disclaimer: i do not own LOTR! I have taken a few lines of dialogue from the fourth chapter of TTT for this chapter, so I really hope I don't get sued!

thanks so much to silverswath for reviewing! I really appreciate it!

please rxr my friends!

peace out!

ARAGORN

He dreamed of a tall figure clothed in white, wielding a gleaming ivory staff against the backdrop of night. The man's face seemed to shift before Aragorn's eyes, becoming first a great fiery eye, then an old man with a dark anger written upon his countenance. It shifted to the pointed features of an eagle, then seemed to melt into a face he knew well, one he knew he would never again behold save in dreams.

Gandalf the Gray looked upon Aragorn, his eyes twinkling with a distant light, and he opened his mouth to speak. But from it came a tide of crushing darkness, and suddenly Aragorn stood upon a city wall, the weight of what he knew must be a crown heavy upon his brow. A great shadow covered the land, and his hands were slick with blood; the sword he held was broken into glittering shards.

"Strider!" called a small, fearful voice. "Help us!"

He looked down and with a pang of terror beheld the four hobbits at the foot of the wall, their eyes round and dark with fear. Frodo clutched the Ring to his chest, and Sam brandished his pan at the multitude of orcs that now swarmed the wall. Merry, bleeding from his temple, leaned against Pippin, from whose throat the desperate cry had been torn.

"Strider! Strider!"

Aragorn cast down his sword; its remnants struck the stones with a metallic finality. Dropping to his knees he thrust out his hand, and Pippin took it, despair emanating from his gaze as he clutched Merry tightly and Aragorn struggled to pull the hobbits to safety. From across the battlefield came a shout, and a small figure with hair whipped about her face by the wind held aloft what seemed a fallen star.

"The Ring!" she cried. "The Ring is mine!"

But it could not be, for Frodo had the Ring, and yet at the maiden hobbit's cry a vast wave of fire swept across the land, consuming the armies, and Pippin's hand slipped from Aragorn's blood-soaked grip as the wall crumbled. The crown spun into the air, a flash of silver against the night, and then was extinguished.

Aragorn fell, crashing into darkness, and blood flowed in rivers from the collapsing stone, and somehow he knew that this was his doing, his oversight, his mistake…

My fault.

A low gravelly voice rolled across the plain, and it was as a great crack of thunder, splitting the sky with its flaming words as if reading them from an ancient tome: Thus was the end of days in Middle-earth, and they were brought about by Aragorn High King of Gondor, for he let fear rule him as he should have ruled his people, and by his hand the ground was watered with the blood of all the people of Middle-earth…

The shadow of Mordor, irreversible and eternal, fell over Gondor, and he was drowning in the blood of his people, and Aragorn thrust his hand above the surface for a lifeline which would never come.

This is my doing.

My fault.

My kingdom come.

He woke, the words tumbling in Elvish from his lips. The light of dawn was but a pale streak upon the eastern horizon, and Gimli still slept under his elvin-cloak at the other side of the cave. Legolas too was resting, his pale hair spread over the stone in a crown of white, though Aragorn knew he was not truly asleep, only in the elves' daydreaming slumber. Outside the rain still fell, though it was but a mist to wash the earth.

Aragorn's cloak lay upon the stone, rumpled as if he had thrashed about in his sleep, and he had woken with one hand on his sword. The pale gray world seemed so quiet, so still, when held against the realm of shadow and blood and fire in his dreams. The War of the Ring felt so far from him here, as if it were a distant menace Aragorn could skirt around without being harmed.

But the danger was very real, and all of them would fall to evil; it was foolish to hope that the darkness would spare them. Mordor's shadow was deep, and the reach of Sauron's eye was long; surely they would consume him and all the Fellowship before many more days had passed away…

Aragorn tore himself from his darkened thoughts, placing a hand to his temple. He sat upon the stone, gazing out into the land which seemed wrought of glass and mist, and told himself that the darkness would not claim the Fellowship. Even Boromir, whom the Ring had so nearly taken, had not fallen to Sauron. Aragorn would not do so, nor would Legolas and Gimli. And it was quite difficult if not impossible to imagine a hobbit possessed by the Dark Lord.

Legolas and Gimli awakened, and the company continued toward Isengard. They took to trudging through the mud once again, though Gimli stubbornly refused to allow Aragorn to carry him. The dwarf had to be pulled free of the sludge more than once, but he still insisted upon forging ahead.

At midday they rested upon a knoll, and Legolas climbed to the top to search the horizon. Gimli clambered out of the mud with an irritated huff, and Aragorn crouched low on the browned grass, keeping his sword drawn. As he looked down an emerald glint caught his eye, and he brushed aside crackling blades to find an elvin-brooch like the one that clasped his own cloak. It looked to have been cast hastily aside, perhaps by a hobbit that wished to let the hunters know that they had passed this way.

