~By the Thread of Hope~

"The eagles! The eagles are here!" Aragorn heard a hobbits voice, perhaps Pippin's, cry out in wonder somewhere above the clash of the raging battle. He swung Andúril in an arc towards yet another oncoming orc in their never-ending tirade. Flicking his blood and sweat-soaked hair from his eyes, he disengaged the orc of its own weapon, and with a weary grunt, drove his sword into the poorly armoured body before kicking it back off his blade. Turning in time, Aragorn blocked the cutlass of a Haradrim warrior. The enemy man was ruthless but tired, and so Aragorn pivoted around him, the action supping his own energy as he dodged fallen bodies and weapons and avoided blood-soaked mud. He caught the cutlass again against his own blade and threw his weight towards the other man, twisting his arm with his opponent's blade and throwing him off balance. He stepped aside and stumbled further over a fallen Rohirrim's body, and Aragorn took his chance, gutting the Harad.

There was no glory in battle. In every direction were the bodies of the fallen. Gondor men, Rohirrim, his own Rangers and… possibly elves. Blood of the enemy, mixed with the free peoples of Middle Earth, soiled the torn up earth. Free people… how long would they remain free? How much longer could they outlast this battle? How long until every one of them had fallen by the hands of the enemy?

Aragorn hefted his blade, weary muscles protesting as he struck an orc in the neck, bringing him down. He felt a dull sting across his lower back and stumbled forward, around the orc he'd felled; spinning to face his new adversary. A hill troll loomed over him; tall and broad with a leathery hide. The troll lunged at him with a spiked mallet and Aragorn dodged back. There came a clear-voiced battle cry, and Pippin sank his short blade into the troll's haunch. The creature bellowed out savagely and spun towards his attacker, sending the hobbit flying to land in a heap.

The troll made to pursue, but Aragorn was quicker; swinging Andúril high and carving through the vile creature's thick neck. Blood sprayed warm and thick and he shut his eyes, turning away, only to be shoved roughly down. He rolled instinctively, barely missing the point of a blade aimed at him before an angered roar cut over the cries and clashes of the battle, and suddenly a hard hand was hauling him upright. Gimli.

"Yeh right?" The dwarf rumbled as he turned and swung his heavy axe into another orc, felling it to its knees before cracking his axe blade into its skull. Aragorn didn't have time to answer as he became caught up with one of the larger, hideously contorted orcs. The beast slammed the hilt of its blade hard into his shoulder and a seizing numbness spread from the impact, threatening to render his right shoulder and arm useless. Teeth grit, he swapped sword hands and moved, jumping over a body as the orc swung his blade hard and fast. Aragorn blocked it, barely. His strength was waning swiftly and hope that they could have somehow given Frodo the time he needed had left him moments before he'd last seen Legolas standing high upon the black rock of the cliffs; a silver light among encroaching darkness. A silver light he was certain in his heart shone no more.

The large orc drove his blade down and Aragorn dropped and rolled, avoiding the beast again, the stench of bloodied mud overpowering as he moved level with it.

"Give up, you will not win this." The orc growled out roughly, showing jagged, brown teeth.

"Not while I still draw breath!" He cried out breathlessly, for despite the hopelessness of it all, despite how they, the men, which still drew breath floundered now in a gathering sea of the enemy—lapping like a tide ever coming in to overpower them all and cast them away, Aragorn would still fight to the very end. He drove Andúril into the orc's calf muscle, causing him to stumble precariously. Enraged, the creature charged him, and large, rough hands grasped him, hauling him up by the neck. This was the end, he would die here, his blood mingling with the blood of his people, his enemy.

He heard the orc snarl in his face, but it was a distant sound. The sound of his own heartbeat filled his ears and a vision of Arwen, alight in pure starlight, flashed before his eyes and then it seemed the world darkened a little and he heard words, screaming, screaming in the black tongue. He felt the grip of the orc loosen and he fell upon the churned-up battleground. Wraiths wailed as their fell beasts screeched and wheeled in the fiery crimson sky above.

