Chapter 10
-o0o-
Aragorn awoke to the soft sound of bird song above his head and the whispering of a warm wind in high branches. Blinking his eyes against the sudden brightness of the sun, he found himself staring up at the leaves of an old oak filtering out the worst of the glare. The air was wholesome and warm, and held none of the decay of the Morgul Valley.
They must have reached Ithilien then.
He had no recollection of the journey, barely even remembered the events in the tower of wraiths - and the little he did recall he would just as soon forget.
A shadow fell over him and Aragorn opened his eyes again - he had not even realized that he had let them fall closed once more. One of his brothers was bending over him, concern clear in his silver gaze. "Estel," he greeted, "How do you feel?"
That was an excellent question, Aragorn conceded, and a difficult one. Even determining which one of his brothers he was looking at felt difficult. Elrohir, he decided after a moment longer, it was Elrohir. But that left the question of how he was feeling. Aragorn took careful stock; His head felt heavy, his thoughts were sluggish and his tongue was thick in his mouth as he tried to speak. But he recalled a burning pain in his limbs, agony that burned like fire in his veins, stealing his breath and choking the life out of him before he had fallen unconscious. Now, all that was replaced by a comfortable numbness.
"Exhausted," he finally decided and even though it was the truth, the undeniable weakness of his voice that gave credit to his words surprised him. But Elrohir at least seemed satisfied. The younger twin gave a brief nod as if that was the answer he had expected and reached out to help Aragorn up into a sitting position.
"Do you think you can eat something? Elladan is just about ready with the stew."
"Eat Elladan's cooking? I might be too conscious for that."
"That can always be amended," his oldest brother's voice carried over from the fireside in a fair impression of a threat and Aragorn turned his head to see.
He mustered a roguish grin for Elladan, who was sitting next to a small fire that burned merrily and without smoke in the shadow of the great oak tree. "We both know Elrohir would not let you harm his favorite patient."
"His only patient."
"Ah, but is that your assessment or his? It wouldn't be the first time you conveniently forgot getting injured…" he drew off as a memory suddenly assaulted him. Elladan, lying in the middle of a dark room, clutching at his head even as a Nazgûl bent over him, its ghostly fingers boring into his head.
"I am fine, it is you who - Aragorn?"
But Aragorn barely heard his brother's reply, did not hear the question at the end, his brother's voice rising in concern as he realized that something was amiss. Elrohir knelt down in front of him in a flash, taking his arms, but Aragorn barely noticed. Instead of his brother's worried face he saw his slumped body, lifeless and unable to support himself after the violent death of the orcs that had held him upright. He saw again the destruction that surrounded Elrohir, the destruction he had wrought, saw the limbs and blood and bodies that had spilled across the barren stone floor of the cave in which he had found his brother. The lives he had taken.
Elrohir's hold on his arms shifted and he was safely tilted to the side just before being violently sick. He could recall it so clearly now, the thrum of power, of darkness in his veins, the song of hatred, of earth-shattering destruction. He had wielded it, had set it to a terrible purpose and he had enjoyed it. The ring had promised him freedom, promised him revenge, promised him Gondor - and he had gladly listened.
He was still retching, his body trying to expel the memories of his own actions. He did not hear the soft words of comfort or feel the gentle hand of his brother on his back where it drew small circles. But a sudden warmth flowed across his back and cut through his dark thoughts, a balm of bright energy, an embrace of healing light. It touched the frayed corners of his mind and drove away the darkness that lingered there. With it came a sense of calm, of comfort, of a timeless peace where all hurts could be redressed - and Aragorn stilled his ragged breaths, stilled his violent shaking and breathed.
His eyes fell on the ringfinger of his left hand and there, twinkling innocently in an errant beam of sun that had slipped between the branches of the oak tree above, was the Ring of Barahir. Back where it belonged.
It was his, a sign of his lineage, his destiny, his family.
