3

"You do not trust him, do you?" Legolas observed in a hushed tone, nodding to where Nick lay, coiled in on himself and sleeping.

"I do not," Aragorn agreed, frowning. "Or rather, I do not trust whatever brought him here. The boy himself is honest enough, I deem, but the forces which brought him here, by land or sea, I doubt. Few have such power in Arda in these dark days."

"You fear that he comes from Mordor?"

"I think he may. I fear far worse," Aragorn replied, and shivered. "We should not speak of this, Legolas. Not while the moon is dark."

The elf nodded. "As you wish. Do we follow his advice, then? Do we travel overland to Gondor?"

Aragorn fell silent for a long moment, then sighed deeply. "What choice do we have? Boromir will not go by river, and Gimli seems to agree with him, the hobbits too. We cannot risk breaking the Company further." He sank his head into his hands, staring through his laced fingers at the flickering campfire. "I feel we are being corralled, Legolas, driven into some corner from which we cannot escape. Ever since the boy appeared, this feeling has hung over me – darkness. Darkness inescapable."

Legolas nodded understanding. "I too feel it in the air," he said, his voice low and worried. "Cloying and thick. But we must not lose hope, Estel."

Aragorn looked up sharply at the use of the name Elrond had given him, then sighed. "Hope…" he murmured. "I fear I left it long ago. I have lost both estel andEstel, and both lie far, far from here."

"There is hope still," Legolas told him, looking up at the stars. "As long as the Ringbearer lives, as long as the darkness can be held back, there is hope still."

Aragorn nodded reluctantly, drawing his lips tightly together. "There may be hope yet," he conceded, "but with each passing day, it becomes harder to see. Harder to touch. My heart rests ill, Legolas."

"Then your body should rest better," the elf replied, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. "You are not invulnerable, heir of Isildur. You are but a man, and men must sleep. I will stand guard."

Again, the Ranger nodded. But, though he lay down (hand resting ever on the hilt of Anduril) and closed his eyes, he remained sleepless, still and silent, until dawn's light tinged the horizon grey, and only the brighter stars remained in the heavens.

It was then that, at last, sleep claimed him, and he relaxed into the embrace of oblivion, however brief.

And brief it was, for it seemed mere moments later that a great shout woke him.

"Yrch! Yrch!" Legolas cried, loosing another arrow into the shadows. Aragorn was awake at once, his blade leaping into his hand. Around him, their makeshift camp was in upsurge; Merry and Pippin stood back to back, knives in hand, Gimli had taken up position by the boats and hefted his axe as though he would happily have fought the entire forces of Mordor for waking him at such an unholy hour (the sun was not yet up, and he too had slept late), and Boromir had thrust a knife into Nick's hands and leapt away to the edge of the camp, ready to stand and fight whatever might come out of the shadows. The boy looked lost, terrified, and very young, clutching the long hunting knife as though it were his anchor to life. Aragorn felt a momentary stab of pity as he pushed past him, dropping into a low guard at the other edge of the little camp to Boromir.

There was a moment of perfect stillness.

Then they came.

All at once, Aragorn understood why he had seen so few Orcs lurking in the woods. There were hundreds here, far more than had been at the battle which had almost seen Boromir's death. Reinforcements! Now, more than ever, he cursed himself for not having pressed onwards, for not having made Boromir see the need to move on.

It was hardly a great army, but against six wanderers and an untrained boy, it might as well have been a million. Tightening his jaw, Aragorn took a deep, slow breath and lunged forwards, Anduril flashing like a star in his hand. "Elendil! Elendil!" he cried.

"For Gondor!" Boromir shouted behind him, his sword crashing again and again through the ranks of the Orcs.

Exchanging glances, Merry and Pippin gritted their teeth and leapt into the fray. "The Shire!" Pippin yelled, and struck out again and again, his short sword looking like a toy beside the wicked blades of the Orcs. Beside him, Merry tightened his jaw, still stumbling under the pain of the last battle, and put all his effort into keeping himself upright under the weight of blows.

Nick, who was still standing in the middle of the camp with Boromir's knife hefted in both hands, said nothing. He looked thoroughly sick.

"We cannot fight so many!" Gimli grunted out at length. He had forced himself to stay by the boats as the battle raged, knowing they must be guarded, but despite his relatively secluded position, he had been fighting hard. Several Orcish dead lay at his feet, and he was cut and bleeding.

"He speaks the truth," Legolas gasped, groping for the last few arrows in his quiver. He had backed into the river, and stood knee-deep in the fast-flowing water. "We cannot hold out here forever!"

Aragorn was silent for a moment. Steel clashed on steel in a ghastly cacophany.

He made a decision.

"The boats!" he shouted back, taking several steps back towards the river. "We cannot outrun them, but perhaps the Anduin can. To the boats! Boromir, with me – we'll hold them as long as we can!"