Aragorn watched from the flat of his back as giant eagles attacked the fell beasts again and again, giving chase as the vile black creatures fled towards the mountain. Aragorn scrambled to stand. Something had changed. Fire no longer burned into his eyes as he looked over the heads of the enemy and to the open gates. The eye of Sauron, it had turned; focused blisteringly upon Mount Doom, where the remaining Nazgul flew. Could it be? An orc rushed him, and he fought it off with renewed strength, renewed hope. Just maybe this had not all been in vain.

"Stand! Stand men of the West!" Gandalf's booming voice resonated through his very bones as the enemy seemed to hesitate, eyes fixed upon the mountain. "Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom!" The wizard's words both chilled him and stirred a hope deep within his heart, and Aragorn struggled to his feet and took up the wizard's cry.

"Men of Rohan, of Gondor, all free peoples of Middle Earth; stand for the hour is now!" Even as he cried out, the earth rocked beneath his feet and then there was a rushing in his ears which drowned out all other sound and it seemed all the fiery light in the grey sky streamed swiftly towards Sauron's great eye. Aragorn watched, frozen in place, as the eye seemed to writhe and roll desperately as if it were injured. The ground rumbled and flames and smoke erupted from the fiery mountain. One by one, dark towers and structures of the enemy teetered and fell; crashing, crumbling, the earth falling away beneath their infrastructure. And then the ground seemed to fall away, great cavernous holes appearing like dark, foreboding maws into the earth. With a rush of loud, chaotic sound, Aragorn could hear again. Around him the enemy ran hither and thither in confused torment; Haradrim and Easterlings taking their own lives and orcs and trolls turning on each other.

The air was filled with the screams of the enemy as they hewed their lives away or fell into the spreading pits. Above all the noise of death, the wails of Nazgul rent the air, and louder, harsher, almost pitiful; the silent yet piercing scream of Sauron, as the dark fire of the great eye seemed to pour in on itself, turned inwards until surely it would destroy itself. The eye gave one last terrible shriek and imploded.

Aragorn shielded his eyes as a hard shockwave of a dark, fiery light knocked every man stumbling back. Aragorn struggled to remain afoot, watching through slitted eyes as the tower of the great eye crumbled in on itself and fall. As it finally hit the ground, a second shock wave of dust and shadow and smoke eclipsed the first, washing over them all. Those enemies who remained alive now fled, some falling into pits, others making their way east, into the rocky hills. It was over. Frodo, he'd done it! Aragorn stared like many others in near disbelief, for the great eye, Sauron, was no more.

"The realm of Sauron has ended!" Gandalf cried out as the remaining captains of the West stumbled forth to stand by his side. "The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his quest!" A hush fell and then Mount Doom erupted, liquid fire spilling from the mouth of the mountain.

"Frodo!" Merry cried out from beside him, and he heard Gimli gasp in horror to his left. They'd lost too many, after everything, after all Frodo had endured to reach Mount Doom, it could not end like this. He turned searchingly to the old Wizard. He returned him a hopeful gaze and then a shadow passed over them. Gandalf held up his arm to be caught up by a great eagle's talon, the bird's great wingbeats taking him swiftly higher into the sky and towards the molten mountain.

"Aye they have to be alright!" Gimli cried out as he came to stand closer to Aragorn's side.

"Estel!" He heard his Elven name and turned to see Elrohir running towards him through the strewn, bloodied bodies. The Elf placed a hand on his shoulder as he glanced around. "Aerlaer, she is not down here with you?" Aragorn felt his heart twist. Had they survived? Or had Legolas seen the hopelessness he'd conveyed what felt like a lifetime earlier.