Aragorn could not keep the cautious twinge of hope from his chest. At least one of the hobbits had been able to drop the brooch, perhaps even knowing that the scent of the Uruk-hai would be lost in such deep mud. The company was drawing nearer to their lost companions—Aragorn knew not the distance to Orthanc, but he thought they may meet the hobbits in two days or less.

"A man approaches," called Legolas from the top of the hill. "He is two leagues distant, and he moves slowly. Yet I am certain he means to follow us. His beard is long and white, and he carries a staff of pale wood."

"It is Saruman," Aragorn realized. "Why he is not in Orthanc, I know not, but he means to do the hobbits harm. We must reach Isengard ere he does, or I fear Merry and Pippin may be in grave peril—though it is doubtless the orcs will have already introduced them to it."

"We must speed our journey, then," Gimli growled, hefting his axe in a display of ferocity. "The Uruk-hai have yet to taste my blade."

"Come, and let us double our speed," said Aragorn, and he drew his sword from its sheath, holding it so that it gleamed in the pale light. "We shall reach Isengard before the second dawn is come, or we shall fall into shadow as did Gandalf. Come! We must make haste!"

They set off across the storm-tossed land, and Aragorn knew Saruman still followed them, for he could feel the wizard's presence as a pall and a shadow cast over the plain. It would not be long before the hunters had to face him; would they be able to take him with sword, bow, and axe together? Or would all three weapons still be no match for the power of a wizard?

A full day passed in silence before Aragorn saw the white-robed figure enter a small copse of trees, leaning upon his staff. He held up a hand in warning, and the hunters sprinted to the front of the copse, slipping behind trees. Legolas nocked an arrow, which quivered upon his bowstring, ready to fly. Gimli brandished his axe, and Aragorn tightened his grip upon his sword.

The wizard emerged, and Legolas sprang, his arrow poised against Saruman's throat. Gimli scowled fiercely as Aragorn stepped forward, sword in hand, and looked upon the wizard's face with the full measure of his wrath—then recoiled, shock coursing through his veins.

"It cannot be," he said hoarsely. "How…you…I saw you fall. All the Fellowship did."

The wizard smiled, and that alone was kinder than Saruman could ever be. "We cannot always trust our eyes, Aragorn."

Legolas lowered his bow and looked on him in awe. "Mithrandir."

PEREGRIN

Pippin lay upon the dark stone floor, his small chest heaving with exhaustion and pain. His entire being echoed with hurt, bruised from Saruman's ruthless questioning, and he could taste blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue. Miraculously, no bones felt broken, but Pippin's side, already bruised from the cruelty of the orcs, was so painfully tender that it seemed set aflame with every desperate breath. He fought to remain conscious, the blurriness gradually clearing from his vision.

"Disappointing, Halfling," came Saruman's cold voice. "I am afraid that you have left me with no other option. Wormtongue?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Retrieve the Halfling's companion from his cell. If this one will not yield for me, surely he will for the other." The wizard cast a cold sneer in Pippin's direction. "You will not keep silent for much longer, Halfling. Not when your friend—" he spat this word as if its very essence disgusted him— "is subject to my wrath."

Pippin said nothing, still fighting for air, clutching his side as it twinged with each movement. He did not dare make a sound, not even one of pain or fear, for it would only give Saruman an advantage. What might he do to Merry? Would the wizard subject him to the same pain Pippin had endured, throwing him about the chamber with some invisible force? Would he resort to even more painful methods?

Saruman would not have to. Pippin feared that he would crack under the slightest sound of pain from Merry, let everything he knew of Frodo and the Ring come cascading forth from his mouth in a torrent of words and heartbreak. He could not allow his cousin, with whom he had endured so much, to suffer because Pippin was too stubborn to reveal simple secrets to a wizard.

And yet—

Would all of Middle-earth be condemned if Saruman knew of Frodo? Would the quest be doomed to fail and the shadow fall over the realm as the dead of night? Pippin wished he could see into the future; Gandalf and Strider always seemed to, and they were ever the voices of reason in his life. He never looked past the present, never considered consequences, relied wholly upon others to advise him. Now Pippin was being forced to think—what might happen if he told Saruman what he knew? Was protecting Merry a noble enough cause for revealing the identity of the Ring-bearer?

