Chapter 8
-o0o-
Aragorn ran. Amid the raging turmoil of his thoughts, the raw, violent upheaval of his emotions that was the one thing he could safely focus on. Run! A single command, given to him by his eldest brother, a simple instruction for his body to obey. His mind was not truly aware, his thoughts sluggish, his mind still hiding from the onslaught of the Nazgûl's attack and the bitter truths it had whispered.
He did not second guess how Elladan had found him, how he had kept the Nazgûl at bay long enough for them to escape. In times of danger, follow Elladan's orders, it was almost a reflex by now, a fail safe. It was all his tattered thoughts could manage.
Except… There was a brief flicker of awareness, of focus and Aragorn slowed his steps. The corridor he had run down was dark, barely lit even by the pale glow of the unlight of Minas Morgul, and it was deserted. There was no sound of voices, of whispers, of footsteps - there was no sound of Elladan following!
The realization was a blinding light that cut through the fog around his brain. He was alone. Elladan was gone! How long had he been running alone? Without the sound of following footsteps behind him? Had Elladan even left the chamber in which he had been imprisoned?
In his heart Aragorn knew the answer. The Nazgûl had wanted to know his identity, but even more they had wanted to know where the sons of Elrond were. They had wanted his brothers, not him. Elrohir had been wrong. The witchking had said it himself, he, Aragorn, was inconsequential, ambitious but without purpose. Useless.
Hope was a lie. And Hope had delivered Elladan straight into the Nazgûls' grasp.
Aragorn clenched his fists, fighting the fresh tears that were threatening to spill. Despair would not aid him now. Once again he had brought danger and misery to his family. But this time he would set things right. He would free Elladan.
The resolve gave him new strength, new focus, and he looked around himself, desperately trying to remember his heedless flight through the winding corridors. He had to get back!
Turning back the way that he had come, he took the first cautious step and even as he did it seemed to him that there was a light shining at the end of the hall and a strange pull was on his limbs, urging him forward. Something was calling to him, faintly at first but ever more insistent the closer he came, a whisper of understanding, a promise of power; the power to set things right.
Worry for Elladan fought with the despair of knowing that he was facing certain failure, that any rescue attempt was doomed from the start; But the pull in front of him spoke of a solution to both. It would help him set his brothers free, it would expel the ringwraiths from Minas Morgul and restore Gondor to its rightful glory, restore his kingdom to him. It had the power to do so, a power that was made for him, called to him, that wanted him. No longer would he be inconsequential and disregarded.
Aragorn came to an open doorway that led into a brighter room, lit not with green corpse light but instead with flickering torches. Their dancing light revealed a pedestal in the middle of the room, about chest high, smooth as if made from polished marble but black as deepest night. And on its face there rested a single golden ring bearing a square yellow stone.
It called to him. Not with words, not with whispers that echoed in his mind, but with an overwhelming sense of urgency, with a desire to be used. To be wielded by worthy hands. His hands. Oh the strength it would give him. Power to overcome his enemies, to throw down even the Nazgûl themselves, for what was one of the Nine against one of the Seven?
Yes, Aragorn recognized the ring and knew it for what it was - and he recalled the warnings he had been taught.
He stepped back, away from the ring, searching for the exit, for a way out of this room.
It had vanished.
He cursed.
Sweat beaded on his brow, both from his flight down the dark corridor and from the relentless pressure on his mind, the dark weight that was the Morgul tower. Against his will almost, Aragorn turned back to the pedestal and the ring. It sang to him still, conjuring in his mind's eye scenes of great victory, of Minas Morgul ground down, of Ithilien cleansed, of Denethor put in his rightful place. The wealth and glory he would bring to Minas Tirith, to Gondor, the riches he would amass.
'Four of the Seven were devoured by dragon fire', the distant voice of his father came to him then, a soft whisper of a long forgotten memory. 'Attracted by the very riches the rings had helped their bearers to amass.'
He was not sure if it was the lecture or simply the calm voice of his father's remembered words that silenced the siren's song of the ring. He desired no riches, desired neither glory nor kingship that he had not earned. The rings - all but the Three - brought naught but destruction and doom. And he had brought enough of that to his family already.
With firm resolve he turned around once more, turning his back on the ring, on the trap, the temptation. But even as he did so, the ring's call changed. Subtle at first but insistent it created new images, new promises. Minas Morgul defeated and his brothers safe, the valleys around Imladris cleansed, Arwen by his side in a Minas Tirith that would be unconquerable, undefeatable, that would keep her safe.
