Chapter 9

-o0o-

Elladan was left behind.

But he was not alone.

He struggled weakly to prop himself onto his hands, heaving his upper body off the ground and himself into a sitting position, fighting against the tempestuous force that was pressing him down. His head ached fiercely still, burning with the pain of the Nazgûl's touch and the more personal anguish of the memories that had been disturbed. But he pushed through the pain, through the wind that tore at his hair and shook the room.

Something was very wrong.

The tower swayed beneath him, the air twisted about itself in violent tempest, but the evil he had felt before had been exchanged for a profound sense of pain, of failure, of a doubt that was so very familiar. He might almost …

"Elladan!"

The shout tore through his focus and with bewilderment Elladan realized that Elrohir was suddenly beside him, out of breath, his hair tousled by the raging wind, his sword clattering heavily to the stone floor beside him. His twin was all worry and barely constrained relief and Elladan was not surprised when he flung his arms around him, seeking the reassurance of the touch, seeking the confirmation that they were both, somehow, impossibly, still alive. His own arms felt heavy as he returned the embrace, needing the touch as much as his marginally younger brother. There was comfort in blending their fëa this closely. For a moment they lingered, rested their foreheads against one another and simply breathed. But that moment passed quickly.

Elrohir's gaze was surprisingly fierce when he drew back. He mustered Elladan with the searching gaze he reserved for assessing battle injuries and the older twin could see in his eyes that he noticed more than just Elladan's clear and lingering fatigue. Ever perceptive, Elrohir probably knew exactly what had happened, what he had suffered at the hands of the Nazgûl. But they had no time now to dwell on it, the tower was still rumbling, thunder sounded from somewhere within its confines as stones and foundations shook loose. Elladan gave his twin a nod, barely there, but enough to let him know that he could continue, that they would have time to redress that hurt later. If they could get out of here.

Elrohir helped him to his feet, hovering close just in case. "The entire tower is in uproar. We need to find Estel," he shouted over the howling maelstrom.

Estel.

Of course.

Elladan turned away from his twin, turned towards the corner of the room that still seemed to harbor the eye of the strange storm that shook the tower. The wind had decreased, but the emotions remained, and finally he could put them into place, could put a name to them.

"I think he has found us," Elladan replied.

Carefully he raised his hand towards the seemingly empty corner that was the epicenter of the raw power being unleashed around them, the Ring of Barahir glistening on his upturned palm. "Estel," he spoke, beseechingly, using the name that their father had chosen for their younger brother, the name he himself had rarely used ever since Aragorn had come of age, since he had proven himself worthy of his birth name. It felt appropriate now, a reminder of the past, of their connection, their bond that would never waver.

"Estel, come back to us."

-o0o-

Elladan's reaction, his attempts to flee from him, was like a bucket of cold water that doused the fire of the ring's power, taking away its heat and leaving nothing but a cold emptiness in its wake. The ring stopped singing in his veins. And in the ensuing silence, the dark laughter he had ignored before was suddenly unbearably loud. Rejoicing. Malicious. Victorious.

Aragorn raised his arms to his head, pressing them against his ears, trying desperately, desperately to drown out the terrible, knowing sound. The ring had offered him power, had promised him to give him all that he desired and he had not so much as questioned. It was clear now what he should have seen all along. This had been a trap, cleverly placed by the Nazgûl to ensnare him, to overcome his weak resistance and chain him to their side. Less deadly than a morgul blade, yet no less nefarious.

Already he could hear them hiss again, a perverse softness to their dreadful voices, a hollow echo of death. 'Join us', they seemed to whisper, 'follow us'. Aragorn thought he might be sick. He staggered back a step, vehemently shaking his head, still grasped between his shaking hands, a silent denial, a desperate resistance, a child's attempt at refusing its betters.

And yet…

The Nazgûl remained unmoving, remained cowering in their corner, entreating rather than attacking. They wanted him to join them - but they could not force him.

They could not force him! Yet, even as Aragorn came to the realization the Nazgûl recognized his reticence, felt his choice. A terrible shout echoed in the chamber, the ringwraiths' anger given voice.

Aragorn flinched.

The King of Angmar lunged.

But not at him, no, instead the dark shape was jumping at Elladan, its black cloak billowing, a silver gleam flashing forth from between the folds of the dark cloth.

And Aragorn reacted. Just as he had done in the dungeons below when it had been Elrohir's life in imminent danger, he gave himself over to the call of the ring, invited its power, its strength - its darkness. The Nazgûl had made one mistake: The Seven were mightier than the Nine!

And as he brought its power to bear, as he bent his mind, his anger, on the ringwraiths, he felt the very foundations of the tower respond. The bones of the earth were his to command, the stone his to bend to his will. He bellowed his rage and the tower shook.