Nodding shortly, the tall Man of Gondor leapt to the Ranger's side, an Orcish sword hefted in his fist. Behind them, Gimli struck the ropes which anchored the boats, his axe severing them on the third or fourth blow.

"The ropes of Lorien are strong indeed," he marvelled, pushing himself into the stern of the boat and standing there with axe in hand as Legolas hauled a reluctant Nick into the river. "But not so strong as a Dwarven axe!"

"Nor, indeed, a Dwarven tongue," the elf remarked, casting his empty bow and quiver into the boat and vaulting in after them. With Gimli's help, he managed to pull Nick into the elven vessel, amid splashing almost as loud as the crash of blades from shore.

Behind them came Merry, half-wading and half-swimming, as black-fletched arrows peppered the water around him; he had his cousin's arm held firmly, and was pulling Pippin towards the boat. An arrow struck him in the side, and stayed there; he staggered, floundering for a moment as the water reddened around him, and struggled on. Around them, the Emyn Muil rose, great grey hills that seemed to leech the dull morning light from the air.

Nick caught Pippin's flailing hand as the hobbits were swept to the boats; he had long since abandoned the knife Boromir had given him. It lay now in the bottom of the boat, and, as they hauled Merry and Pippin aboard, Nick felt his heart sinking. He watched the blood seep down the Anduin's clear waters until, at last, the river swept them around a bend and Boromir, Aragorn, and the Orcs were all lost to view.

"We must tether ourselves!" Legolas shouted urgently, as the roar of the falls reached them. "Rauros is a cruel master!"

"What of the Orcs?" Pippin demanded, still spluttering water.

"We will run ashore on the opposite bank, and pray they have stationed no guards there!" the Elf called back, as the roar became louder. "But we must row, and row quickly!"

Even Nick bent to the oars as best he could, hauling the boat around in a wide curve. It ground to a halt on a narrow spit of stone, balancing there, a good twenty feet from the bank.

Safe. But it would not be safe for long.

"Are you hurt?" Gimli asked gruffly of the Company in general. Of them all, he had been, perhaps, the lightest wounded; his shoulder was gashed, and blood was soaking through his leggings, but otherwise, he seemed almost unharmed. Nick had been worst struck, unable to fight, and as Merry remarked to Pippin in an undertone, it was a miracle that he had survived at all. As it was, he seemed pale and dizzy, blood standing bright on white skin in a thousand places, and he swayed slightly where he sat, drained and exhausted.

But they did not attend to their wounds at once. Instead, they sat and waited, waited for a boat they might never see again; that carrying the two Men.

At last, to their wonder and relief, their waiting ended. From around the narrow point of the river's bend came the prow of the elven boat. Breath caught in every throat, the tattered remains of the Grey Company watched with hope and dread fighting for precedence in their hearts.

Dread surfaced most strongly, as the vessel came entirely into view. There sat Boromir, lolling and bloodied, yet alive. But where was Aragorn?

More by luck than judgement, the Steward's son managed to coax the boat against a rock near that on which the first boat rested. His breath was hoarse, ragged, and there was a tightness to his jaw that suggested that he would not welcome comment.

From here, craning their necks to see, they could see the boat fully.

Aragorn lay there, his face pale, his breathing harsh and bubbling in his throat. Blood dribbled from his nostril, seeping like tears from his stern eyes. An arrow was buried in his heaving chest, a knife in his heart.

Boromir looked up, and in his grey eyes was a stark terror.

"He has not long to live," he said quietly, reverentially, and pushed the hair away from Aragorn's bloody forehead. "Long enough, though, that I could not leave him to the mercies of the people of Sauron. They will expect us to continue over or past Rauros, I should guess. If we stay here…"

"No." The word was barely more than a whisper, but every one of the Company heard it, even over the roar of the falls. Aragorn forced his eyes open. "Rohan. Go to Rohan. Haste… is needed." He broke off, every breath an effort, and summoned what strength he could to say, "Théoden King… must help. Rohan."

Blood bubbled past his lips as he spoke. Nick watched it with a horrified fascination, as the full extent of what he had done struck him squarely in the heart, like a physical blow.

"Boromir…" Aragorn's voice was fading almost to inaudibility; they had to crane to hear it at all. "I am… I am sorry. Minas Tirith… I swore… swore I would go there." He managed a parody of a smile, lips red and glistening with blood. "I would have liked… to see the White City. I would…"

He fell silent, touching Anduril, which lay at his side. After a moment, the bubbling sounds of his breathing ceased.

Boromir bowed his head, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and brushed his trembling hand over the Númenorean's still face, closing the Ranger's dead eyes.

At length, he looked up.

"So passes the Heir of Isildur," he murmured, his hand, slick with Aragorn's blood, clenching and unclenching at his side, "and the rightful King of Gondor."