"She was last with Legolas." He whispered out, not trusting his voice. He turned to the other commanders; they were awaiting his direction, he realized. "Take care of the remaining of the enemy if they give trouble." He ordered. "Priority is the wounded; we need the horses retrieved to move these injured men to better ground, and a camp set up to treat and to rest." There were nods and he turned away and came face to face with a bloodied Taurorn and automatically pulled him into a half embrace. "I am glad to see you!" He said in relief as he noticed Gimli hauling up an injured but otherwise okay Pippin. The two Hobbits, Gimli, Taurorn and Elrohir were fine and now he to saw Elladan; the way he held himself, bearing an injury. Relief flooded him, but icy dread clutched at his heart and he broke into a run to search out his dearest friend.

…

He'd climbed up the rocky side of a hill and now he stood frozen, not willing to believe, unable to comprehend the sight before him. It could not be, it could not. The truth lay pale and unmoving upon the cold, black rock. Legolas and Aerlaer were gone. Poison stained their slightly parted lips blue and the deathly glass bottle lay cast aside by the elleth's side. Behind him a cry of devastation shattered the eerie silence which lingered, and Elrohir pushed past him. Falling to his knees, the elf gathered up Aerlaer's limp form, pulling the dead elleth against his chest, his body soon trembling with each wracking sob

"Why?" He cried out in anguish, in anger. "By the Valar, why!"

"No!" Aragorn was aware of another voice filled with the same excruciating pain and suddenly Elladan knelt beside his brother, eyes searching his dead cousin as his own tears fell and then turning to Legolas and then finally the small, empty vial. "I don't understand, who could have done this?" He cried out in aggrieved confusion.

Aragorn felt his legs moving finally and mutely he knelt beside Legolas and touched his fingers to the elf's pale cheek. His skin was cold like marble. Never more would he see the mischief and laughter in his friend's soulful eyes, never be humbled again by his kind and pure heart. He'd thought there was no hope and as always Legolas had followed his command. He'd followed his word, his belief to his very last breath, and now his friend would breathe no more. A raw, anguished and guilt-ridden sob worked its way from the depths of his heart and found its way to his lips. Bitter tears pricked like needles and then one by one fell.

"Sauron wanted them both." He whispered. "To keep them alive."

"A fate worse than death." Elladan murmured.

"A fate they could only avoid in death." Elrohir whispered shakily, and Aragorn nodded. He heard heavy footfalls and yet another cry of anguish, this one deeper. Gimli sank to his knees beside him, shaking his head in pure disbelief.

"No, no, no." He sobbed. "We were meant to travel now all this is over; go to the caves, the forest…" He bowed his head unable to continue as sobs wracked his usually sturdy frame.

Aragorn tried to muster his strength, his composure, but it was a frayed thread. His two companions, always so full of life, of light, they were dead. He gathered up Legolas's limp body and stood, holding the lifeless elf carefully in his arms. Elrohir did likewise, cutting away part of the length of Aerlaer's dress to free her of the web of the giant spider which lay crumpled dead only feet away.

Elladan and Gimli retrieved their fallen weapons and followed as Aragorn led, making his way down towards where a steady stream of horses gathered. He was vaguely aware of a hush amongst the men as they parted for them. Each bowed their head in respect, in sorrow for all, including himself, had witnessed the moment both elves truly became creatures of light as they faced and fought the darkness of the wraiths side by side and the giant spider.

Now all light had faded from them, and he wondered if the dull ache in his chest would ever cease, but it had only just begun, for still he could not comprehend each elf would not be awakening. They were not merely sleeping. Their souls were probably on their way if not already in the Halls of Mandos; a place where only elves could remain, a place out of his mortal reach. Éomer approached, leading forward the twins' mares and his own Brego. Arod and Shadowfax followed of their ownwill,l and the great Meara stallion let out a distressed whinny as he came to stand and then nuzzle at Aerlaer's lifeless form.

"Tents are being pitched a mile hither from here." Imrahil murmured with a bowed head as he came to stand beside Éomer. Without so much as a word, Brego and Elrohir's mare sank low to their knees and Aragorn climbed into his saddle; Éomer helping to settle the lifeless elf before him. Brego rose to stand tall and without a cue, he turned and broke into a swift gallop, following Elrohir and Elladan's mares away from the carnage and the stench of battle.

