Some of you have read parts of this already when I posted it amid a bit of controversy on a couple of boards last fall. Since then, I've revised the chapter a fair amount and added over four hundred words of new text. Please take the time to review—I would very much like to hear what you think.

A very heartfelt thanks to the great writers of the LC for serving as my beta readers on this story, and a special thanks to gwynnyd for all of her useful advice and suggestions.

Again, a strong warning that this deals with very dark, mature subject matter. Some may find this chapter to be disturbing.

"Estel?"

Faces swirled around him in the haze. Dirty, ugly faces that came too close and, with foul, stinking breath, spoke too coarsely. "Wake up, boy! Don't think yer gonna get out of this so easy! I won't 'ave ya sleepin' through this!"

"Do you wake?"

This voice, though, was not harsh and malicious, but lyrical and kind, and, despite his fear of what he might see, Aragorn reluctantly willed his eyes to open. Blinking against the dim light, which still to him seemed too bright, he briefly strained to bring his vision into focus. When he saw clearly who stood above him, he was filled with a sense of relief, and for a moment, he almost smiled. "Father," he said as he started to push himself up, only to be stopped abruptly with a gasp at the painful pull of wounds he did not expect.

Elrond's hand came immediately to his shoulder, gently preventing him from further movement. "Rest there, Estel, and be still. Your body needs time to heal."

Aragorn noticed now he was not his chambers, but a healing room, and he obediently slumped back against the pile of pillows that supported him. In truth, his pain was too great to do anything else. The sheer drapes had been drawn to filter the daylight. "Why am I here?"

"You do not remember, son?" His father's voice sounded so sombre.

With a sigh, Aragorn turned his head to face the opposite wall. His recent memories were hazy and vague, and, though he sensed this was likely for the best, still his mind struggled to fill in the blanks. How had he ended up in the healing ward in such pain? He could recall that he had been in the forest. But why? "She is too far above you." Elrond's blunt words to him came back with clarity, and he frowned. But there was more. What did he find in the woods? Men. There were men!

A dull pain throbbed in his arms, which lay outside the blankets, and Aragorn glanced down at his hands. Why were his wrists bandaged? He strained to remember. That strange bitter taste in his ale! His arms and legs failed him and he fell to the ground, as helpless and weak as an old rag doll. Those vile men crowded around and Will spoke: "Tie 'is hands behind 'is back with this 'ere rope. An' make it tight! We don' want im gettin' loose on us!" His ribs ached too and he could feel the pressure of a bandage wrapped firmly around his chest as well. A muddy old boot landed soundly on his side and he heard a crack. Instinctively, he curled into a ball to try to protect himself from further pain. "I said wake up boy! I want ya to feel this!" The bed seemed to sway as a dizziness overtook him and his breath came in shallow gasps. Rough hands grabbed him, forcing him onto his stomach, and a knee on his neck pushed his face into the ground. As he fought for breath, the coppery taste of his own blood mixed with dirt in his mouth...

Closing his eyes, he shook his head vigorously, but still he could not stop the sudden flood of memories as missing fragments fell into place, and his body began to shake against his will. A hand came to rest lightly on his brow, and he pulled away quickly from the touch, withdrawing as if in pain. His eyes shot open in terror and, to his shame, he saw Elrond standing above him, his hand hovering in the air where but a moment before Aragorn's head had rested. As Elrond slowly lowered his arm again, Aragorn thought that he had never seen his father look so sad. "Are you cold, son? Is there anything you need?"

"There is naught you can do for me," came Aragorn's quick response. Harsh perhaps, but true: he was beyond anyone's aid now. He shut his eyes again, for he did not want to see, he did not want to think, he did not want to remember. Still, he felt the comforting weight of another blanket placed upon him, and though there was silence for a time, he knew that Elrond remained close by. Why was he still here? Why did he hover so? Why would he not just leave him be?