The witchking careened to a halt, twisting around. The Nazgûl fled. The cloak of the last one to leave was torn to shreds, ripped apart like paper, a scream fragmenting in the air before it could take shape. But while that noise disintegrated, the laughter in the echo of the ring's power remained - and it grew.

And the ring responded. The power of the force he projected increased, bucked against his grip, and slipped through his fingers. He saw Elladan flung to the ground in the face of it, bent by the evil that lingered within the ring. And then the image changed, instead of Elladan he saw Elrohir, presumably freed but collapsing after he was bereft of the orcs that had held him upright. Injured, alone, surrounded by an angry, if decimated force. And it had been decimated - Aragorn remembered with sudden, terrifying clarity the power he had unleashed, the ring's evil let loose upon the orcs and the men in the dungeons below. He remembered the dismembered body parts acutely, the blood that had threatened to stain the very ceiling, far too much red to chalk it all up to orc bodies. The power of the ring - the power he had unleashed, had not discriminated - and he had not hesitated, had not paused. He had killed them all.

And with them he had killed a part of himself. The ring had offered him power and he had taken it, embraced it, murdered with it.

Denethor had been right. How could he ever have considered claiming the kingship of Gondor? How could he think that he of all people would be the right choice? That he deserved to be followed? To be respected?

To be loved?

He took a strangled breath, a bare choke of air. Arwen … He could practically see her in front of his eyes. But her radiant beauty was quenched, her pale face marred with blood as she struggled against the gale winds of his still spinning power, her face contorted in disbelief and shock at the sight of him, the damage - the carnage he had caused. How could he ever hold her in his arms again when his hands were steeped in blood?

"Elladan!" The shout was a whisper, a murmur in the torrent of the raging winds and the shaking stone around him, but it broke the spell. The vision of Arwen wavered and was replaced with her brother, Elrohir, alive and struggling through the wind to reach his twin. There was no shock, no horror or disgust on his face, only relief, pure and unadulterated, as he grasped Elladan's shoulders and pulled him into a fierce embrace. They drew apart briefly, resting their foreheads against one another's for a moment longer and for the first time, the laughter reverberating in Aragorn's head quietened.

"The entire tower is in uproar. We need to find Estel," Elrohir said as he helped his brother to his feet. And Elladan turned from his twin and towards him, his sharp gaze seemingly piercing the veil crafted by the dwarven ring on his finger as if it were not there at all. His brother's eyes were boring right into his own, unerring, unflinching.

"I think he has found us," Elladan replied. And a moment later his brother reached out a shaking hand towards him.

"Estel," he said - a greeting, a call, a summons. "Estel, come back to us."

And with unbearable ease, his brother's words cut through the storm, through the heady song of the ring's power and the dreadful taunting of its maker's laughter. They cut straight into his heart.

Estel.

The name their father had chosen for him. Hope. Hope for the dunedain, for Middle Earth, for the future. An impossible destiny, a terrible burden. A fool's hope.

Aragorn had floundered every step of the way towards his supposed calling. He had been ousted from Gondor by its steward's son, had been captured by the Nazgûl and seduced by a ring of power - and he had taken the love of his adopted family and was about to take from them the one thing, the person, they loved the most.

How could Elladan still speak of hope?

Something flashed in his brother's palm, a glint of green amid a shining silver - the Ring of Barahir. The sign of his fate, of his failure. An heirloom to his house, the token of the promise that Finrod Felagund had given to Barahir for help in all need. A promise that had cost him his immortal life when Beren had come to ask for it. Aragorn could not ignore the parallel, an elf giving the ring to a man, sealing his fate.

He was going to get his brothers killed.

And yet Elladan stood undeterred, earnest and steadfast.

"Estel," Elrohir echoed his twin's call from next to Elladan and there was the same plea in his voice and in his eyes, begging him to return to them.

Neither of his brothers seemed to harbor any doubts. How could they not? How could they cling to this hope, this belief in him? A belief in his future, in his triumph, in his worth.

But even as he asked that question, he could not ignore one simple fact.

He had shared that belief once.

He had taken command of the Dunedain rangers, had traveled to Rohan and Gondor under a false name and a mission to discover more about the men of Middle Earth, more about the men he might one day come to rule. His fate had always, always been a tall aspiration, a mighty calling, but never before had he felt it was entirely beyond his reach. He had felt so certain once upon a time that he could grasp it, could reunite Gondor and Arnor, could aid in the defeat of Sauron, could be worthy of Arwen's love and her hand in marriage.

Arwen … her image shone in his mind with sudden clarity, a beacon shining through a thick curtain, through the web cast by the dwarven ring on his finger. Not the pale copy, the accusing apparition he thought he had seen before, but his Arwen. With the light of the stars in her eyes and the radiance of the sun in her smile. It was almost as if he could hear her sing again, like on that day, now so long ago, when he had first seen her in Rivendell on the edge of twilight.

