopping only to retrieve the ring, he hurried up the steps.

-o0o-

The orcs' pursuit was relentless; Their steps, their slavouring breaths, their enraged howls a constant companion as he ran through the corridors, evading their grasping hands, the foolish attacks of the faster ones. They had tried to trip him, to grasp for his legs, but their uncoordinated attacks had given him easy targets, had barely slowed him as he severed limbs from bodies and heads from necks, never slowing down.

And still they came. There were fewer of them now, their numbers thinned by their own recklessness, their lack of strategy and restraint, and Elrohir knew it was time to strike back.

He needed to get back to Estel, needed to find a way to reunite with Elladan, and if the orcs were to stand between him and those goals then he would remove them. Permanently.

A corner approached and Elrohir threw himself into a sharply turning side passage at the last second. The orcs stumbled, collided as their own momentum tried to carry them further, past the opening and down in a straight line. It gave him the time he needed. He turned, raised his sword and attacked.

Jumping forward he landed right in the disorganized center of flailing orc limbs and a crescendo of curses uttered in the dark speech. Exposed sides and stomachs were easy targets for his glistening mithril blade and he let it bite deep, let it drink of the foul liquid that it was ever calling for. In the darkness of Minas Morgul it was easy, so very easy, to conjure the familiar rage, the burning hatred, he held for all orcs. It washed over him like the dark miasma of this place, like the dark hiss of the Nazgûl through the palantir - "Orc Slayer" indeed.

His breath was heavy and his bright blade drenched in dark blood by the time it was done. But eventually, blessedly, there was only silence. The rush of blood in his ears, the adrenaline, the lust for battle was slow to fade, slow to shake, as if the fortress itself was forcing the dark emotions on him, but he persevered. Finding his brothers - that was what mattered.

He turned back towards the corridor he had come from, prepared to try and retrace the winding steps he had taken to get here, hoping that the scattered bodies of orcs would mark his path, when something caught his attention. It was faint, but it was there. A rumble of sound, like that made by many voices and amidst it, for a brief second, the unmistakable sound of a human scream. Estel!

All carefully crafted plans forgotten, he hefted his sword and turned the other way. Following the ever increasing noise deep into the bowels of the Morgul tower.

-o0o-

His return to consciousness was not gentle. Aragorn woke to find himself restrained, tied to a heavy stone chair with strong leather bounds. His head throbbed mercilessly and even the weak light of the lone candle that lit the room stung his eyes.

A shadow moved next to the candle, stepping closer and eventually taking the shape of a man. A Southron by the darkness of his skin, and the styling of his hair. Red lines of old scars, colorfully painted, ran across his cheekbones and on his forehead, dead center, was the mark of Sauron, the lidless eye.

Aragorn swallowed thickly against the sudden taste of bile, the wave of fear that rushed through him. All of Elrohir's fears, the bleak predictions the younger twin had clung to on their way to Umbar, that had let the guilt he had felt after Minas Tirith fester, seemed to have come to pass. The enemy had found him! Aragorn had made light of the warnings then, had offered his brother the forgiveness he deserved, the forgiveness he had needed. Truthfully, Aragorn had not thought it likely that Denethor, even in his spite and anger, would willingly betray a secret so important, would jeopardize a potential weapon against the Dark Lord. Not if there was a chance that Denethor might yet play him like a pawn.

Now it seemed that he had been a fool to underestimate the danger, to willingly come to the stronghold of the enemy, of the very power that sought to exterminate him and his entire line for ever.

But the man in front of him said nothing, he merely took up the candle from the corner and brought it closer, mustering him. What he thought Aragorn could not fathom, there was nothing in the bleak empty gaze of the man. The Southron gave a brief nod, then turned abruptly and left the room.

Aragorn was left alone.

But despite the reprieve, despite the moment he had been granted to gather his thoughts, to make sense of the situation or to plan an escape, his mind was scattered. His fears still ran rampant, still taunted him with what might come next, with what the servants of Sauron would do to him. Especially if they truly knew just who he was. His eyes drifted to his left hand, to where the Ring of Barahir was proudly, foolishly, decorating his hand, loudly proclaiming his birthright to anyone with enough knowledge of lore to understand.

He found it missing.

A terrible fear seized him then, worse even than the shapeless dread conjured by the Nazgûl. They had found it! His life was already forfeit.

Fear engulfed him, choked him, cut through both, his rational mind and the hope in his heart with a terrible finality. All his hopes, his plans, his purposes were coming undone. This would be the end.

The door opened.

"Welcome!" The voice of the man, the creature, that entered the room was a ghostly hiss, poison made sound, a promise of his certain and painful demise. The cloud of fear intensified, a physical entity that seemed to rob him off breath, that allowed for no breath of air, no sound to pass his lips.

A simple, varnished crown rested atop the black hood of the Nazgûl as it came closer, looking at him with its faceless gaze. Its hood contained nothing - only a haunting, empty darkness prevailed beneath the folds of heavy black cloth.