"Estel," Elrond said quietly, "your mother waits outside. She wishes to see you."

Squeezing his eyes closed tightly, he resisted the tears that threatened to fall. She would see, she would know. He could never bear to face her! He could not bear the shame! "No! Send her away."

"She is worried about you. She needs to see you."

Aragorn's eyes snapped open and he turned to look at Elrond again. The one who had always called him 'son' looked down on him now with weary eyes that seemed so very full of care. But was it merely the concern of a healer for his patient? How could it be anything other, when Aragorn had utterly failed them all? Trying to wrap the shreds of his dignity around him, he struggled to maintain his composure, but again he failed, and he could not stop his voice from rising in anger. "I will not see her! Do you not understand? I cannot! Now leave me be!"

With a small shake of his head, Elrond did not move as he responded quietly: "I fear it is unwise to leave you alone now, son."

"I am not your son!" What had Elrond said to him about his own daughter? "...she is of a lineage greater than yours..."

Elrond bowed his head briefly, and drew in a breath. When he looked up again, his face bore a kind yet firm expression. "Aragorn, listen to me! I know you grieve and suffer greatly, but I tell you truly, those who love you grieve and suffer too with you. Grief is a wound that no one can heal on their own. I have seen the damage that is wreaked when grief is denied, or pushed aside, and left alone to fester. I have seen how grief will consume a body from within till naught is left but a thin and hollow shell. Do not turn away those who seek to help you, those who love you."

Love him? How could anyone love him now? "Many years of trial lie before you," his own father—no Master Elrond—had told him. Well, already he had been put to the test, and already he had failed. He did not want to remember, but as much as he tried to resist, he could not stop his traitorous mind from pulling out images from the haze. Coarse laughter and crude words, foul breath and rough hands, pain and humiliation, cold air on bare skin... He shook his head sharply in a vain attempt to stop the flood of his thoughts. "A great doom awaits you," Elrond had said, "either to rise above the height of all you fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin." Not only had he, Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Lord of the Dúnedain, fallen, but by common men been brought lower than a dog in the dirt.

He looked at Elrond again, and he spoke quietly, and with apparent calm, but the icy coldness of his voice surprised even himself: "Leave. Now." Hardly the proper way to speak to the master in the master's own house, but he was far past propriety. "And shut the door."

For a moment, Elrond stood completely still, and to Aragorn, he had never before looked so uncertain. Finally, Elrond conceded with a slight tip of his head, and when he answered, he bore an expression of pure sorrow. "As you wish."

With that, he turned and walked out the door, closing it firmly behind him. The room was silent and still, and Aragorn was left with naught but his pain and his memories. His father had abandoned him to his grief. But Master Elrond was not his father, and how could Aragorn fault him for doing as he had bid and leaving? Was Aragorn not the one who had failed them all? Brought lower than a dog in the dirt...

Biting down hard on his lip to stifle the sob that threatened to escape, he closed his eyes and tried again to will the horrible images away with deep, even breaths. Immediately, though, his efforts were hindered by the strip of linen wrapped tightly around his chest and the pain in his ribs. It was but one of the constant aches that served ever to remind him of his failure and his shame. How could he possibly endure this? How would he survive? Did he even wish to?

The soothing scent of athelas filled the air, and the sheets smelled of lavender. His wounds had been tended and wrapped in soft, fresh bandages, his body scrubbed and clothed in a crisp new nightshirt. And yet, despite every outward appearance of cleanliness and order, never before had he felt so unclean, so out of control. Releasing a shallow, shaky breath, he grasped desperately at the fine linens beneath him as his hands clenched into fists, and there, in the safety of his solitude, he wailed out his grief to an empty room.

That is the end of what I have already written, and I don't know when I'll be able to get the next chapter out. The summer is a pretty busy time. But, I can tell you that reviews do please me, and inspire me, and motivate me to keep writing. Praise, critique, discussion, debate—I don't mind, as long as I know readers are still interested.