And in the face of it, Aragorn remembered more. He remembered why he had taken up the Dwarven Ring, tortured, weakened and driven to the edge of despair. He had meant to save his brothers. He cared not for Gondor, for Denethor's victory and the uncertainty of his destiny, no matter the claim of the dark thoughts in his head. Thoughts, that he realized had not been his own, had never been his own. The amplified whispers of the Nazgûl, the treacherous promises and threats of their dark master, the doubt that they had seeded, he had thought was flourishing. But in the face of his brothers' steadfast support, their unwavering loyalty and love he had realized that despair was not his lot. He had been named aptly, with care and foresight.
Estel. Hope.
It had taken him traveling through the dark depths of despair, through terrible trials, to find that hope. Only to realize that it had never been lost, that it was forged from a metal stronger than mithril and brighter than adamant. He would not forsake his destiny, his brothers, would not forsake Middle Earth and he would no longer wonder at the love that Arwen bore him.
She had saved him. She was his guiding star, his pillar and the only destiny he cared for. And she had chosen him. He would not dishonor her love any longer by hesitating to accept it, by second guessing the choice she had made, the pain she had chosen. Instead, he would repay her love with his own, with a promise of forever, and with hope for a better future. A future worth all hardships. A future he would fight for.
He was dimly aware of Elrohir moving him again, gently lowering him down until he could feel the soft grass beneath his back once more.
"Perhaps you will try Elladan's stew another time," Elrohir said but the words barely registered as Aragorn was already falling asleep once more, falling into a dream of light and hope that erased the taint of the Valley of Death from which they had escaped.
-o0o-
"You at least should eat something," Elladan said to his twin after Aragorn had succumbed to the call of sleep once more. He held out a cup of steaming stew, beckoning his twin. 'You will need the energy if you insist on giving what you do not have to spare', was on the tip of his tongue but he withheld his criticism. The truth was Aragorn needed Elrohir's healing. And even if Elrohir was pale and clearly exhausted, and even though Elladan could see the fine tremor in his brother's hands where he raised them to accept the bowl - Aragorn looked worse still.
Their youngest brother was pale enough to appear see-through, as if he might just disappear in a twinkling of Anor's rays. When they had reached the secluded spot amid the forest of Ithilien during the night, Aragorn had looked like a wraith himself. Elladan had half feared that he was fading, fading from their grasp despite their near escape from the tower of the enemies.
Leaving Elrohir to eat his stew, Elladan took over the task of watching after their youngest brother. Aragorn had sustained no physical injury except a hit to the head that had not bled and Elladan felt strangely untethered by that fact, undirected. He would have preferred to busy himself with checking and changing bandages, looking for physical signs to ascertain for himself that his brother was healing, that he would be alright, eventually. But Aragorn's wound was to his spirit, and the older twin lacked his father's and Elrohir's skill of channeling the power of his fëa into a healing touch. Still, there was something he could do.
Resting a gentle hand over his brother's heart, Elladan closed his eyes, dispelling the image in front of his eyes to reach out with other senses. He might not be able to share his energy as his twin could, but he could still see the fëa of living creatures, could still assess their physical and spiritual ailments. And even without a healing touch, Elladan was still a trained and accomplished healer.
What he saw surprised him.
There was no more sign of the marring of Aragorn's spirit, no more cloying darkness that clung to him, trying to drag him into the world of shadows.
"He is healing," he whispered, surprise making his voice come out hushed and almost disbelieving. Elladan opened his eyes and looked at Elrohir, who was smiling weakly. Clearly his twin had come to the same conclusion. The foolish mule could have said something.
"You purged the darkness of the Dwarven Ring?"
Surprisingly Elrohir shook his head. "No. All I did was give Estel the energy to fight, he did the rest. He overcame the darkness under his own strength," he paused for a moment before continuing, "I guess I should not marvel at it in Estel, but he is much more resilient to the touch of evil than any mortal should be. A feat to be envied," his voice drifted off, contemplative.