The black doors opened and Merry was thrust inside, landing in a shivering heap upon the cold floor. Pippin made as if to go to him, but suddenly the invisible hands took him and thrust him against the wall, holding him there with the strength of an orc. The hands seemed to clasp tightly about his neck, forcing Pippin's head backward as he struggled to breathe.

"Peregrin," said Saruman, his voice low and smooth as silk. "Tell me, are you in contact with the Ring-bearer?"

He shook his head, hands fisted at his sides, and Saruman raised the staff. "You would not do well to lie to me now, Halfling."

"I have not been in contact with the Ring-bearer since I have been a captive of the Uruk-hai," Pippin insisted. "He left moments before the orcs took us."

"You admit you know him, then," Saruman said. "Who is he?"

"A cousin of mine," Pippin told him, voice trembling. "He…he is from Hobbiton in the Shire."

"Give me his name," hissed Saruman, and his hold on his staff tightened. "His name, Halfling!"

"It is not for me to give!"

Saruman the White struck his first blow. Merry's prostrate figure was flung forwards, striking the pedestal in the center of the room, upon which sat a spherical object draped in a cloth the color of night. Merry fell, curling into himself, and Pippin gasped, "Underhill! Mr. Underhill of the Shire!"

"You lie!" Saruman thundered, and Merry was thrown again, a fresh new cut opening upon his cheek. The hands tightened their grip, forcing the name out of Pippin's lungs. "His name is Baggins! Frodo Baggins—I—please—don't hurt him, nor Sam his gardener!"

"Do they journey to Mordor?" the wizard spat, and his eyes flamed with a dark light that shook Pippin to his very core as he rasped, "He didn't tell me—he didn't say where he was going! I know not if they have taken the Ring to Mordor!"

"And yet it must have been Gandalf's plan," said Saruman, and he propelled Merry toward the ceiling. The hobbit cried out, and Pippin wailed, "I don't know! I can only tell you that Frodo has the Ring!"

"Does he go to Mordor?"

"I—I don't—"

Merry fell, and his cry was louder now, higher-pitched, and he did not stay upon the floor—Saruman thrust him into the pedestal, then the wall, and Pippin shouted, "Yes! He goes to Mordor—or he may not, no one tells me of these things! I—I can't—stop, Saruman! I beg of you, you mustn't—"

"Do you know anything else of the schemes of Gandalf the Gray?" Saruman roared. "Answer me, Halfling, and your companion's suffering will cease!"

"I know nothing," Pippin sobbed, his vision blurred with tears so that he could hardly see the cloud of white that was Saruman. "Gandalf never confided in me, I—I swear it on the Shire, on my standing as a Took, I will swear it upon anything you wish, Saruman, if you will only end Merry's suffering!"

He drew in a quivering breath and cried, "Please!"

Merry struck the wall beside him as the invisible hands released their grip, dropping Pippin to the floor. His head spun and the room tilted strangely, but he crawled to Merry's prone body, grasping his cousin's shoulders with all the strength left in him.

"Take them back to their cell, Wormtongue," Saruman spat. "Gandalf will come for them soon enough. Until then, we can only wait." He sneered again, his face contorting in a horrid gleaming smile. "I thank you for your service, Peregrin Took."

Pippin's shoulders trembled with quiet sobs as he bent low over Merry, searching for any sign of life. His cousin's chest rose and fell, if shallowly, and that was enough for the time being as Wormtongue took Merry and laid him upon his shoulder, then seized Pippin by the hood. Pippin's vision swam with dark spots; he felt as though he were on the verge of a realm of shadow, moments away from collapsing into darkness.

Down the staircase they went, and past the cells with the other prisoners, and Wormtongue stopped at the barred door and shoved Pippin inside, then placed Merry roughly onto the stone floor. His key scraped in the lock and then he was gone, his footsteps fading as he retreated to Saruman's chamber.

"Oh, Merry," Pippin whispered, and kneeling upon the stones, his cousin's still form clutched tightly to his chest, he wept.

He knelt there for a long time, bowed down in sorrow. His side burned with each sob, but Pippin was unable to stop the flow of tears until a voice said, "I've had quite enough of your bawling, and I'd like you to stop, if you don't mind. Or if you do mind, I'm really not concerned with your opinion."

Pippin wiped his eyes. "Wh-what?"

"There we are," said the voice, and Pippin registered that it was female. "The questioning is painful, yes, but I hardly think it merits this many tears. Why do you weep?"

"He has tortured poor Merry," Pippin snapped, still brushing tears from his cheeks. "And I have told him everything I know, which may bring about the destruction of Middle-earth. Would you not weep were you in my place?"

"Nay," she responded. "I would rage. Who are you? I know by Wormtongue's fell tongue that you are a hobbit, as I am, or I would not speak to you, but I know not from where you come or what you are called."