Aragorn embraced the memory, embraced the light she was to him, a beacon in the darkness, his true purpose, his real ambition. The sound of her voice rang in his ears, gaining in pitch and force, drowning out everything else. The fell laughter in his head fell silent. The song of the ring cut off.

And suddenly, the world righted itself, the tower stopped quaking - and with shaking fingers he drew the dwarven ring off his fingers. As it hit the cold stones of the chamber, his world suddenly grew dark.

-o0o-

With startling suddenness the winds that howled through the chamber ceased, the tower stopped shaking - and Estel appeared out of thin air. A ring, golden with a large yellow stone, fell to the now silent stones and Estel would have shared its fate if Elrohir had been any slower to react. But somehow, impossibly, Elladan had sensed their little brother - and when he had focused, Elrohir had felt that same inkling of recognition that must have drawn his twin.

And so, even if ill-prepared for Estel falling unconscious the moment he reappeared, Elrohir had moved. He caught their little brother just before he could hit the unforgiving stone beneath them. All the questions he might have had, the answers he might have demanded stilled as he looked at Estel's face cradled in his arm, careworn and anguished despite his unconsciousness. His healer's training kicked in instantly.

"He is ice cold," the younger twin said to Elladan, trying not to feel the worry that the realization ignited- it was a futile effort. "We need to warm him."

"We have to get out of the tower first," Elladan replied, his voice strained but steady and Elrohir turned sharply back to his older brother, remembering all too well the sense of weariness and pain that he had radiated only moments ago when Elrohir had found him.

"Can you carry him?" Elladan asked, as close to a concession that he himself could not as Elrohir was likely to get. But his voice was steady and he stood without support - it would have to be enough. Later, Elrohir promised himself, later he would take the time to fret and fuss over both his brothers. Once they were safe. For now, Elrohir simply nodded, resolute, and grit his teeth against the pain in his head and back as he lifted Estel into his arms and stood.

"Good. Follow me." Elladan bent down to pick up his sword, and Elrohir chose not to comment at the way he swayed when he straightened again. Getting out of here, getting Estel to safety, had to be their priority for now. His little brother was still cold in his arms and Elrohir channeled what energy he could spare into a brief burst of healing, willing Estel to recover, to come back to them truly. It was only a faint spark, not nearly as much as he would like to give, not nearly enough, but it was all he could attempt in the short moment he had - and already it left him light headed. He shook his head to try and dispel the sudden cobwebs that crowded his vision, hoping that Elladan would not notice.

But Elladan seemed to be busy focusing on his own steps as they made their way, not quite steadily, across the room, the adjoining chamber that was now empty and into the winding stairway. The yellow dwarven ring they left behind.

If they ran into trouble now they would be ill-equipped to deal with it. But once they were moving, leaving Minas Morgul turned out to be easier than Elrohir would have dared hope for. The stairwell was deserted and the enchantment of the tower that had bewitched their senses had been broken, probably lifted by Estel's impressive show of force. The wide corridor at the bottom of the steps led straight and unceremoniously to a large gate. It stood ajar. Beyond it beckoned the angry orange glare of open flames.

Elladan paused briefly, tilting his head to listen and raising his arm to stop Elrohir as he made sure there were no surprises waiting for them, no ambush hidden among the shadows of the vast hall. But there was nothing nearby that Elrohir could hear. Distant, as if through layers of rock or from far away, he thought he could hear the sounds of angry, muted, shouts and of savage fighting. He thought again of the prisoners, the brave men of Gondor that he had been forced to leave behind, hoping against hope that they had escaped already, that what he now heard was just a revolt of the orcs left in the tower. After all, if Estel's rescue of him had not sent the foul creatures into a frenzy, then the violent shaking of the tower, the tremble in its very foundations must have.

In either case, the hall was empty and they crossed it warily but without incident. In the doorway Elladan stopped again. He drew in a sharp breath and then released it in an awed whisper. "The poison fields are burning."

Elrohir stepped up beside his brother, maneuvering Estel in his arms to fit through the door that was still only slightly ajar, and saw that Elladan was right. Green and orange flames danced over the vast fields, unleashed perhaps from the many watchfires that had burned here before. Thick smoke, green and grey and black, hung heavily in the air above the burning flowers, spreading over the stream that ran through the valley and the path that passed alongside it. The bridge was hidden somewhere among the billowing clouds of it.

"The smoke will obscure our passage," Elladan mused, though he made no move to descend the wide stairs before the door.

"Or kill us," Elrohir gave back, saying out loud what he knew his twin was also considering. The flowers of the Morgul Vale were deadly, their scent heady and inviting the unwary to fall into a slumber from which there would be no awakening. Were the flames going to purge that evil - or spread it more efficiently?

"Only one way to know for certain. We cannot linger here."

