Was it folly to set fire to the valley of Minas Morgul?
If Gandalf was there, he wouldn't have been allowed anywhere near the place. The wizard would remind him what happened to the last king of Gondor who thought waltzing into the dreaded city of the Nazgul was a piece of cake. He would say, "You would be a fool, Aragorn, a fool to go into such a place. Minas Morgul is a city even you could not defeat, not when it is ruled by a foe far beyond any of us."
And right now, he had been a fool.
High on the victory against the Corsairs, he had walked into the Morgul Vale and set fire to the fields around the evil city. Ever since, orcs had followed him, never giving pause. He had run ever since he had sighted them in the northern marches of Ithilien, a company of black Uruks following him.
It didn't matter that he had taken the route of the marshlands and the rocky outcrops of the Emyn Muil.
The orcs had followed him regardless of the route he had taken.
Oh, he had surprised them in an ambush and killed a few of them before they ran away! But they did not relinquish pursuit.
Now, he was tired of running. Tired of his pursuit.
Sweat dropped off his brows, wetting the muddy ground.
His breath came in heavy gasps, his vision a little blurred from all the weariness.
"Curse the foul vermin!" he spat. "Curse the dark servants of Sauron!"
As he mentioned the Dark Lord by name, birds flew off the tall birches, covered with a golden haze. The sound of their fluttering wings drew his attention to them. And he closed his eyes. He had come to the borders of what was known as the Golden Wood.
"Lothlorien!" he mumbled under his breath. "Well, better to land in trouble with the elves than killed by the orcs, I guess."
He staggered a few steps into the thick canopy the golden forests provided.
Shrill cries reached his ears from the direction he had come.
He could see them running. They seemed elated to see him standing there, bent to his knees and gasping for breath, a sword in his hands but with its point facing down.
"Good!" he whispered. "Underestimate me."
He stood, the sword now pointed upward to the canopy and the sky beyond. "Come on, come on, faster, you crooked vermin!"
The orcs came closer.
He swung his sword at the first one near and beheaded it. Then came the second one and a third, and they all met the same fate: death.
Despite his weariness, he fought on, not wanting to surrender himself to the wicked creatures, secretly wishing for any help that could come. Even though he was at the edge of the Golden Wood, there were patrols. And elven archers guarded ever the borders of the realm, protecting it from evil. Nobody could set foot in the woodlands be it elves, men or dwarves. Evil creatures with crooked feet would be hunted down without mercy or conversation.
Even as he killed the Mordor orcs mercilessly, he wondered where the elven patrols were. Why had they not come yet?
He was getting tired, and the orcs kept coming. It was almost as if there was an endless flow of them. They teemed in numbers. A frown encroached on his forehead. How many had pursued him? The last count he remembered was somewhere around forty.
He had slain fifteen at least.
There should have been only twenty-five or so more, but the count seemed to be bigger.
An orc slashed at him. Its black scimitar-blade cut through his tunic, leaving a scratch on his skin. Pain surged through his body.
"Curse you!" he bellowed and cut through the orc's abdomen. The orc shrieked in pain and dropped to the ground.
Pain in his arm made him stagger and lean against a tree.
His enemies now cornered him.
His vision was growing more blurry by the instant.
Wretched fate, he thought! The orc-blade must have been poisoned.
His wound had turned black all of a sudden, and infection started to spread through his veins.
Just as another orc came at him with its sword, an arrow stuck his neck.
More arrows flew out of the trees, right into the approaching orcs.
They were golden arrows with feathered shafts.
He would have heaved a sigh of relief for the elves of Lothlorien had come to his aid, but the poison was taking him.
He struggled to stay aloof.
The elven archers made light work of the pursuing orcs, and when the battle was done, he fell down upon his knees. An elf caught his back. His eyes stared at him. Golden-haired and tall he was.
"He's still breathing and wounded... poisoned perhaps... get me the salves, quick!" he said, sympathy radiating out of him.
As the other elves trotted into a run, he felt weakness taking him. His eyes closed. And the last thing he saw was a worried elf who had little idea what to do.