Pippin looked around the small stone room, searching for where her voice emanated from. His eyes landed on a fissure in the rock, not even large enough for his hand, through which a shining dark green eye looked, framed by skin the color of silt and a wisp of dark hair.

"I am Peregrin son of Paladin of the Shire," he told her. "Though most call me Pippin, or even Pip. I have dwelt in Tookland for all my years, save for the last few months. Who are you?"

"I am Diamond, daughter of Honor who is Queen of Long Cleeve," she said. "I hail from the house of Dellshore and have recently come of age at thirty-three. How many years do you have?"

"Twenty-eight," Pippin answered, and Diamond looked on him with fascination. "You are little more than a boy, then. What are you doing so far from the Shire? What does Saruman want with you?"

Pippin wondered whether to answer her. He doubted that Gandalf or Strider would like it if he revealed the nature of the quest to strangers, but since Saruman already knew it seemed trivial to tell the story to another hobbit.

"I have been on a quest to destroy the One Ring," he said. "We set out from Rivendell to go to Mordor, but our Fellowship split on Amon Hen when we were attacked by the Uruk-hai." His voice trembled as he thought of Boromir, kneeling upon the forest floor, pierced by the black arrows. "Merry and I were taken captive and brought here to Orthanc. Saruman desired information about the One Ring, and I…I gave it to him."

"Are you the Ring-bearer?" Diamond asked, and her voice had changed. It had become guarded, and yet a note of surprise hung in her tone. "Or your friend Merry?"

"No," Pippin said. "The Ring-bearer is our cousin Frodo, and he left with Sam his gardener for Mordor before we were taken. Now Saruman knows all that I do about the quest, and I fear for the lives of Frodo and Sam, as well as for that of Merry, for the Uruk-hai injured him on Amon Hen, and Saruman cannot have helped matters."

"What is his wound?"

"He has many, but the wound from the orcs is what worries me," Pippin told her, looking down at Merry's battered face. "It is a gash upon his brow, and I think it has gone bad, for his skin is like fire."

"There is a bowl of water in your cell," Diamond said. "At least, there should be, as well as a blanket. You might clean the wound with them."

Pippin cast his glance around the cell and found what she had described. He supposed that all the cells must have had similar supplies placed in them, though no one seemed to have accounted for the fact that there were not one but two prisoners held in this cell. It was no matter about the blanket—Pippin would sleep under his cloak; Merry was the one who needed warmth—but he feared there would not be enough water to clean Merry's wounds, and perhaps his own, while leaving enough to drink.

Even so, he must disinfect the wound. Pippin slipped off his scarf, folded it, and slid it under Merry's head, then crawled to the bowl of water and dipped a corner of the blanket into it. The fabric at least seemed clean, so he took the bowl and the blanket to Merry's side and began to dab at the gash, which had blood and filth crusted around it. Pippin's stomach seemed to twist at the sight of it; nevertheless, he continued to clean the wound until all visible contaminants were removed. Next he washed the rest of Merry's face, taking care around the new gash from Saruman, and with a whispered apology turned his cousin over to get at the wounds on his back. Thankfully, they were not deep cuts and did not seem infected.

Once this was all done he tore a strip of cloth from the blanket with his teeth and bound it about Merry's forehead, covering the wound. Pippin then tended to his own hurts, though the open wounds were limited to the small cut on his wrist from Gornak's blade and the lash across his shoulders. He washed the dirt from his face as best he could, then tugged the blanket gently over Merry, hoping he would sleep.

"You care very much for him," Diamond observed, and her voice startled Pippin, for he had forgotten that she still watched him. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"My cousin," Pippin replied, sitting against the wall beside the crack in the stone. "He has eight years more than I, but we have been the best of friends since I was but a lad."

He looked at a slit carved into stone halfway up the wall. It faced north, and a shaft of silver moonlight streamed through it; Pippin guessed it was Saruman's idea of a window. Did every cell have one, he wondered, or were there some where the prisoners could not see the sky?

"What does Saruman want with you?" Pippin asked. "As far as I know you've never met Frodo and can know nothing about the Ring. Saruman cannot be using you as a hostage for Gandalf, as he is Merry and I. Why are you still a prisoner? Have you been here long?"

"I have been here two months now," Diamond said. "Saruman has ordered the Uruk-hai to capture all Halflings, but he does not intend to let them go, even if they do not have the Ring. I expect he doesn't want me going free now that I know about it—which is entirely his fault, as he is the one who told me of the Ring."

There was something in her voice, something unanswered, and Pippin knew that she had not told him everything—though there was no reason to expect her to, since they had barely met. Still, he sensed that what she refused to tell him carried great influence in the War of the Ring.