Elladan's eyes met that of his twin, grave and sincere across the small space between them. He knew what Elrohir had chosen to leave unsaid, what, even after all this time, still occupied him; The darkness that clung to them as surely as the oath of Fëanor had clung to his seven sons. Dormant, almost inconsequential at times but frighteningly easy to conjure and unleash. A hatred that would never be satisfied, a wrong that would never be righted.
Before long Elladan looked away, breaking the connection. The remembered anguish, the suffering at the Nazgûl's hand was still too fresh, the vile hatred still too close to reassure his twin with empty words that would hold no healing.
His roaming gaze fell on the half-eaten bowl of stew in Elrohir's hand - his twin had made no move to eat any more of it.
"You should finish your stew."
A small smile tugged at Elrohir's mouth. "I think I am too conscious for it."
"Funny, you look like you are barely clinging to consciousness as it is."
"And still the stew is unpalatable."
Elladan glowered at his twin until Elrohir dutifully picked up his spoon again and finished the bowl. Only then did he allow him to close his eyes and join Aragorn in the realms of sleep as Elladan went to get himself his own bowl of stew and settled to keep watch over his brothers. They had, none of them, fared very well in the Valley of Death. His own energy was spent, and dangerous memories of the past still roamed freely through his thoughts. Certainly close enough to the surface that Elrohir had noticed. His twin's earlier words were as good as a promise that they would have a very long talk once they were sufficiently recovered.
They all were exhausted of body and of mind - and Elladan could think of only one place this side of the Misty Mountains where their hurts could be addressed.
He would take his brothers to Lothlorien.
-o0o-
Ithil was high in the sky, waxing and close to full, when Elrohir next noted Estel's return to wakefulness. Its light shone through the gaps in the low hanging clouds, bathing their camp into a soft silver glow, a serene light that was mild enough that his brother did not flinch when he first opened his eyes.
Elrohir was at his side the instant he noted Estel's movements, gently coaxing him to full wakefulness, holding a water skin ready should Estel be thirsty. "How do you feel?"
His only answer was a soft groan and Estel waving the water skin away. Elrohir scooted back, giving Estel space, then held out a hand to help his brother up and into a sitting position.
When he offered the water skin again, Estel took it gratefully and emptied it in a few greedy gulps.
"How about now?", he queried again. "How do you feel?"
There was a beat of silence before Estel took a deep breath, almost as if dispelling lingering memories, replacing them with the fresh air of Ithilien. "Better," he answered eventually, "I feel better than I did. Thank you, Elrohir."
"I did not…"
"And I am sorry," Estel said, not letting Elrohir speak, seemingly in a hurry, as if the words weighed heavily on him and he would just as well shed the burden now. "I never should have taken that ring, never should have…"
"Estel", it was Elrohir's turn to interrupt his brother, gentle but with the same sternness that he had used when Estel was but a child growing up in Rivendell. "You saved us. And for that you have my thanks."
"But," Estel persisted and this time Elrohir let him speak, let him clear his mind and his conscience. "The ring, Elrohir, it spoke to me, sung to me, until the melody of its power resonated in my very blood. It was heady, alluring, I was powerful! It gave me the strength to free you, to defeat my enemies, to claim my destiny and destroy Denethor in his arrogance in the Tower of Ecthelion. Gondor would be mine, the crown would be mine, Arwen…," his breath hitched and he halted. "Arwen would be safe," he finished. And where before he had looked at his hands, idly twisting the Ring of Barahir in his fingers, Estel now looked up and his silver gaze, filled with such conviction, unflinchingly met Elrohir's own. "And I wanted it," he admitted, his voice strong, unwavering despite the gravity of his words. "I wanted to claim everything the ring promised me. I heard His voice echoing in the song of power that came from it and I did not care. Your safety was the reason I took the ring in the first place but if I had not taken it off when I did I might have laid waste to the entire Morgul tower, with you and Elladan still in it. All for the pursuit of my own ambitions, my own revenge."