Perhaps he could undo the damage he had inflicted on his adopted family, could heal the hurts he had caused, diminish the pain he would cause them still. Aragorn closed his eyes against the new images, the promises of the ring mingling with the poison of the Nazgûl, offering him a way to absolution. A single tear tracked down his cheek and as he opened his eyes to blink it away, to clear his vision he noticed that he had turned once more, had stepped closer to the pedestal and the treacherous ring, his hand lifted towards it.
He dropped the hand as if burned. No! He would not take it! Not to increase his strength and buy him Gondor, not even to defeat all the foes of his brothers if that were possible. He would find a different way out of here, a different way back to Elladan, a way to save him. And together they would …
His thoughts were interrupted by a terrible, anguished sound, a scream torn from tortured lips. Elladan!
Before his mind could react his hand had already snatched the ring from the pedestal. It slid onto his finger with ease, filling the empty space that the Ring of Barahir had left behind.
Power exploded in his spirit, his senses grew, the world shifted.
Everything changed - and nothing did.
Aragorn was himself still, but a new strength seemed to flow through his veins, bringing refreshment to his exhausted mind and power to his depleted limbs.
And around him the tower had changed. The walls were no longer dark, no longer illuminated with a dreary green unlight, but instead they burned fiercely, a bright white. The door was back but it seemed inconsequential for he could look past doors and walls through the entire tower, from highest peak to deepest dungeon. He perceived the ring wraiths as ghostly shadows, revealed in their corpse-like form, abominations that clung to a non-life rather than accept the gift of Illuvatar.
He also saw his brothers.
Their fëar were unmistakable amid the dark spirits that inhabited these halls. They were shining stars in a tempestuous sea of darkness, valiant, defiant - and dimming.
He could still feel the reverberating echo of Elladan's shout but now that he could see he realized that it was not Elladan who needed his help most dearly.
In the depths of the tower, deep beneath its foundations, Elrohir was a glimmering, stuttering light. He was stumbling, weakened, held up by the dark, detestable shapes of three orcs and tears stained his fëa and his cheeks like silvery beads. Elrohir was barely conscious, barely aware of what was about to happen. The orcs jeered, the cavern he was in filled with shouts, with excitement, with a sick expectation.
The large, looming shape in front of Elrohir raised a sharp-edged sword.
Aragorn drew in a sharp breath - and the power of the ring responded.
It sang in a sudden high-pitched note, blinded him with a glaring light and suddenly he was not at the top of the tower at all but in the cavern, upon the raised dais, the would-be execution platform, beside Elrohir, and his brother's name was on his lips. A scream of denial, of rage, of despair. A scream given terrible shape, irresistible force, by the ring he wore on his finger.
The nearest orc was torn to shreds by the strength of it. Blood splattered and was carried onward, deeper into the cavern, ahead of a mighty force - a wave of his rage. It was a boom of thunder that splintered shields, a gale wind that tore off limbs, that rent the flesh and wreaked destruction. The enemies closest to the dais were killed, the ones further back were driven to their knees.
Black blood mingled with red as he brought death to the armies of the Morgul tower, as he taught them a lesson they would not soon forget. Panicked shouts and screams of pain fell on deaf ears as they were drowned out by the glorious hum of the power that rushed in his veins, intoxicating, liberating, just. He would see them all destroyed!
Beside him, and bereft of the orcs that had held him up, Elrohir collapsed. Aragorn hesitated, the power died. He ached to rush over to his brother, to help Elrohir, but the grip of the dwarven ring on his raging emotions was still strong, compassion was not its interest, power was. And Elrohir was not aware of his presence, the younger twin's hold on consciousness still precarious at best. There was only one word on Elrohir's lips: a prayer, a desperate plea, a solemn promise. "Elladan."
Elladan.
Aragorn halted mid step as the fire of the ring roared to life once more. Elladan!
His gaze snapped up, back towards the top of the tower, to the room that had been his prison and his torture chamber and that was now both to his oldest brother. He still had work to do.
The song of the ring's power wove around him and in the blink of an eye, one beat of his heart, he was at the top of the tower, cloaked in unrestrained anger and raw wrath. Elladan was on the floor, writhing in agony, his head cradled in his hands as if it might shatter without the outside force. Mute words fell from his shaking lips, too silent to be heard, but clearly a denial, and despite the obvious pain Elladan was in, his silver eyes still held a fierce defiance. They would sooner kill his brother than break him, of that Aragorn was certain, at least now that he had saved Elrohir. Or had he? For a brief moment doubt stirred within him. He had eradicated the orcs, had slaughtered the southrons, but before he could check on the collapsed form of the younger twin he had been forced to leave, to save Elladan, to cause more destruction.
