Heat.

Surging through his body like a rabid wild beast.

Aragorn knew very well the fever could kill him, but he could do nothing about it. He could feel the poison of the disease wreaking havoc within him, rendering him powerless. Every part of him burned; his short, uneven breath scorched his throat and seared his lungs.

Already he was growing delirious, straying further and further into the shadows. He could see nothing but grey. Different shades of grey: from the dusky shade of lead, to the pearly light and rising vapor. They seemed to him like the broiling storm clouds.

There were ominous storm clouds low in the sky. Aragorn raised his head and looked, suddenly feeling anxious. A strange feeling was prodding the edge of his keen senses. Carefully he listened. At first he heard nothing, but then he caught it: a faint sound of rapid hooves stomping on sand, like the rumbling of distant thunder.

He heard steps. Ruffled and swift steps light like desert hares, hurried with concern. Whispered words hung in the air, fearful. The feel of tension was thick.

And he also heard footsteps. Hurried and panicked footsteps as the Haradrim rushed out from their canvas tents, hearing the same distant thunder as he did. They looked anxiously to the horizon, then to each other. They all seemed fearful. Then, they saw it in the distance. It was a faint line of stirring sand, signaling riders.

"Lord! He is burning!" Aragorn heard a matronly voice crying out in panic.

Then murmurs.

"What should we do?"

"Can the healers help him?"

Struggling he tried to grasp those echo of voices and hold them firmly, to draw himself away from the delirious reverie that was threatening to swallow him. Yet so insubstantial were those sounds that they slipped right through his fingers and his fight was in vain. Suddenly he longed for other voices, that of Elrond, the wise Elf that he called father for many years, or Arwen, the love of his life, or even Gandalf, dearest of friends and teachers. Their voices were always a tangible light in darkness, one that would lead him back to the waking reality once more. But those faint whispers carried by the south wind, they were less solid, and always hesitant and uncertain. They would not lead him, not even illuminate the way for him.

They would leave him sinking in his muddled dream-memories until he hailed the flimsy dreamscape as reality.

More tent flaps stirred, rustled by the fearful looking people rushing out. Fearful whispers were likethewhistle of eddyingwinds, low and apprehensive.

"Can it be, Gondorian soldiers?"

"This far into the desert? How many are there?"

"Too many for us to fight! Should we retreat?"

"We have not enough horses for all! And there are women and children! Can we possibly outrun them?"

"What should we do, Taluya? Taluya!"

They looked to him for guidance. Aragorn's head suddenly felt light. When had he taken the mantle of leadership in this little town? He was a mere passing traveler, a northerner friendlier than most with healing arts and sound advises. No more. Why should they look to him as if he was their protector now?

The riders were nearing at an alarming speed. Aragorn looked on and was uncertain. He would help those people, yet he could not bring himself to take up arms against the men of Gondor.

Just then a woman emerged from one of the tents on the edge of the cluster, holding a baby in a bundle. An arrow flew, slicing the air, heading straight for them. The woman shrieked, and instinctively turned her back to cover her child. The baby, noticing the sudden panic, began to howl. The arrow stopped short. Not daring for another moment's delay, the woman raced between the tents, trying to get away as fast as possible. Her naked feet raked across the sand, flying like the dark wings of startled birds, and her face was now streaming with the tears of terror.

There was no more hesitation now.

"Run! Retreat!" Aragorn cried, feeling his tongue wrapping around the foreign language newly acquired with a strange ease. "Take your water skins and nothing else. Go!"

He was the first to spring away from the rooted fear, but not away. He went to the horses. With one leap he was atop a great stallion, and he rode away like an arrow from the bow. He rode out the oncoming riders.

The people of desert were both hunters and hunted, thus they move with the swiftness equaling rangers or even elves. A heartbeat after he cried his commands, he saw out of the corner of his eyes thatthe trail of people were already quickly moving away from the large cluster of tents, disappearing over hills and dunes of sand. And more horses moved up beside him, with their proud and dark Haradrim riders.

"You will not stand alone, Taluya!" One of the young men cried out loudly.

Aragorn smiled wryly. He had to force his mind away from dwelling on the irony of the situation; he must concentrate on bringing defeat to his once allies. Deftly he pulled an arrow and fitted it to the bow, aiming. When the foremost of the riders was with in shooting range, he released the arrow. The tall stallion crumpled as the arrow pierced its breast with its usual accuracy and force.

"Spread out!" Aragorn commanded. "Spread out wide you are not easy targets for their arrows! Ride into their line and scatter it!"

"Perhaps we should call the king."

"Is it wise?"

"I do not know. Perhaps it is unwise to speak to the king now, yet perhaps it is similarly unwise to allow him to sit in ignorance."

More hushed whispers. They sounded even quieter now in his ears, murmurs of a world that he was too tired to reach for. Those whispers resounded from high above amidst the clouds, and he was still sinking, lower and lower into the abyss.

The line of Gondorian riders looked at least sixty strong, and he had with him no more than a dozen fierce but inexperienced young men. Aragorn knew very well that no victory was possible with the odds stacked thus. He was not hoping for victory; he simply wanted enough time for the people to escape beyond the Gondorian soldiers' reach. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could hope to harass the Gondorian soldiers enough to stop their movement, and beyond that he could not even begin to imagine.

It started raining arrows. Fortunately almost none found their mark, seeing the Haradrim rode forth at a dizzying speed, with no formation or line. Thunder rolled overhead, followed by spray of desert rain. Good, Aragorn thought grimly, I could use all the distractions right now.