"Yet you did take the ring off," Elrohir reminded him gently.
Aragorn took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I did," he confirmed. He did not try to downplay the significance this time and Elrohir was struck by the surety he conveyed. In that decision at least Estel did not waver - and if offered again, Elrohir felt certain, he would deny the promises of the enemy, the promises of power outright. Estel would not touch another Ring of Power. It had been a harsh trial but his little brother had emerged from it strengthened, matured and powerful.
But even so, some doubt still remained, some self-recrimination for ever listening to the whispers of darkness in the first place. Elrohir could relate to that all too well. "If you had never taken the Ring and used it, we would not be here now," he said.
"You sound as if that would be a certainty."
"Because it is. And not only because I saw the orc scimitar bearing down on my head and knew I lacked the strength to evade it. Thrice now in the past month have I faced the strength of the Nazgûl and suffered bitter defeat. It was folly to come to the Morgul Vale even with the hope of stealth and secrecy. When we were discovered our errand was doomed." He could taste the same bitterness on his tongue that had seeped into his words. But this was not about his failures, it was about Estel's victory, about the strength his little brother had shown, the strength that he still did not seem to understand. "You have done well, Estel! Not only have you saved us, Elladan and I, but you have felt the touch of darkness and found your way back into the light, forswearing it utterly. Few, I think, would have been able to choose likewise and most, even if they so chose, would not have had the strength." He drew off, taking a deep breath before adding in a whisper: "I have not had that strength." The words were true, heartfelt, a statement of fact that he had come to accept but did not relish, a shortcoming he did not often put into words.
But Estel, sweet, young Estel, was quick to contradict him, to come to his brother's aid even if the accuser was himself. Elrohir almost smiled at the brave defense Estel launched: "You suffered great hardship at Denethor's hands, bereft of the light of sun and stars in the dungeons of Minas Tirith and even then you did not bend to the pressure of the Nazgûl. You did not betray my .. secret!"
"And yet, I betrayed enough that Denethor could use it against you." Elrohir raised a hand, staving off the reply, the insistence upon his innocence that Estel was sure to offer. "But that was not the darkness I spoke of."
Estel was quiet then, feeling perhaps what Elrohir was alluding to and knowing better than to pry into that black chapter of his brothers' history. If only it were an abandoned chapter in a book long since closed. But that was not the truth of it. Ever the hatred burnt, demanding blood in payment for crimes committed many generations of orcs ago. Elrohir knew that the hunts Elladan and he undertook served the people of Arnor, that they reduced the chances of another wanderer sharing their mothers' fate, but he could not deny that that was not their primary motivation. He sought the danger, the forgetfulness of battle, he enjoyed silencing the call for bitter revenge inside him with the thick black blood of orcs. Never would he be able to shake the terror of that mountain pass or the memory of carrying Celebrian from the tunnels, broken and barely alive. Only joining his mother beyond the Sundering Seas would ever be able to heal that wound, to quieten the anger and quench the raging fires of hatred.
He could see in Estel's face that his little brother had guessed at the dark paths his mind was wandering and he nodded. "Yes," he said, "darkness ever stalks us into battle." He glanced over then, at the sleeping form of Elladan across their little camp, "perhaps not as noticeable as it once was when Glorfindel threatened to strip us of our command and lock us in our rooms, nor indeed as in control of our actions, but always too close, too easy to conjure. It is rage and hatred that still guides our swords and on occasion blinds our eyes. We may have come to control it, use it even, but we will never be free, we will never forget."
He drew a breath before soldiering on. Estel needed to hear what he had to say: "I tremble to think what I would do if the power to utterly destroy our enemies were given to me." He could not help but think of it regardless and a shudder traveled down his spine. Some things were better not examined too closely, some dark fantasies were better left to the imagination.