The witchking of Angmar.

Aragorn had heard the stories, had read the histories, knew about the fate and power of the Nazgûl, but nothing, not even the attack on the shore of Harnen had prepared him for this encounter. The fear that oozed from the leader of the ringwraiths was all encompassing, irresistible, it drowned his mind in darkness, laughed at his ambitions, smote his hopes. This was his executioner, come to claim his soul.

How could he have ever hoped to stand against this power? Against the might of Mordor? This mission - his destiny - all of it had been doomed before he had ever been born. His existence was pointless, meaningless, before the power that was now unveiled.

The ringwraith lifted a hand and Aragorn's muscles seized, a terrible shockwave of pain seared along his nerves, setting his body on fire. He would have shouted in agony if he had not been clenching his teeth together so tightly, if he had had any breath to spare.

The witchking lowered his hands and Aragorn slumped forward, breathing deeply, for the first time finding that he could. He gulped down the stale air like a drowning man, desperate, weak, reduced to nothing.

"Who are you?" The hissed question took him by surprise. It almost made him laugh at the irony. It almost made him weep in relief at the realization that his fears had proven unfounded. It almost made him want to answer the witchking's question, to beg the creature to just end it all.

What it did instead was ignite a spark. He would not give the Nazgûl what it sought. He would not go down without a fight.

Another terrible current of energy tore through him, making his muscles lock up and his jaw snap shut with enough force to bruise. But the witchking lowered his hand quickly, displeased but restricted by his own ambitions. He needed Aragorn, needed him conscious, needed him to answer his questions.

The wraith came closer, cocking his head in mock interest, like the one shown to a pet, or a critter that had suddenly appeared on one's doorstep. The silence stretched, long and uncomfortable and Aragorn could feel his skin crawl, his breath hitch, could feel the cold grasp of the undead in front of him make a bid for his soul.

Then the Nazgûl moved. It turned its head, sniffed the air, getting a sense of Aragorn, a taste. And with a start Aragorn realized that the Nazgûl could not see him, not truly. It had no eyes in this realm, only a vague form, held together by the coat it wore.

Still, apparently it had a nose. "The stench of the half elves is on you. Where are they?"

Aragorn shuddered at the closeness of the wraith, at the anger and dread that spilled from him. But he would not betray his brothers, never, even if he had known where they were.

He remained stoically silent and the witchking hissed, a dark, dreadful threat. A warning to be heeded or to pay the consequences, but Aragorn cared not. The Nazgûl raised its hand once more, once again unleashing the torturous current that ran through his body, setting his nerves aflame. Aragorn screamed, but he did not answer. And his reward was the unconcealed annoyance in his captor's voice, in the disgruntled exhale of the wraith.

"You," the witch king hissed low, "are inconsequential. Feeble, powerless, destined for nothing. I can see great aspiration in you, hope, but you will falter, crumble and die. Like all mortals, like the lords of Minas Tirith in their arrogance, and the lands of the west in their petty disputes.

Whatever madness drove you here, will be your undoing. You will die, unsung, unmourned, leaving nothing in this world, no mark, no memory. Those that you think you love will be better off for it."

His words dripped a dangerous poison, a call that would be heeded, that could not be escaped. In the darkness of the tower, with the witchking beside him, how could these words not be true? This was going to be his end. And what had he achieved? Nothing! And now he never would.

Denethor had been right, even if he should have ever attempted to claim the crown of Gondor, who would have stood beside him? Who would have backed and supported him? No one.

And if he died here, alone, sundered from his family and from her, then was that not better? Arwen had lived many lifetimes without him, she would persevere once he was gone. What was more, without him she would not be sundered from her family, would instead be reunited with her mother one day in the distant West. She would find eternal happiness in a land beyond pain. Who was he to deny her that? How could he have ever thought he deserved to try, that he deserved her?

He was no leader, no king, not worthy of a woman such as her.

The future held only darkness for all Middle Earth. It was better that Arwen would be safe beyond its touch. Beyond his touch.

The Nazgûl hissed, a sound that reverberated in his bones, that pierced his soul and tore it to shreds, laughing at his insignificant defenses, at his feeble defiance. With another wave of his hand the pain returned, bringing a quantum of release from the mental anguish as all sensation was swallowed by the blinding, physical pain.

"All your ambitions will come to nothing, human. You will die. Hope is a lie."

Abruptly, the witchking turned, its black cloak billowing behind it as it swerved on the spot, leaving with two long strides. He left only darkness behind.

-o0o-

A/N: My fingers are still stained from painting the bathroom floor and I only yesterday returned from my work trip (spending 14 hours in the road and in the air) but I did post on Monday! Hurray for me! And I come bearing gifts - or at least all three of our heroes in this chapter. I did listen to all the complains about Elladan missing last week :D
With that in mind - thank you so much to everyone who left a review, without you I might not have found the energy to post this week (accountability is a real thing :D)