Authors Note: Here we go! It is Monday and here is the next part,
just as promised. Now I am at a bit of an impass. I know where I am going
for the next few chapters with Aragorn's recovery and the beginning of the
friendship between the two princes, but where after that? Any suggestions?
Or should I end it soon? Is anyone still reading this? Tell me what you
think (
Those who were in the room with Aragorn could hardly have missed the first movement he had made in days. His entire body stiffened, pulling harshly against the sewn stitches in both his chest and back. His sword hand, long listless, tightened and moved to his side, as if searching a sword. Arwen was right next to him and jumped in surprise, reaching out to touch him, concerned. Elrond got up from the chair across the room from his foster- son. Elladan and Elrohir had been admitted sometime before and had been talking quietly on the balcony, but turned to stare. Legolas was the last person in the room and he had been standing behind the chair that Arwen had been sitting in.
"What is it father? What's wrong with him?" Arwen asked nervously, clutching at Aragorn's hand. His body remained taunt with power and fury waiting to be sprung.
"I do not know, though he seems as if he might be dreaming." Elrond checked Aragorn's pulse to find it racing. "He is lost somewhere in a battle. This may be the moment…perhaps he is deciding now whether he will return to us." Arwen looked at her father in alarm.
"Estel!" Her voice was commanding if not afraid. "Come back Estel," her last words were whispered in the quiet room, quite plain for all to hear. Elladan and Elrohir drew near to the bed and Legolas did too, all with eyes on Aragorn, who's body remained tight, his muscles clearly showing through the thin bedcovers. All they could see was what Aragorn must have looked like when he was ready to spring in the wild as a Ranger. If they had known what he was seeing, they might have been more afraid.
Inside the darkness of Aragorn's mind, a battle was indeed about to start. The nine Nazgul were there in his imagination and it seemed that they wanted to claim him. Aragorn, though tired in mind and body, was not willing to give up the fight just yet. He did indeed have much to live for. The cruel black figures approached him cautiously, and Aragorn's body tensed as he reached for his sword at his side. His hand rested on the hilt with comfort, in fact, it was almost too comfortable. He had a strange feeling that it was not truly his sword. As the riders grew closer, Aragorn pulled the sword from it's sheath, only to find it was nothing more than a broken bit of sword on a beautiful hilt, however, Aragorn knew the sword the moment his eyes rested on it. It was Narsil. Many a time he had held the same sword in the caves of Rivendell, wondering how Elendil held it when he had fought Sauron.
However, at that moment, he was not wondering how Elendil had held it, he was wondering what good it would do him. Aragorn was pleasantly surprised when a bright light seemed to flash and when it had faded, Narsil was whole in his hand, re-forged in a new glory. The Nazgul seemed to quail in the sight of it, but continued their advance toward the gray-eyed Ranger, who was preparing himself for attack. His jaw was set firmly and if Elrond could have seen him the way Aragorn perceived himself in his mind, he would have been reminded of Elendil and Isildur and the way all the Kings of Gondor looked. Aragorn stood just below the crest of the hill, his dark hair blowing a bit in the breeze, his jaw set, feet, covered in well worn boots, set slightly apart, dressed in black and gray from head to foot, cloak fluttering in the wind, and with eyes set on those who would attack him. Any other foe would have turned and run, for he seemed to grow in stature, and he did not start out as any sort of short man to begin with. However, the Nazgul seemed impervious to his image, and they attacked. The fight had begun.
This chain of events caught Elrond and the others off guard, for Aragorn's body thrashed in the bed, responding to the fight it believed was going on. Gasping, Arwen stepped back, unsure of the cause of the apparent seizure. Elladan and Elrohir moved to restrain their brother to the best of their ability, forgetting how strong he had become.
"He is dreaming. He is fighting!" Elrohir was concerned. Elrond nodded and he moved to help them.
"He will hurt himself in the process," Elladan muttered, grasping one of Aragorn's arms.
"Arwen, run and get my herbs, we will need them," Elrond told her hurriedly, and without argument, Arwen ran from the room.
"Legolas if this escalates, we may need your help."
"I am right here Lord Elrond and I will do what I must."
The battle indeed did escalate. Aragorn felt the strange sense of déjà vu as he parried the strikes from the wraiths. They were cold and calculating, while he was warm and observant, knowing where to move, just in time. For some reason, Aragorn was pleased to find he was not tiring. The sword seemed to lend to him an unnatural strength and he inwardly thanked the men who had wrought it for his forefather. Blow after blow were felt and Aragorn's parries were desperate to keep up and fight the nine, but it seemed as if he might survive. One of the wraiths slipped by his defenses, slicing him across the chest, a mirror of the true wound that Aragorn carried. The Ranger was caught by surprise and fell to his knees, just as he had before. Another sword came down on his back and Aragorn felt the threat of death upon him.