"When Strider comes for us," Pippin whispered, "you may come, if you would like. Knowing him he will let every prisoner here go free."

"Who is Strider?" she asked, and now there was a note of hope in her voice.

"He is a Dúnedain, a Ranger of the North," said Pippin. "I suppose his true name is Aragorn, but I have called him Strider since we met and see no reason to stop now. He will have followed us after the skirmish on Amon Hen, and he will free us once he arrives."

"What makes you so certain he will take me as well?"

"Strider is a great man," he assured her. "And only the greatest of them could have been Isildur's heir. But he is not only great, he is also good, and so I have faith that he will set us free." Pippin smiled faintly, gazing at the few stars he could see through the slit of a window. "And that is an encouraging thought."

ARAGORN

As they walked, Gandalf told the three hunters of his incomprehensible journey into the depths of Moria: his battle with the Balrog, his waking and healing from death, Gwaihir the King of Eagles that bore him back through the lands of Middle-earth. Aragorn listened in awe; he imagined Gandalf upon the back of the great eagle and wondered what it might be like to fly, to feel the wind in his face and the thrill of weightlessness.

"And now I am here," Gandalf finished, and leaning upon his white staff he laid his eyes upon Aragorn. "Come, Aragorn my friend, you must tell me of all that has happened in your travels. It has been too long!"

"Where would you like me to start?" asked Aragorn, a faint smile crossing his face. "Our parting at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm seems a lifetime ago, so much has happened since then."

"Tell me of the fate of the Fellowship," Gandalf said. "Where are Frodo and Sam? And what has become of Boromir?"

Grief, still fresh and raw, welled up in Aragorn's chest. "Frodo has gone to Mordor, and we think Sam has followed him. We can only hope that they are together and have not met such a fate as Merry and Pippin. Boromir…" His voice broke. "Boromir fell in Emyn Muil, defending the hobbits when we were ambushed by the Uruk-hai. He had been taken by the Ring, but escaped to fight the orcs. Merry and Pippin would be dead if not for him."

"Poor Boromir!" Gandalf's ancient eyes shone with sadness. "Though I knew it must be his fate, it still tears at my soul to hear of his passing. I am glad to hear he broke free at the end, and that he died nobly. Do not grieve too much for him, Aragorn, for it was the end that Boromir would have wanted; of that I am certain."

"You knew he must die?" Aragorn whispered. "Why did you suffer him to join the Fellowship, if he was only to meet his end far from his city and those he loved? It seems unkind if not cruel to do so. At least Boromir himself should have known before he joined our quest."

"It was his destiny," Gandalf said simply. "His path led as far as Emyn Muil, and there it would end, where the horn of Gondor blew for the last time. It was the only path Boromir was destined to walk, my friend. There was nothing that could be done."

Aragorn kept silent, but he could not help but think that something could certainly have been done. If he had run faster, slain more orcs, tried to heal Boromir's wounds somehow…and those were only the things Aragorn could have done. Surely Gandalf could have told them of Boromir's fate before they left Rivendell, or at any time after that? Was the son of Gondor truly destined to finish his journey with the Fellowship? Would it not have been kinder to leave him behind, so that he may have lived out his days, if not in glory, then in peace?

"And Merry and Pippin?" Aragorn asked. "Have you seen their fate? What is their path?"

"I have," Gandalf replied. "Their fate is sealed, and I know where they have gone."

"So do we," said Legolas. "The Uruk-hai have taken the hobbits to Isengard, and it is there that we go. We know not when we shall reach it, but we hope that we draw near."

"They were at least alive when they passed the knoll a day back," Aragorn put in. "For we have found an elvin-brooch, one that was cast aside for us to discover. The Uruk-hai cannot be far ahead. Will you not join us, Gandalf? For if Merry and Pippin have indeed reached Saruman, a wizard will be a great help to us."

"Alas, my friends," Gandalf said heavily. "Your roads lead not to Isengard, but to Edoras, where we shall meet Théoden King of Rohan in his hall—for you, Aragorn son of Arathorn, are needed there. There is war in Rohan, and worse evil: it goes ill with Théoden."

"Then we are not to see the merry young hobbits again?" asked Legolas. "It cannot be right for us to abandon them to Saruman."

"Fear not," Gandalf told the elf. "Have patience, Legolas! Their fate leads them to safety with Treebeard and the Ents. Why, they may have met him already, and so we need not concern ourselves with the journey to Isengard. We shall go where we must go, and hope! To Edoras! I go thither and pray that you will follow."

