Aragorn ran hard, his heart thudding loudly in his ears, blocking out all other sound. Behind him, shouts rent the night air as silent footsteps pursued him. He reached the inside of the palace and bolted down a long hallway. Beads of perspiration collected on his forehead and rolled down his face. Where was he to go? So far he had been lucky and had somehow outrun the elves that followed him. Whether it was the Numenorian blood that flowed in his veins that helped him or unadulterated fear that he given him such fleet feet, he did not know.
His eyes swiveled this way and that, searching for anything that could serve as a decent refuge. Elvish voices echoed in the stone hallways. The guards were getting closer. In a near panic, Aragorn ducked into a room to his left. It was a servants' storage room, harboring all sorts of supplies. Linens were neatly folded and placed on shelves to his left. Washing tubs were placed one inside the other near them. To the right there was a walk-in closet in which hung spare clothing for the servants. Aragorn ducked inside, lest the guards look inside the room. At the far left hand corner of the closet, the boarded up remains of a door stood. Curiosity, or perhaps fear of discovery, prodded him to look further.
Pushing the hastily placed boards away, Aragorn found that the door opened up into a dark corridor. The air beyond it smelt stale. But what he would find in the pitch darkness, he did not know. He took another look about him. Old oil lamps were near at hand, left forgotten in an open box on the floor of the closet. He picked up one; it was still filled with oil and ready to burn. Aragorn turned to enter the darkness, taking a few wineskins of oil from the box as an afterthought. There was no way that he wanted to run out of fuel. Finally, he stepped into the inky blackness, shutting the door behind him. He took several long strides into the gloom, at all times feeling his way with his hands. When he was sure he was a safe distance from the door, he lit the lamp and his heart lightened as the flame flickered into life. He looked around.
He was in a corridor that ran between the walls of the palace, an ancient, forgotten highway for the use of long departed kings to move about from place to place in secret. It was a safety feature, in case the king was to ever come under threat from hostile forces. The secret ways were hidden to all but the keenest of eyes and would protect any who knew of them. It was made of sheer rock too, without so much as a sliver cut into them for light and air. Instinctively, Aragorn knew that the walls would be thick.
He began to follow the course of the narrow hall. How many minutes passed him by, he did not know. Mentally, he noted each turn that he made, in case need would drive him back later. But now his legs began to fail him, his strength waning. The run had cost him dearly needed energy. He halted his journey in the dark and sat, now turning the lamp flame low to conserve the fuel that burned inside. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and leaned back against the wall, the soles of his feet resting against the opposite wall. Immediately, suppressed questions surfaced in his mind.
Why was he being hunted? He was no criminal and as far as he could tall, he had broken no law of the woodland realm. What had he and Gimli done (or what did Thranduil think that they had done) that would label them as traitors? What evil force was at work? Certainly it was strong, whatever it was, for it had overthrown Legolas as well. Aragorn once again heard his friend's voice clearly inside his mind, and it had called for his capture and proclaimed a death sentence upon him. Aragorn bit his lower lip in deep thought. He knew that elves were a proud folk certainly, but were the people of Mirkwood so proud as to declare undeserving folk as traitors, even though they had done no wrong? An image of Alandor floated into the Gondorian's mind. That elvish pride would certainly be wounded at the mistreatment the elf had received. And yet that was the fault of neither Aragorn nor Gimli. Or could ancient feuds run so deep that Thranduil would use that as an excuse to rid Middle Earth of one more dwarf? Aragorn shook his head. The friendship that had been forged between Legolas and Gimli was too strong. Legolas would never allow his father to do such a thing. And then, there was himself, Aragorn grimly noted. He had done nothing and certainly was no dwarf.
Aragorn sighed. Something was missing. No explanation that the man could think of made any sense. There were too many holes in each theory. Some mischief was about and if Aragorn wanted to save his life, and that of Gimli, he would need to figure it out soon. With such thoughts in his mind, he shut off the lamp and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Fitful dreams plagued him. He was searching for something, but he knew not what and could not find it anywhere. Slowly he came to the realization that he was looking for the reason why his friend was acting so strangely. But before he could find it, a dark figure stood before him and Aragorn knew that confrontation with the figure would mean death. In his dream, he chose to fight the figure. Drawing Anduril, he advanced. A knife was drawn by the figure. For a moment the two were locked in battle. Then the figure got the better of Aragorn and stabbed him through the stomach. Now the figure lightened as the darkness lifted. With dying eyes, Aragorn took in his assailant. Shadows melted away revealing Legolas standing above him, bloody knife in hand, grim satisfaction mixed with hatred upon his face.