But Estel needed to hear these words, had to know just what he had overcome, how worthy he had proven himself once more. As the silence stretched, Estel perhaps still uncertain about what to say, Elrohir continued. "Almost I pity the Nazgûl and their dark lord for the choice they have made, for seeking to corrupt one so strong, so beholden to the light as you. They would have had easier victims available." And there, he had said it, had said out loud what he had silently feared. If Elladan or he had been put to the test, he did not think they would have fared as well as Estel did. No orcs would have escaped the rubble he would have made of the Morgul tower, and most likely neither would he, not unchanged at least.
But it seemed Estel was too characteristically stubborn to discern his words, to understand the praise and scale of his achievement. His words were still tinged with self-reproach and the whispers of doom when he spoke: "He chose me because he thought me a normal man, a hapless companion, one to easily be overpowered and turned against you. That he did not succeed might tell him much about the secret he has been hunting ever since we escaped Minas Tirith."
"Or it might seed doubt in his mind, for if an ordinary man from Gondor could withstand him, he will not be so quick to disregard the remnants of Numenor that lie at his western border." Elrohir said, trying to comfort Estel and to dispel the air of failure that his brother still wore around him like a cloak. "Either way it would be best, I deem, for you to return to the North and to stay there for a while to escape the questing gaze of the enemy. Elladan thinks we should head to Lothlorien and I agree, our grandmother's borders would stop any pursuit and her land is wholesome for troubled hearts and minds."
Estel's head snapped up suddenly at the mention of Lorien and Elrohir could see the gleam in his brother's eyes, the longing paired with uncertainty and he smiled in earnest. The very air seemed to sing in response to the change that overcame Estel at the mere mention of the place where Arwen danced between the trees. "But I sense that it is not the land that would ease your heart," Elrohir chuckled, happy for the change of topic, the reminder of what it was they were fighting for. Love, family, peace. "Arwen will be glad to see you," he affirmed, before adding slily: "As a recompense for the letter you never sent her."
Predictably, Estel glowered and Elrohir laughed. Yet, beneath the mock affront there was still a lingering doubt in his young brother's eyes, a near painful uncertainty. For all that he had come to accept his destiny, had found new strength against the ever encroaching darkness, he would still need to accept that Arwen gave her love to him freely and gladly. Not for destiny, or duty or title, but because her heart had chosen him.
Elrohir reached out to place a hand on his brother's shoulder. "She has chosen you, Aragorn, and the world is a brighter place for the happiness that you have returned to her."
And it was. The world seemed brighter, not just because the sun rose above the dark mountains in the east, filtering through the green leaves of the oak tree above them, bathing Ithilien in its light. For a while yet, this land remained free of the shadow of Mordor, and though their path had been perilous, had nearly ended in disaster, they had won an important victory. For a time, the plans of the enemy would be stalled; He would need time to replenish his army. And perhaps more importantly, their victory might make Sauron hesitate, make him question his perception of the strength of those that would oppose him. It was good to remind him that he was not so mighty yet as to be above fear.
Elrohir breathed deeply of the fresh air of this eastern province of Gondor, cleansing the shadows of the Morgul Vale. He felt lighter for having spoken his fears and thoughts to Estel, and now more than ever he was convinced that their father had chosen aptly in naming the little boy they had brought back to Rivendell all those many years ago. He was their hope against the darkness that infested this world, his hope for peace in Middle Earth and in his heart.
Elladan stirred and their eyes met when Elrohir looked over. The shadow of disturbed memories was still lurking behind his twin's eyes and he knew that his brother would be able to feel the turmoil his own dark musings had caused, but together they would reign in the familiar darkness once more, would smoothen the churning waves of vile, uncompromising hatred. The peace in Lothlorien would help with that.
-o0o-
to be concluded...
A/N: Only the epilogue to go, which means we are practically done with the trilogy proper :O I can't quite believe it. Still, one more week to go before it is all over, and in the meantime I'd love to hear what you thought about this week's chapter, because, Elbereth, did I love writing it! As always your feedback and encouragement are so very very appreciated! A heartfelt thank you to everyone who left a review!