…

Gwaihir carried him high over the smoke and ruin and through clouds towards a slowly growing scattering of cream tents. Four horses galloped swiftly towards the tents, and Gandalf recognized Shadowfax as the one riderless horse. He knew the meaning behind the Meara's action, and fear pierced his heart. Gwaihir was then spiraling downwards, and gently he laid down the unconscious, bloodied hobbit he'd cradled in his large talons. Gandalf slid down from the great Lord of the skies as his young brother, Meneldor eased the second hobbit carefully from his own talons.

"Thank you, my friends." He said fervently to the two eagles, and they tipped their heads before launching themselves, with great wingbeats, back into the air. Gandalf turned to each unconscious hobbit before the sound of hoofbeats caught his attention and the riders and Shadowfax halted before him and the tents.

It was a sorry sight. Aragorn slid from the saddle; Legolas lifeless in his arms as Elrohir leapt down carrying the limp body of Aerlaer. Their bodies had not stiffened yet in death and for that relief flooded Gandalf's heart and he delved deep into an inner pocket of his cloak and froze. It was gone. The second vial the Lady had given him was not there. Hastily he checked his three other pockets, but the vial of golden liquid light was truly gone. He looked in horror now at the two lifeless elves as Aragorn saw the two hobbits upon the ground for the first time.

"Frodo? Sam?" He choked out, his voice already broken in grief and it was enough for Gandalf to spring into action for there was not a moment of time to waste.

"Aragorn, Elrondian, you must return to the battle grounds!" He cried out urgently, rushing forward, startling them.

"I have seen more death than I can bear!" Elrohir cried out despairingly as he gripped his cousin.

"All is not lost if it can be found! Life remains out there in a vial of liquid gold!" He rushed out, making barely any sense for their confused gazes.

"There is no antidote for Swift Death." Elladan whispered.

"That is not Swift Death, and there is an antidote but it seems I lost it in battle. There is no time to lose, for their souls still linger barely and will soon leave their bodies when the poison takes full hold."

Elladan stared at him disbelieving as Elrohir suddenly laid his cousin down and placed a hand over her heart, closing his eyes in concentration. He gasped and leapt to his feet. "She is still here!" He cried out and without waiting, leapt up onto his mare and sent her bolting wildly back towards the Black Gate.

"And Legolas too!" Elladan uttered in wonder as he examined the elf where Aragorn had laid him beside Aerlaer.

"Quickly you must go, for I do not know how long they have." Gandalf urged, and both elf and ranger leapt upon their steeds and galloped away. Gandalf directed the six men who had rushed from the tents to carry the two elves and hobbits into the shelter, and there they laid them down upon prepared bedrolls. The four members of the Fellowship looked so pale, so lifeless, but Gandalf knew they were not but while two would undeniably survive, the other two hung precariously by a fraying thread.

"Is there anything we can do?" A man asked quietly a little way behind him and Gandalf shook his head.

"Not yet, tend to those you can." He replied as he hoped beyond all hope it would not be too late for the elves, that they could find the golden vial before the poison took complete hold. If it did, the thread they clung to would irrevocably break.

…

Bregon hauled a barely conscious comrade into one of the waiting, emptied supply wagons which had been brought down from beyond the gates. The blonde-haired man muttered incoherently in severe pain as Bregon eased him amongst others of the wounded. He heard erratic hoof beats and looked up to see one of the dark-haired Elves leap wildly from his horse and begin racing about as if he searched something. Baffled, Bregon turned from the cart and carefully walked through the bodies of the fallen, searching out those who still clung to life.

The vast power of Sauron's army in full force had been both terrifying and strangely awe-inspiring. No force could have withstood such evil. They should not have. Now he knew why they had. The One Ring had been destroyed. The wizard, ever a persuader of events, had declared so himself. He had known of this Quest and perhaps, been a part of it? Murmurs had been spreading amongst the men of a Fellowship of the races of Middle Earth joined to defy Sauron himself and destroy the Ring. Bregon had begun piecing together parts of these rumours and suspected there had been more to the ranger, dwarf and two elves who travelled together.