The power of the ring wove around him, glaring, bright, overpowering - and his doubt fled. He still had an enemy to defeat, another brother to save.
Leaning over Elladan, reaching ghostly hands towards his brother's shaking form as if in mockery of an embrace, of a cruel, twisted version of intimacy, was one of the ringwraiths - a white specter, a Nazgûl uncloaked. Unlike his brother's spirits the wraith did not glow with an inner light, but held an air of foul decay, not giving but draining from the world that which was good and right.
He recognized the feel of it then; It was the very Nazgûl that had tracked Elrohir, that had stabbed Elladan, the ringwraith they had defeated on the shores of the Harnen. And Aragorn would defeat it again.
He screamed, calling upon the power of the yellow stone in the golden ring, upon the power wrought by Celebrimbor and Annatar, the Lord of Gifts. Sauron. And as the thought, weak though it was, registered, it almost seemed to Aragorn that there was laughter, dark and joyful, in the wave of power that surged forth, that crashed into the specter of the disembodied Nazgûl and tore it away like a leaf on the wind, white wisps of its ghostly form unraveling in a tempest. He paid it no heed.
The remaining Nazgûl were close. Aragorn could see them, feel them, but they hesitated, remaining at the edge of the circle he had cleared around himself, watching, waiting, quailing. They dared not approach him, would not test their meager power against his. They were weak.
He ached to attack them, to overthrow them. The ring still sang of power, of destruction, of enemies thrown down and birthrights claimed. Of Gondor uplifted and Mordor razed, with Minas Morgul to fall first. But Aragorn would not leave a second time without making sure that his brother was safe.
With force he dragged his mind back from the rage of combat, from the promises of the power he now wielded. The echo of dark laughter, perhaps conjured by the ring, perhaps Sauron's, perhaps his own, still hung in the air.
It only intensified when he took a step towards Elladan and his brother recoiled.
-o0o-
"Elladan", the name fell like a plea from his lips, a lifeline, a mission. A reason to force his aching limbs to support him, to stagger to his feet and ignore the wave of vertigo that assaulted him.
"Elladan", the air around him seemed to answer in a voice he vaguely recognized. But there was no one there. No one to see once his eyes finally focused.
When they did they revealed nothing save carnage.
In a circle around him everything, everyone, seemed to have been torn down. Blood covered the floor around the stage he was on like a black and red mire. It squelched as his boots sank into it almost to his ankles, a thick, congealing mass that sucked at his legs, unwilling to let him go, to let anything alive escape.
He had seen his fair share of bloody outcomes of battle, had caused a fair few of them, but this was different. Not least because of the torn-off limbs, the grasping, dismembered hands that floated among the blood. Hands and fingers that were eerily human, and yet indiscriminately mixed between orc hides and disfigured claws. All inextricably part of the same thick, sticky mass. Further into the cave, farther away from him, people and orcs alike were still alive, some moaning weakly, fighting against unconsciousness or death, others already calling for revenge.
Clearly whatever had happened, he had been at the epicenter of it all. It was a miracle that he had survived.
And yet…
The feeling of the force that had intervened, seemingly on his behalf, the answering voice he had thought he had heard when he had breathed his twin's name - there had been something about it, something familiar. Something bright and pure despite the malice and the wanton destruction that it had wreaked. Something untainted, Elrohir would have said, if not for the fact that it had unleashed a wave of anger and hatred so powerful, so profound, not even he and Elladan had been able to conjure its likeness seven hundred years ago in the Redhorn pass.
But his head was still swimming, darkness was still teasing the edges of his visions and his bond with Elladan was still screaming. This mystery would have to wait. He needed to move, needed to get out of here and get to his twin before the survivors within the cave decided to come for him. The orcs that had been further from the center podium were already moving to their feet, already shouting in their foul language, rattling their scimitars searching for something to fight, someone to kill. It was only when another set of shouts, closer and fairer, reached his ears that Elrohir understood that they were not coming for him at all.
The prisoners from Gondor were fighting. With weapons drenched in blood, clearly taken from the gore that was the remains of their erstwhile captors, they charged, battle cries ringing in the cavern as they fought for their freedom, fought for redemption, for revenge. Elrohir thought he recognized some of them from the brief glances of the prisoners he had helped escape. Perhaps they had freed their compatriots.