And as Elladan made up his mind and crossed the landing in front of the large gates of the Morgul tower, descending the steps down towards the valley and into the gloom and smoke, Elrohir followed. He shifted his grip on Estel again, willing himself to ignore the strain on his back and the pounding in his head that flared with each step down the steep stair. He turned Estel's head towards his chest, hoping to shield him at least somewhat from the intense heat of the raging flames and the dark tendrils of smoke, still expanding what healing he could towards their human brother. Perhaps it would protect him from the poison smoke.

The foul vapors burned his throat and Elrohir fought the urge to cough, breathing harshly through the strain in his abused muscles, until his back shook with the effort of just breathing and carrying Estel at the same time. His feet felt heavy and his lungs burned, but he forced himself to keep going, forced himself to focus only on the dark shape of Elladan in front of him, almost hidden by the thick black and green clouds, despite being no more than a few feet ahead. Elladan kept to the path, weary but not slow, and without meeting any resistance they made surprisingly good progress across the burning plain. Angry flames licked occasionally up along the sides of the path, hungry for more than just flowers, but there was nothing on the path for them to cling to and Elladan and he stayed well out of reach.

Eventually, they crossed the abandoned bridge and the water of the Morgulduin, soiled though it was, kept the flames at bay. Beyond it the valley was clear of flame, though the wind had driven the smoke this way. But little by little it tore the dark clouds apart, and eventually they thinned, then dispersed.

Elrohir finally allowed himself a deep breath. It smelled of smoke and decay - and of the first inkling of the herbs of Ithilien.

Estel was still a deadweight in his arms, but Elrohir was grateful to see that for all the smoke they had crossed Estel's breathing was steady and regular, even if his face was still too pale.

They were going slower now, Elladan still in the lead, his bright sword reflecting the fading flames behind them. Their luck held. Around them all stayed silent, no animal call pierced the night, no flapping of dark-feathered wings could be heard over the sound of the wind rushing through the valley, carrying the smoke and smell of the fire. The path was descending steeply now, and already Elrohir thought he could see the black stone at the path's bend ahead - they were getting closer to the crossroads.

He turned back one last time before Minas Morgul disappeared from view. Behind them the dead city still rose above the valley, its poisonous walls still marred, still glowing with the flicker of decay, a beacon of destruction even amid the fires of the Morgul Vale ablaze. The flames were devouring but not cleansing, only another evil in the valley of living death.

It seemed a blessing of Eru that they had ever made it out.

-o0o-

They rested briefly in a dried thicket of firs not far from the black stone, Minas Morgul now hidden behind the bend in the winding path. The stream ran somewhere to the south, farther now from the road, barely audible to even elven ears. Beside the wind that still accompanied them, it was the only sound in the fading night. East, above the towering peaks of the Ephel Duath the sky was lightening. Thick columns of smoke still rose in greedy tendrils towards the heavens, but they would not hinder the light of Anor once she rose above the mountains.

By then they would have to be moving again. Wroth as he was to wake Elrohir who had fallen into a doze, his eyes closed, almost as soon as he had placed Aragorn safely on the ground. Their youngest brother still had not stirred, though he had no outward injury and his breathing was even. His temperature was better than it had been as well and Elladan did not need to try hard to see the link between Aragorn's returning energy and Elrohir's flagging one. He knew better than to assume his twin would not have attempted to aid Estel's recovery during their flight from Minas Morgul.

At least his own strength was returning, his arms and legs no longer trembled with the echo of the terror that the Nazgûl had unleashed and even the pain in his side, in the wound that still remembered the bite of the Morgul blade, was finally ebbing.

He checked Aragorn once more but his littlest brother remained deeply unconscious. By the time he moved on to Elrohir his twin was already blinking awake.

"We cannot risk resting here any longer," he said and Elrohir nodded. His twin wordlessly accepted his helping hand to get up, but before he could take a step towards Aragorn, Elladan stopped him: "I will carry him. It is not long now to the crossroad and the forests beyond. We can make camp there - and if your enchantment over our horses still holds we will have supplies enough for a feast."

Elrohir gave him a glance, a tired grin tugging at the corners of his mouth that mirrored Elladan's own. "Oh ye of little faith."

And to the sound of soft laughter, the first since they had entered this accursed valley, the rays of Anor rose over the mountains and lit their path towards the west, towards safety and healing.

-o0o-

A/N: Look, no cliffhanger! And laughter at the end of a chapter (not of the sinister kind either) I feel so ... kind? considerate? benevolent? 'lol'
I guess after everything I've put them through, they deserve an uneventful escape from the Morgul Vale, especially since we are closing in on the end of this story (and the trilogy, 'le gasp'). Only one more chapter and an epilogue to go. In the meantime, as always, I would love to hear your thoughts and comments - they are what fuels my muse on a busy day when it feels like there would be no time to write. And many thanks to everyone who reviewed last week!