The elves... Aerlaer was dead. He'd seen her lifeless body in the arms of the dark-haired elf who had returned moments before. Poisoned, Imrahil had said. It left Bregon feeling a bitter sadness. Such a waste of life and beauty. He'd seen the great spider himself as it had reared up, an age-old monolithic monster. He suddenly wished to see the great defeated beast and began making his way up the rocky hillside. Archers lay fallen dead as he climbed the rise and then stood before the place where the great spider had fallen, dark, hairy body stiff and legs curled in, rigorous in death. Upon the dark rocky cliffs were patches of web and marks blacker than ash upon the rock. A cold, eerie breeze blew almost unnaturally. He turned towards the gusts to be met by a low but sheer wall of black rock, shrouded in shadow.

The breeze seemed to come from a dark, narrow crevice in the wall and curiously he walked towards the gap. The icy breeze curled around him, drawing him in and his broad shoulders scraped against rock as he entered through the narrow slit. The breeze now seemed to push him into the rocky tunnel and he shuffled his way in further and further until, after twenty feet, it opened out into a natural chamber.

It was not dark like he expected it would be. Murky half-light somehow still filtered in. The breeze had vanished, but the air was chilling. The space seemed empty, yet he felt as if there was another presence with his own. A dark glimmer caught Bregon's eye, and he turned, walked forward and knelt to the cavern floor. Reaching out, his fingers curled around the handle of a blade, moulding perfectly as if his hand were meant to hold it. He lifted the sword, and it glittered darkly; wrought of a black steel he had never beheld before. He ran his hand along the broad of the blade and it was cold like ice and he trembled, for instinctively he knew this was a sword of power.

The cold breeze now seemed to be in his mind, whispering of his wants, his desires. With this sword he could command great armies and rule the very world with a queen by his side and all would do his bidding. The icy coldness of the blade seeped through his skin and into his blood, and he welcomed the feeling of unparalleled power as the coldness infused with his very heart. He cast away his own sword, letting the inferior steel clatter to the stony floor, and sheathed the glittering black blade at his hip. Silently, he made his way back out of the cavern.

It seemed now many searched as the dark-haired elf lord had earlier and as he passed by the fallen spider and made his way back down the rocky hillside, Imrahil approached him.

"Bregon, where have you been? We need all the eyes that can be spared!" The Prince of Dol Amroth rushed out in haste.

"To search for the living, yes I have been." He replied.

"Nay, to search for a vial of golden liquid to save the elves!" He explained. "Help us look!" A vial? Surely an antidote of sorts. A way to bring Aerlaer back, for she must still just cling to life! The cold whispers stirred again in his mind and a smile played on his lips as he too began the search for this elusive vial.

…

"I've found it!" Elrohir whipped his head around at the shout and his eyes sought the owner of the voice; a young soldier holding his hand high in the air, a small vial of golden liquid safely in his grasp. Elrohir broke into a dead run as too did Elladan from across the torn, body strewn ground, but it was he who reached the young man first.

"Quickly, take it to them, they saved mine and my comrades' lives!" The young man said as he thrust the vial into Elrohir's trembling hand. He held the vial protectively to his chest and cast about for his mare, but instead saw the great Meara stallion bearing down intently on him. Realizing the horse's intentions, he clasped the vial safely and reached out, grasping long, silky mane and vaulting up onto the horse, barely staying astride as Shadowfax spun and shot like an arrow away from the black gate and towards the tents over the rise, where the wood-elf and elf-horse lay, their spirits barely lingering, somewhere between life and death.