He wished he could stay, fight with them, take some responsibility for having set them free amid a hall filled with bloodthirsty enemies, but he needed to get to Elladan. For better or for worse, the overwhelming force that had set ruin to these caverns had done more already than Elrohir could ever have hoped to offer these men.
He made for the stairs. But before he could reach their bottom edge, a Gondorian prisoner was suddenly at his side and even though it took Elrohir precious moments to get his vision to focus, to get his memory to cooperate he was sure he had seen this man before. The actions of the prisoner confirmed it further.
"Thank you," the man breathed and pressed something hard and cold into Elrohir's hand, something he belatedly realized was his discarded mithril sword. Then the man turned, off to join his companions, his country men, in their revolt against the southron and orc armies of Minas Morgul. Or perhaps to look for a way out, a safe passage to freedom and survival.
Elrohir did not stay to find out. He did not try to think through the pain and the fog that was clouding his mind and relied solely on his other senses, on the insistent pull on his bond with Elladan, the overwhelming urge to reach his twin. The men of Gondor had a chance now, more than they had had before and as Elrohir reached the bottom of the steps and hurried up, as he stumbled through endless corridors, and up innumerable flights of stairs, he let that calm the guilt he felt for abandoning them.
They would prevail, but Elladan needed him now.
-o0o-
Time had lost all meaning. Time had stopped, had forsaken him, had left him suspended in eternal misery without a chance of respite. Pain burned through Elladan's side, lancing into him like the Morgul blade had done on the shores of Harnen, white-hot and blinding.
His throat was raw from the screams of pain that he had not been able to suppress and still the pain continued, still it burned. He had lost track of the Nazgûl and its faceless gaze, its merciless shape that betrayed no emotions, no interest as it tortured him with a mere wave of its incorporeal hand.
They had been fools to ever have come here. To wantonly step inside the Nazgûls' own realm, to seek out the terrors of Minas Morgul. This was no less than he deserved for bringing his brothers here.
Then suddenly the pain stopped. Elladan gasped, his body momentarily startled by the absence of pain, still reeling from the aftereffects of it, from the torture that had lasted a lifetime.
What came next was worse.
He could not see the wraith as it reached out for him, uncloaked it was invisible to his eyes that had never beheld the light of Aman - but he could feel its touch all the clearer. Darkness exploded between his temples, anguish, and even though the ringwraith had no substance in this world, no shape, no mass, he could feel its fingers as they bored into his skull, as they held his head and squeezed.
He screamed again but no sound escaped his wounded throat.
Yet now, alongside the physical pain, alongside the terrible agony was an even more wicked misery. The Nazgûl was probing his mind, was invading his thoughts and memories with effortless, indifferent cruelty. Between the grip of the Nazgûl's hand his mind was unmade, his darkest thoughts and deepest fears laid bare, his secrets revealed.
No! He could not reveal what he knew about the Ring of Barahir, about the elven Rings of Power. He would not yield.
Images flickered in front of his mind's eye, conjured by the perverse touch of the ringwraith, by its groping attempts to tease the knowledge from his brain despite his resistance. Images of their mother in chains, of the Halls of Healing in the gray light of a dawn that brought no hope. Images of orcs slain, of wading through the blood of his enemies fueled by a rage that would never extinguish. Images of the terrible retribution of the forces of Sauron in turn, of men, friends, slaughtered, of Arathorn, his eye impaled with the barbed arrow of the orcs. Images of Elrohir, broken, injured, in chains in the dungeons of Minas Tirith.
The same evil, the very same Nazgûl had touched his brother, had invaded his mind and torn down his defenses.
Hatred flared inside him, burning with a fire even brighter than the pain, and it kindled the dying embers of resistance within him. This wraith had dared to harm his twin! His rage sparked a surge of energy, a fortification to his mental defenses. Elladan snapped his eyes open and pushed the Nazgûl's influence out of his head.
The Nazgûl hissed - and then it screamed.
A wave of dark energy washed through the room, a sudden, potent, deadly force that barrelled into the Nazgûl, shredding it to pieces, dispersing its ghostly tendrils, unmaking it. Even the other Nazgûl, still cloaked but lingering at the edges of the room, cowered. Their screams were of anger and denial - but they did not approach. The power washed over Elladan, something raw and dark, yet not altogether alien.
Surprisingly, it left him unharmed.