"And yet," said Aragorn, "my heart tells me that danger is near for Merry and Pippin. Doubtless they would be safe in Fangorn, but I fear greatly for them; I feel that you have not seen all their fate, Gandalf."

"You must come to Edoras," insisted Gandalf. "I have seen it, and Théoden, in your journey to your birthright as High King of Gondor. You may destroy the path that has been laid out for you if you turn from it now. Do you not care for your future people?"

Aragorn halted in the grass, looking on Gandalf with a twinge of uncertainty in his gaze. "I care more for them than anything. And yet I cannot believe that we are not meant to save Merry and Pippin. Can you not understand that I fear for them?"

"I understand. But you must not fear your destiny, son of Arathorn," Gandalf ordered. "Do not shrink from the darkness within you, for you must face it to bring light to Middle-earth. We have not yet met the end of days…You must not forsake hope, for the hobbits or for yourself."

"I cannot do this," Aragorn protested. "My darkness is too great. It will destroy me as it destroyed Isildur. Fear rules me, Gandalf, and if I am king it will rule my people. I cannot bear to lose anyone as I lost Boromir. If I cannot bear that, if I cannot bear the loss of the hobbits, how can I rule the people of Gondor?"

Gandalf sighed, a shadow falling over his weathered face. "Perhaps you should not fear so much."

"I have tried," said Aragorn. "I cannot shake the terror that fills me when I think of the fate of the Fellowship—brief, mortal lives that can only be extinguished. So it will be with the people of Gondor. So it may be with Merry and Pippin."

"It will not be so," Gandalf said, and his voice was kind. "Come, Aragorn, and we shall go to Edoras. The hobbits' fate is in the hands of Ilúvatar, and he watches them as I do. You are needed with Théoden."

Aragorn cast his gaze to the wilted grass. "You have spoken wisely as always, Gandalf. Very well, we shall set our course for Edoras, and may the hobbits fare well, wherever they may be."

Gandalf smiled, and he clapped Aragorn on the shoulder, saying, "The hobbits are stubborn creatures, and I hardly think they will meet a fate that they want not. Take courage, Aragorn my friend! For we shall see them again, and all is as it should be."

So it was that they began the journey to Edoras, and yet unease still reigned in Aragorn's mind. He wished to believe in Gandalf's words, but his heart spoke of grave peril and nights of pain, and so when they stopped at nightfall to rest in a copse of trees Aragorn took first watch. Gimli fell into sleep almost immediately, and Legolas followed soon after, slipping into his strange dreamlike state. Aragorn crouched upon the dark earth and looked into the night, waiting for Gandalf's quiet breathing to slow into that of slumber, and when he felt certain that the wizard was taken by dreams, he stood and looked back on his fellow hunters.

"Goodbye, my friends," Aragorn murmured as the night wind whispered about his face. "It has been good to travel with you. I pray that we shall meet again, but until that day comes, I wish you the speed of Ilúvatar and safety in all your travels. Farewell."

When he was a little ways off he stopped and looked back, a shadow of sorrow crossing his face, and yet his gaze was filled with hope.

"May we rise to find the sun," Aragorn whispered, and he turned and fled into the night.

The stars were still flaming silver overhead when Aragorn came to the bank of the Entwash, and he looked across the rushing black waters with apprehension. He had crossed many rivers in his day, but he had never liked entering such swift and cold water; it carried much risk of being swept downstream by the current. The Entwash was swollen with the first of the spring runoff; it was at least twenty yards wider than usual, and the water moved with the swiftness of a galloping horse.

He contemplated the safest way to cross. Going on foot was not feasible; the river was surely too deep, and it was easy to catch one's feet between rocks in a riverbed. Swimming would make it easier to be caught by the current. No, Aragorn must anchor himself to some solid object; it was the safest option. There were trees on the other side of the river; he could fire an arrow into one of them. The nearest one was perhaps a hundred yards away—a great distance, of course, but Aragorn had been a Ranger for decades, and had learned how to shoot an arrow further than that.

Aragorn took an arrow from his quiver and a rope, the elvin-rope of Lórien, from his pack, and tightly he tied the rope to the shaft of the arrow, tugging at the end to ensure it was securely fastened. Then he took his bow into his hands and nocked the arrow, squinting through the sight at the tree. It would have to be a powerful shot, to thrust the arrow deep enough into the wood to hold. He pulled the bowstring back to his cheek, felt it vibrate beneath his fingers, and as it sang with tension he let it go.

The arrow soared over the river and embedded itself in the trunk as the string whipped against the bracer on Aragorn's wrist—Boromir's bracer, so that Aragorn would not forget. Before they had given Boromir to Anduin he had taken both wrist-guards and slipped them onto his forearms, vowing always to remember Boromir's sacrifice whenever the armor protected him.