He whipped out arrows. Set, draw, aim, and let it fly through the screen of falling water. Another horse came stumbling down, neighing into the storm. Arrow after arrow flew, until his meager quiver was empty. He found that he could only aim for horses. He could not look at those soldiers who were once his allies, much less aim the arrows at them.

He collided into the Gondorian line sooner than he wished. Blades came swinging his way, drawing fluent arcs and lines. He wanted to speak, to say something, to shout to those soldiers to stop this insanity, but instead he drew his sword, instinctively, unavoidably. Steel clashed, crisp and harsh clings and clangs in the storm. He tried to direct all of his blows to the horses, for he could not do otherwise.

He saw bodies on the storm tossed sand, those of Gondorians and Haradrim alike. Enough! A voice inside him screamed. The people were long gone and safe, far from the wrath of the Gondorian soldiers. Retreat now! Turn back your steed and flee ere more harm is done! But he knew it was impossible. The bright swords were too deeply twined to be broken apart now. The battle would not end unless one side or another lay dead and unmoving.

Pain.

He was surprised that he could feel even more pain, yet he did. The raw, burning sensation surrounded him like a poisonous mist, turning even his delirium to a mix of hazy, blurred vision and muffled sound.

Pain.

Fighting so reserved when outnumbered severely was not a good idea. On the battlefield, mercy was a perilous virtue. If one would not bestow death, he would then receive death. Aragorn knew it well, yet could not bring himself to do what he had always done. He raised his sword and slashed the flank of a passing horse, hearing the beast scream and buck. Then wheeling the horse around, he turned just in time to avoid being impaled at the tip of a bright sword, yet the blade still grazed his back, drawing a spray of blood quickly washed away by the pelting rain.

He hissed and clenched his jaw tight, trying in vain to still the nauseating pain. Blood rushed away from him through the many gashes and cuts at an alarming rate, threatening to shred his consciousness. Another blade came crashing down. Swing and parry, he told himself, and felt his arm lifting in the familiar arc almost automatically. He was glad that he had no time to think. Had he the luxury to ponder, he would be in a dire dilemma indeed. How could he choose who deserved death more? His kin, his kith, or himself?

He did not think, only swung his bright sword and parried blow after blow. Faintly he noticed that more and more riders were around him, and more bright swords danced about him, until finally one well-placed sword stroke crippled his horse. The beast bucked and fell beneath him, throwing him off with a tremendous force.

He landed on his back, and the impact forced the air from his chest with vicious ferocity. The pain was so intense that his world turned black almost instantly. The only thing he saw was a streak of silver in the darkness, and recognized it as a downward swinging blade. Devoid of all hope now, he waited for the sword to crash into his battered corpse.

Just as now, when he was at last too weary to fight any longer. He only waited, waited for the burning reverie to fade and the sweet oblivion of everlasting darkness to claim him.

His thread of remaining consciousnessregistered of a faint surprise when the sword never came down. Instead of feeling the stroke of death, he heard more hooves falling like rolling thunders, shouts in the southern tongue, and the clashing of steel that rang with renewed vigor.

He heard steps, falling steps that sounded like panicked rainfall. Words in the familiar southern tongue sounded, yet while the sound was clear the meaning eluded him completely.

Straining every last strength he had, he forced his eyes open and looked into the pelting rain. He saw more riders, garbed in the rough cloaks of Harad, fresh with their gears barely wetted by rain. Haradrim reinforcements, he thought dumbly, and found no heart to relish or rejoice.

"Taluya!"

A voice echoed in his hazy dreamscape. It was a dark and strong baritone, a voice of wild power and majesty, a voice so imposing with its sheer assertion that it was almost tangible. As a light out of darkness the voice shone, yet not the pure and serene light that one would feel endeared to, for it was coloured like the red glow of war and death. The voice offered a hand, yet Aragorn was hesitant to take it. Such was its power and the uncertainty of its friendship that he would not dare bracing it.

The battled raged against the backdrop of the lead grey of the arching sky. It was over before his mind could register the whole incident. Countless bodies of horses and men alike scattered about him, and the still standing horses wheeled around, carrying their riders from corpse to corpse.

Aragorn was surprised when a horse stopped before him and the rider leaped down. It was a tall and imposing man in the prime of his life. His form spoke of primeval strength and wild glory, and a fierce majesty was bout him. The rich purple cloak that he wore marked the importance of his rank. Aragorn looked up at the man and tensed warily, even if his body was too worn for any sort of struggle. The rider looked down coolly with dark eyes, before extending a rough but strong hand.

"They say you are a friend." The man said solemnly. "They say you are a northerner that does not bear us in scorn and contempt, instead you bring to us teachings of the wise. If they speak true, if you are indeed a friend, you would rise and take my hand."

"Taluya! Taluya!" The voice sounded again, the powerful, regal voice of the King of Harad. It was less imposing now, and tinged with sadness.

"Do not forsake me, Taluya! I have wronged you, my friend, and I have abused your faith just as you have mine. I have forgiven you now, friend, for I understand now the justice of your reasons. Will you then try to understand my reasons and forgive me? If you are friend, then open your eyes! If you are friend, wake! Wake and forgive me! Wake and return to me!"

Straining all his strength, Aragorn extended his arm and took that dark hand. He could feel the warmth and strength slowly embracing him and supporting him. He rose from the ground and said slowly, "I am here."

Those words tore through his delirium with an articulate force. Hesitant no longer, he grasped the voice and held firm. Straining all his strength, he forced his eyes open and looked into the dark eyes of the Haradrim king. He rose from the bed and said slowly, "I am here."