Do not die. You have come this far upon your journey. You have said yourself that you have much to live for. You will be Elessar, the Elfstone. Get up and fight. It was Arwen's voice again, this time in his head. Aragorn felt his body shudder, but he knew she was right. He had to get up. His blood may have been weak, but if he could stop the trend Isildur had started, he would try to now. He felt the ground beneath him and using Narsil, he pushed up, his body screaming in pain. However, he rejoined the fight, fighting with a renewed energy, slicing dangerously at the Nazgul. He was like a man possessed. He let instinct take over, longing for it to be over so he could reach the White City.
Suddenly, just as the Nazgul had come, they were gone. Aragorn was left standing there, holding the sword in his hand. Blood ran down his body, but he hardly noticed. He was to busy staring at the sword. It was no longer Narsil re-forged, but his own beloved sword, given to him long ago by Elladan and Elrohir when he had left Rivendell. With much weariness and pain, he stumbled up the rest of the hill and when he had reached the top, he was rewarded with the sight of the sun shinning off the White City, sparkling like diamonds. If he had not collapsed and been on his way to darkness, he might have heard the cry of trumpets, welcoming Gondor's true king home.
It had taken all four elves to hold Aragorn's body down when the thrashing had started. It had continued to intensify and Elrond was even afraid for Aragorn. Legolas was unsure of what to think. Was the Ranger dying? He hoped not, but he could not bear to look at the pained expression Aragorn's face had adopted. All four elves held him down, anxious to make sure he did not hurt himself badly, for he had already torn the stitches and was bleeding freely again. Arwen had returned just as his body calmed, lying still, but it had not lasted and the convulsions worsened after that. The strong she-elf stood back, fighting fear and tears, trying to tell herself that her beloved Estel would survive through this. She had never seen such a thing happen before and it was not something she wished to repeat, ever. Finally though, his body seemed to relax and a peaceful smile seemed to spread on Aragorn's face. Elrond watched carefully and Legolas spoke first.
"What is this? Is he done? Will he live?" However, no one had the answers to the questions. At that moment, Aragorn ceased breathing and his body was still.
"No!" Arwen cried in fear, rushing to her lover's side, but just as she reached him, he took a shuddering breath, followed by a sharp intake of breath and a pained moan. Elladan and Elrohir stepped back and Elrond leaned in to see what was happening. Legolas drew Arwen back a bit and they waited, all with frozen breath, to see if he would continue to breathe.
At long last, they were rewarded, and not only did he breathe again, but his eyelids fluttered and came open with a start. Elrond could not help but smile as he saw his son's gray eyes. Aragorn had survived.
Those who were in the room with Aragorn could hardly have missed the first movement he had made in days. His entire body stiffened, pulling harshly against the sewn stitches in both his chest and back. His sword hand, long listless, tightened and moved to his side, as if searching a sword. Arwen was right next to him and jumped in surprise, reaching out to touch him, concerned. Elrond got up from the chair across the room from his foster- son. Elladan and Elrohir had been admitted sometime before and had been talking quietly on the balcony, but turned to stare. Legolas was the last person in the room and he had been standing behind the chair that Arwen had been sitting in.
"What is it father? What's wrong with him?" Arwen asked nervously, clutching at Aragorn's hand. His body remained taunt with power and fury waiting to be sprung.
"I do not know, though he seems as if he might be dreaming." Elrond checked Aragorn's pulse to find it racing. "He is lost somewhere in a battle. This may be the moment…perhaps he is deciding now whether he will return to us." Arwen looked at her father in alarm.
"Estel!" Her voice was commanding if not afraid. "Come back Estel," her last words were whispered in the quiet room, quite plain for all to hear. Elladan and Elrohir drew near to the bed and Legolas did too, all with eyes on Aragorn, who's body remained tight, his muscles clearly showing through the thin bedcovers. All they could see was what Aragorn must have looked like when he was ready to spring in the wild as a Ranger. If they had known what he was seeing, they might have been more afraid.
Inside the darkness of Aragorn's mind, a battle was indeed about to start. The nine Nazgul were there in his imagination and it seemed that they wanted to claim him. Aragorn, though tired in mind and body, was not willing to give up the fight just yet. He did indeed have much to live for. The cruel black figures approached him cautiously, and Aragorn's body tensed as he reached for his sword at his side. His hand rested on the hilt with comfort, in fact, it was almost too comfortable. He had a strange feeling that it was not truly his sword. As the riders grew closer, Aragorn pulled the sword from it's sheath, only to find it was nothing more than a broken bit of sword on a beautiful hilt, however, Aragorn knew the sword the moment his eyes rested on it. It was Narsil. Many a time he had held the same sword in the caves of Rivendell, wondering how Elendil held it when he had fought Sauron.