Elladan's sudden freedom of thought and the absence of pain left his mind reeling, momentarily stunned. What had happened? Something momentous had shifted, that much was certain, some new evil had entered the tower and set its might against the Nazgûl. A thing of hatred, of ambition, of despair. A power that sought destruction. A dark force that had come to destroy the ringwraiths.
But then, to his horror, it turned its thoughts away from them and moved towards him. Elladan reacted on instinct alone. His limbs were still weak but he struggled to move regardless, to escape this new devilry, to get away. He scrambled backwards, a laughable attempt at escape, a futile token of defiance. Before this new darkness there could be no escape, and still he tried.
He had just overcome the Nazgûl's touch, he would not now be taken by another evil.
And despite his feeble, ineffective attempt at escape, he was not pursued. There was a hesitation in the air, a moment of confusion, of doubt - and something about that feeling was dreadfully familiar. Yet before Elladan could ponder the notion, before he could examine it further, a terrible scream rent the air. The Nazgûl!
Fury was in their voices. Rage and a desire, no, a demand, for destruction, for suffering. With difficulty Elladan turned his head to look at the clustered shapes of the empty, black robes, the ringwraiths, cornered but not defeated. And even as Elladan looked at him, the witchking lunged
- and was repelled.
A fresh current of air tore through the chamber, flinging the Nazgûl back, howling through the chamber, pressing Elladan to the ground with its sheer force. It built in strength, raging, swirling, intensifying into a terrible maelstrom until the walls rumbled, until the ground shook and the very foundations of the tower wavered.
The Nazgûl fled.
Elladan was left behind.
-o0o-
tbc...
A/N: First of all: Thank you all so much for all the feedback and reviews for the last chapter. I am so excited to hear you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it and I am entirely unapologetic about the suspense and anxiety the cliffhanger may have induced.
This week's ending is much tamer (especially since I decided you all deserved a long chapter and therefore did not end it right after the Aragorn scene, which would have been a very fine ending for this chapter as well).
As to the events of this chapter - I am definitely using fanfiction writer freedom here, since information on (especially) the seven rings of the dwarves is sparse. I base the power of the ring mostly on the fact that the Nine were possibly giving men the ability to become great sorcerers:
-"Those who used the Nine Rings became mighty in their day, kings, sorcerers, and warriors of old. They obtained glory and great wealth, yet it turned to their undoing. They had, as it seemed, unending life, yet life became unendurable to them. They could walk, if they would, unseen by all eyes in this world beneath the sun, and they could see things in worlds invisible to mortal men; but too often they beheld only the phantoms and delusions of Sauron. And one by one, sooner or later, according to their native strength and to the good or evil of their wills in the beginning, they fell under the thraldom of the ring that they bore and under the domination of the One, which was Sauron's." - The Silmarillion, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age
And the elven rings seem to give more power than just to preserve and protect as well, as we know that Elrond commanded the Bruinen, while Galadriel razed entire fortresses to the ground (though we can have a long and interesting discussion about whether the rings were used or the elves themselves just possess much more magic than Tolkien wanted to write so openly into Lord of the Rings):
-"'Who made the flood?' asked Frodo. 'Elrond commanded it,' answered Gandalf. 'The river of this valley is under his power, and it will rise in anger when he has great need to bar the Ford." - The Fellowship of the Ring, Many Meetings
and
-"Celeborn came forth and led the host of Lórien over Anduin in many boats. They took Dol Guldur, and Galadriel threw down its walls and laid bare its pits, and the forest was cleansed." - Appendix B, The Tale of Years: The Third Age
The above quote about the Nine also hints at my interpretation that the rings are devious (tricksy and false, if you will XD) and that they show "phantoms and delusions". This is also kind of in line with Gandalf's denial of accepting the One from Frodo, suggesting that the ring wants to be used and tries to ensnare a wielder:
-"Yet the way of the Ring to my heart is by pity, pity for weakness and the desire of strength to do good. Do not tempt me! I dare not take it, not even to keep it safe, unused. The wish to wield it would be too great for my strength. I shall have such need of it. Great perils lie before me." - The Fellowship of the Ring, The Shadow of the Past
That at least is the basis for my interpretation of the power of the Seven - the fact that it would resonate with the foundations of the Morgul tower and the very stone of the Ephel Duath just seemed right for a Dwarven Ring (just like the explosive, percussive force that Aragorn unleashes with it). And before the Author's Note gets longer than the actual chapter I'll stop explaining XD. I would love to hear your thoughts and comments though!