It gave Aragorn a sense of peace now, knowing that had Boromir been here he would have followed Aragorn to Isengard. Of course, when it came to rescuing the hobbits, Boromir would have followed him to Mordor and back.

"Be with me now, my friend," Aragorn whispered, and he took the end of the pale gray rope and bound it about his waist, pulling at it to ensure the arrow's stability, then stepped into the dark waters of the Entwash.

The current tugged at his feet, its icy fangs biting into his skin. When it was deep enough Aragorn pushed off from the riverbed, striking out for the far shore. But the river was too swift for swimming, and so he grasped the rope tightly, pulling himself hand over hand toward the bank. His fingers felt like ice now; he would have to build a fire when he reached the other side.

Aragorn clenched his jaw as a splash of water hit the side of his face, stinging like a frigid whip. As he drew near to the middle of the river, the current became swifter, colder, and he had to pull more forcefully on the rope to move forward.

The black water became white with foam, and it churned about Aragorn's shoulders with a ferocity that startled him. He narrowed his eyes against the spray and tightened his numb grip on the rope, hauling himself toward the riverbank. Once he left the rapids, the going would be easier.

The cold seemed to seep into Aragorn's bones, and his chest began to heave as he struggled to take in air. Controlling one's breathing was difficult in water so cold, but he forced his lungs to work normally. It would do Aragorn no good to faint before he even reached the other side of the river. He must press on, even if he felt as though he might freeze. Grimly, he pulled at the rope.

Slowly, with a flash of silvery gray, the knot slipped free of the arrow, and the Entwash consumed him.

Aragorn was plunged into frigid darkness, and the shock sent a pulse of pain through his body. Blindly, he struck out for the surface, but the current thrust him down and he felt rough stone scrape over him and impact against his shoulder. His feet touched the riverbed; Aragorn kicked upwards and broke the surface, gasping in a single breath of frozen air before he spiraled downward again.

More stones littered the current here; one dealt a blow to his cheek and he tasted blood. A sharp point, perhaps the fallen branch of a tree, lashed against Aragorn's side and he gasped, taking in a great deal of what seemed ice and not water.

The cold froze Aragorn's lungs, and though his vision was already a torrent of shadow and ice it seemed to darken as though ink had been poured into his eyes. Gritting his teeth he lunged for the surface once more, but the Entwash dragged him into its depths, and between the blood and the lack of air Aragorn recognized his dream—was this the blood of his people? With his deviation from his path, had he doomed the whole of Gondor?

Though he knew it was a foolish thought it seemed fitting for the moment, and as Aragorn spun through the river, his consciousness fading, he wondered if perhaps he would meet Boromir in Valinor, and whether his friend would receive him with joy.

Through the water a voice seemed to drift, a shout of light and fear, and it called out, My king!

And in Aragorn's last moment of wakefulness, someone grasped the rope.

LEGOLAS

The dawn was bright and chill, and mist hung about the trees when Legolas awoke from his dreaming state. Resting under trees, whether those of Mirkwood or those in this lowly copse, always rejuvenated him; such rest made his vision sharper, his running swifter. But it could not have prepared Legolas for the shock that awaited him in the waking world.

Gimli still slept, curled in the roots of a tree, and Legolas watched the dwarf's chest rise and fall with each rumbling breath. Beyond him was Gandalf, his eyes stretched wide but his breathing slow and steady, that of slumber.

Aragorn was nowhere to be seen.

Legolas breathed sharply, the air fresh and cold in his mouth. He dared not call for Aragorn; he could not risk waking the others for fear they would blame him. Instead Legolas climbed to the top of the tallest tree in the copse, scanning the vast plains for any sign of his friend. The mist revealed no trace of Aragorn; he was nowhere within Legolas's vision, though the elf could see to each horizon. Aragorn had left early in the night, then; and Legolas could only assume he had gone to Isengard, for where else would he have fled to?

The morning breeze teased the ends of Legolas's white-gold hair and he turned his face into it, listening to the West Wind, silently asking it for tidings of Aragorn. It sent him nothing but vague flashes of memory: splashes of black water, a whispered farewell in the dark, the quavering tension of a bowstring.

"Estel," Legolas said to the wind. "I pray you have not done anything foolish."

Though the wind did not deign to respond, he could almost hear Aragorn's voice: Fear not, Legolas my friend. When have I done a foolish thing?

"Never have you done so," Legolas murmured. "And yet I fear your noble heart has led you into danger. Even so…may the grace of Ilúvatar go with you, Estel, wherever you may be."