However, at that moment, he was not wondering how Elendil had held it, he was wondering what good it would do him. Aragorn was pleasantly surprised when a bright light seemed to flash and when it had faded, Narsil was whole in his hand, re-forged in a new glory. The Nazgul seemed to quail in the sight of it, but continued their advance toward the gray-eyed Ranger, who was preparing himself for attack. His jaw was set firmly and if Elrond could have seen him the way Aragorn perceived himself in his mind, he would have been reminded of Elendil and Isildur and the way all the Kings of Gondor looked. Aragorn stood just below the crest of the hill, his dark hair blowing a bit in the breeze, his jaw set, feet, covered in well worn boots, set slightly apart, dressed in black and gray from head to foot, cloak fluttering in the wind, and with eyes set on those who would attack him. Any other foe would have turned and run, for he seemed to grow in stature, and he did not start out as any sort of short man to begin with. However, the Nazgul seemed impervious to his image, and they attacked. The fight had begun.
This chain of events caught Elrond and the others off guard, for Aragorn's body thrashed in the bed, responding to the fight it believed was going on. Gasping, Arwen stepped back, unsure of the cause of the apparent seizure. Elladan and Elrohir moved to restrain their brother to the best of their ability, forgetting how strong he had become.
"He is dreaming. He is fighting!" Elrohir was concerned. Elrond nodded and he moved to help them.
"He will hurt himself in the process," Elladan muttered, grasping one of Aragorn's arms.
"Arwen, run and get my herbs, we will need them," Elrond told her hurriedly, and without argument, Arwen ran from the room.
"Legolas if this escalates, we may need your help."
"I am right here Lord Elrond and I will do what I must."
The battle indeed did escalate. Aragorn felt the strange sense of déjà vu as he parried the strikes from the wraiths. They were cold and calculating, while he was warm and observant, knowing where to move, just in time. For some reason, Aragorn was pleased to find he was not tiring. The sword seemed to lend to him an unnatural strength and he inwardly thanked the men who had wrought it for his forefather. Blow after blow were felt and Aragorn's parries were desperate to keep up and fight the nine, but it seemed as if he might survive. One of the wraiths slipped by his defenses, slicing him across the chest, a mirror of the true wound that Aragorn carried. The Ranger was caught by surprise and fell to his knees, just as he had before. Another sword came down on his back and Aragorn felt the threat of death upon him.
Do not die. You have come this far upon your journey. You have said yourself that you have much to live for. You will be Elessar, the Elfstone. Get up and fight. It was Arwen's voice again, this time in his head. Aragorn felt his body shudder, but he knew she was right. He had to get up. His blood may have been weak, but if he could stop the trend Isildur had started, he would try to now. He felt the ground beneath him and using Narsil, he pushed up, his body screaming in pain. However, he rejoined the fight, fighting with a renewed energy, slicing dangerously at the Nazgul. He was like a man possessed. He let instinct take over, longing for it to be over so he could reach the White City.
Suddenly, just as the Nazgul had come, they were gone. Aragorn was left standing there, holding the sword in his hand. Blood ran down his body, but he hardly noticed. He was to busy staring at the sword. It was no longer Narsil re-forged, but his own beloved sword, given to him long ago by Elladan and Elrohir when he had left Rivendell. With much weariness and pain, he stumbled up the rest of the hill and when he had reached the top, he was rewarded with the sight of the sun shinning off the White City, sparkling like diamonds. If he had not collapsed and been on his way to darkness, he might have heard the cry of trumpets, welcoming Gondor's true king home.
It had taken all four elves to hold Aragorn's body down when the thrashing had started. It had continued to intensify and Elrond was even afraid for Aragorn. Legolas was unsure of what to think. Was the Ranger dying? He hoped not, but he could not bear to look at the pained expression Aragorn's face had adopted. All four elves held him down, anxious to make sure he did not hurt himself badly, for he had already torn the stitches and was bleeding freely again. Arwen had returned just as his body calmed, lying still, but it had not lasted and the convulsions worsened after that. The strong she-elf stood back, fighting fear and tears, trying to tell herself that her beloved Estel would survive through this. She had never seen such a thing happen before and it was not something she wished to repeat, ever. Finally though, his body seemed to relax and a peaceful smile seemed to spread on Aragorn's face. Elrond watched carefully and Legolas spoke first.
"What is this? Is he done? Will he live?" However, no one had the answers to the questions. At that moment, Aragorn ceased breathing and his body was still.
"No!" Arwen cried in fear, rushing to her lover's side, but just as she reached him, he took a shuddering breath, followed by a sharp intake of breath and a pained moan. Elladan and Elrohir stepped back and Elrond leaned in to see what was happening. Legolas drew Arwen back a bit and they waited, all with frozen breath, to see if he would continue to breathe.
At long last, they were rewarded, and not only did he breathe again, but his eyelids fluttered and came open with a start. Elrond could not help but smile as he saw his son's gray eyes. Aragorn had survived.