…

Shadowfax barely felt the light weight of the elf lord upon his back, but he felt the weight of that which he held. He understood the item they had searched would bring the elf-horse back from the land of unknown pastures. He pushed his hooves swiftly into the churned-up earth, pushing himself faster, ever faster forward. He'd felt Aerlaer's soul, and it had barely been teetering like a leaf about to fall by a winter breeze. He drove himself on swifter, swifter, and saw the movement of white tents and then they were amongst them and he skidded haphazardly to a stop as the elf leapt from his back. Mithrandir hurried out from a tent and the dark-haired elf ran to meet him and together they disappeared inside the tent. Shadowfax moved forward to stand beside the entrance and to wait.

…

Gimli threw himself off Aragorn's tall horse, rolling and leaping up and bolted towards the tent the great white stallion guarded for surely that was where the elves and Gandalf were. Aragorn jogged beside him and together they entered as Elladan raced in with them, Pippin and Merry safely in tow. Gimli immediately sought his fallen friends and then blinked. Beside the two lifeless elves lay the forms of Frodo and Sam. With cries of astonishment, Merry and Pippin rushed to their sides as Elladan went to the elves. Aragorn felt torn, but Gimli automatically moved to kneel near the silvery blonde elf.

"And now all we can do it wait and hope beyond all hope it will work." Gandalf spoke solemnly to Elrohir.

"What do you mean hope?" The ashen faced elf asked nervously from where he sat cross-legged holding Aerlaer's pale, limp hand. "We reached them in time, their souls still linger."

"Yes, but the poison and the antidote have never been used before; the Lady had them created in haste for this very purpose; for if Legolas saw there was no other way to escape Sauron's evil grasp. Its use was always a risk and now we have done all that can be done." Gimli felt his heart, which had moments ago been soaring, plummet at this new revelation. They couldn't die. They were too troublesome, too reckless, and too full of life to die! If this was victory, he very nearly did not want it.

"Elladan, Aragorn will you aid in attending to Frodo and Sam?" Gandalf now turned to the still hobbits and there was movement as the twin moved, devoid of his usual grace to kneel beside Sam as Aragorn began asking a lingering man for healing supplies.

Gimli sat dejectedly in the middle, feeling useless, for he did not have the hands of a healer or the skill. He watched on as the ranger took strips of material soaked in a warm tincture of athelas and carefully washed the bloodied stub, all of which remained of one of Frodo's fingers. Elladan's hands emitted a soft glow as the elf healed the hobbit from within. The two healers' steady work calmed Gimli's fearful heart. Surely in this environment of peace, both hobbits and elves would awaken. Gandalf's uncertainty however kept dread lurking within his mind. It seemed Elrohir still struggled, but now the elf was carefully entwining both Legolas's and Aerlaer's hands together to rest in the gap between them.

"So they might still hopefully know they are still with each other, so one does not leave the other." He murmured hoarsely as a fresh tear rolled down his cheek. Gimli nodded silently before looking back to watch Aragorn's work again. It unsettled him, seeing the usually precise composure of elves so frayed and precarious. Gimli was not one who usually bothered in praying or asking for such guidance or help, for it was those who took matters into their own hands who achieved great things, but now he bent his head and he prayed. He prayed to Aulë that his friends, his dear friends, would awaken and be well and full of mirth again. He prayed neither would be parted from the other, for he understood if one should leave this world, the other would not linger. He then prayed for the hobbits, for Sam and for Frodo. He prayed that they would awaken, unburdened of all grief and memory of the perils they had surely faced as they had journeyed these bitter lands of shadow alone. He prayed all would be well and save for Boromir's soul; they would all be reunited again, the Fellowship who set out from Rivendell all those months before. He ended his prayers in the ancient and secret language of his people, of Khuzdul. There was now nothing left to do but wait and to hope.

Thanks for your lovely reviews!

zikashigaku - Thank you, glad you enjoyed it! Hehe, yeah I can't give up my cliffhanger rep! Sauron will care for, three...two...one...poof! He's gone!

Katara Melody Cullen - Thanks!

Tobiramamara - Hehehe *laughs evily!

PrettyRecklessLaura - Thanks! :D

Carpathian Princess - Thank you! :)

mystarlight - Thank you so much! I loved writing Aragorn's scenes!