He sat there a while as the sun broke over the distant mountains, listening to the quiet murmurings of the wind in the trees, and then a great grunting snore from Gimli broke the silence. Legolas climbed swiftly down and knelt next to the dwarf, moving as if to wake him, then thinking better of it and clamping his hand over Gimli's mouth to prevent any unwanted shouting.

His hand moved to the dwarf's shoulder, but suddenly it stilled, and all Legolas felt was Gimli's warm breath on his fingers and the soft rough blaze of his ruddy beard; something awoke in him which had never before been stirred, but quickly Legolas stamped it down and shook Gimli awake.

The dwarf sat up with a muffled shout; he went for his axe, but Legolas seized his wrist and hissed softly, "Silence, dwarf! We mustn't wake Mithrandir!" Gimli ceased his struggle and cast a glance about the clearing, his brow furrowing. "Where is Aragorn?"

"That is my reason for waking you," said Legolas. "He has gone to Isengard, and he must have left early last night, for he has gone far enough that I cannot see. I wished to counsel with you, for I know not what Mithrandir will say, but I fear that he may be angry with us."

"An elf, asking for counsel from a dwarf," Gimli scoffed. "We have no need for it; I can tell you what Gandalf will say: he will lament the loss of Aragorn but for a little while, and then he will take us with him to Edoras, where we will fight with whatever host Gandalf commands. He could care less about the fates of others, elf; he will not deviate from his present course, regardless of whom he loses on the way. You would do well not to fight him over it. My counsel is given, and I ask that you suffer me to go back to sleep."

Legolas stood, glaring sidelong at Gimli and tilting his chin to a haughty angle. "So much for counsel! Dwarves cannot be trusted to give the time of day, much less help in the disappearance of one's friends!"

Gimli shrugged, a look of supreme indifference on his rugged face. "I would expect no other reply from an elf. Why take the advice of a dwarf? After all elves ask much, and when given what they desire they only belittle their benefactor." Now his eyes were angry, blazing with a bright fire. "I should like to cleave your oversized head in two!"

"You would die before your stroke fell!" snapped Legolas, and he turned from Gimli and strode into the trees.

"Legolas, my friend," said the voice of Gandalf. "Why are you shouting? You have disturbed the peace of this little wood with your anger."

Legolas bowed his head. "I apologize, Mithrandir. But my anger is of no consequence, not when set against the reason for it: Estel has departed. I fear that he has gone to Isengard."

Gandalf cursed in some ancient tongue, standing upright with his staff raised, and a great white light swirled around him. "Curse the heart of Aragorn son of Arathorn! For he thinks he can forge his own path and heed not the one that has been laid down for him. Does he think he has the authority to go against the will of the Valar? He understands not the rending of destiny!"

The light dimmed and he was an old bent man again, tears shimmering in the corners of his eyes. "I must apologize, my friends. I fear for Aragorn, and for the people of Gondor. This changes many things on the path I had laid down for us…the threads of destiny have tangled in ways I have not foreseen. Long have I known that Aragorn would be a driving force in the fate of Middle-earth, but this way…this path leads to darkness, to suffering. There may yet be a light at the end, but it is faint, and some things that should not be shall now come to pass. We can only pray that Estel still shines when the shadow calls for Aragorn."

There was silence in the wood for several long moments, and then Legolas asked, "What are these things that should not be?"

"I know not how it is possible," said Gandalf, and he seemed weighed down by years of sorrow. "But I see one who died that deserved life, and one who lived that deserved death…Our future is certain no more, my friends. It has been shrouded in darkness through which even my eyes cannot look. The fate of Middle-earth sits upon the point of a knife, a blade that has been placed into the wrong hands, and Aragorn son of Arathorn shall prove our saving grace or our ultimate destruction."

His gaze was a thousand days away as he cast it to the horizon. "Come, Legolas, Gimli. We go to Edoras. I shall not forsake what little of our path we have left."

"But what of Aragorn?" asked Gimli. "Shall we not go to him and turn him back?"

"Aragorn has taken his fate into his own hands," Gandalf said. "He is beyond our help now. All we can do for him is hope."

As he pondered these words they seemed useless to Legolas, for if Aragorn, hope incarnate, had fled his destiny, what hope was there left in the world? The windows to light were narrowing, and Legolas feared that they would never open again.

So it was that with the leaving of Aragorn, the Dark Lord Sauron laughed and all Mordor was filled with mirth, for the light had dimmed and the very foundations of Middle-earth were shaken even as they prepared for battle.

And yet, in the depths of those foundations, a light sprang from the shadows, and the Secret Fire awoke.