HEY Y'ALL

I'm back!

I'm so sorry for the wait. I feel like I go through about three months of writing Confessions and then maybe two weeks of writing this. But I watched Fellowship again over the weekend, and I typed this whole Aragorn chapter for you guys!

Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed thus far! I'd love y'all's feedback on this chapter!

Thanks so much for sticking with me and Aragorn this far!

peace out!

ARAGORN

There was no sign of the sun in the sky; gray clouds still overshadowed the land as the Fellowship pressed on through the deepening water. They had tried to skirt around the flooded Anduin, but to Aragorn's dismay the whole land seemed to have become a floodplain. Now the grass was waterlogged, even disappearing in many places.

"Strider!" Pippin's voice, echoing over the small ridge that lay between him and Aragorn, was even higher than usual. "Come, Strider!"

Aragorn hurried over the ridge, his spirits plummeting as he saw the great gash in the earth; it spanned perhaps thirty yards and cut the earth in two for as far as he could see. There seemed to be no way to cross it, barring tying a rope to an arrow and firing it to the other side—and there was no way in Arda that Aragorn would be attempting that particular stunt again.

"Well, this seems a right pickle!" Merry nudged Pippin's shoulder. "We've been over worse though, haven't we Pip?"

"Caradhras was worse, I suppose," Pippin conceded. "But how are we to get across, Strider?"

Aragorn clamped his teeth onto his lower lip to prevent himself from snapping at the hobbit that, despite all Pippin had been told about Aragorn, he did not know the answer to every question. He was only a man, for Ilúvatar's sake; he did not possess the knowledge that Gandalf or even Legolas did. But Pippin knew no better; he was a mere child looking to an adult for assistance.

"I must confess I've no idea," said Aragorn. "We cannot go around it, neither can we cross it without some sort of bridge. Seeing as we have no such thing, I can see no other way but forward."

Even as he said it he knew that it was in no way feasible; though the walls of the chasm were littered with many handholds they were so steep that they were nearly vertical. The hobbits surely could not make the climb, and there was nothing on this side of the chasm to tie a rope to. There could be no lowering their company down.

"We might find a bridge," said Boromir. "Or perhaps it becomes less sheer a little ways down?"

"Or we might grow wings and fly the rest of the way to Minas Tirith," Diamond snapped. "At any rate we shall have to go far out of our way. I do not see why the Valar seem so intent on hindering our quest. They have sent every possible natural barrier our way."

Privately, Aragorn had to agree with her. Diamond was a very different Ring-bearer than Frodo—where Frodo wore the One Ring gravely and silently, and spoke only with much careful thought, Diamond was brash, brazen. She was not afraid of the Ring, and she was not hesitant to complain about their quest. It was refreshing, really, to have someone who shared Aragorn's misgivings, for it indeed seemed as though the Valar were going out of their way to make things more difficult.

"I suppose there is nothing to be done but go along with Boromir's suggestion," Aragorn decided. "We shall follow the chasm to the east. See if we cannot find a bridge or a shallower place."

They set off across the rim of the chasm, struggling not to slip on the soaked grass, though Aragorn knew it was only a matter of time before one of the company fell. The walk took the better part of an hour, which time comprised of Merry and Pippin complaining of the wet and Diamond cursing the Valar. Boromir said nothing that was not encouraging, but Aragorn could tell that he too was not enjoying the storm. The wind and rain had both picked up considerably; the hobbits especially were having great difficulty in navigating it, and Boromir's clothes, which looked as though they had never been white, clung to his skin in a way that looked most uncomfortable.

When they finally reached a suitable crossing-place, every inch of Aragorn's body tensed. The bridge, though it seemed stable enough, was a narrow spur of rock that looked as though everything beneath it had been swept away by some great flood. Still it was not this that worried Aragorn; the bridge was a near-perfect replica of the one at Khazad-dûm.

He looked around and could see that the rest of the company were also apprehensive; Boromir's jaw was clenched and Merry had actually taken a few steps back. But Pippin appeared the most fearful. His little face, framed by his rain-slicked hair, was quite white underneath all the filth.

"Pippin, lad," said Aragorn, kneeling before the little hobbit and arching his brows. "What troubles you?"

"The bridge," whispered Pippin, his voice barely audible. "It…it is like the bridge at Moria, Strider, the one which Gandalf fell from. I wish I was not, but I am afraid. I do not want to fall as he did."

Aragorn suddenly felt very foolish indeed. Here they were, months after Gandalf's fall into Moria and many days after the hobbits' rescue, and he had not told them that the wizard lived! How awful the little ones must still feel! But now did not seem the time to explain; he would tell the others once they had stopped for the night. For now there was much ground to be made up.

"You need not fear," Aragorn told Pippin. "Boromir and I shall be beside you all the way."

"I can even carry you if you like, Pip," Boromir offered. "You need not cross the bridge alone, and you need not be ashamed of having help."

Pippin, eyes wide with fear, nodded. "Thank you, Boromir."

Boromir bent and scooped Pippin into his arms, then straightened and looked to the other hobbits. "Merry? Princess Diamond? Would you like assistance as well? I can make additional trips if I must."

Diamond tossed her hair, sending a spray of droplets over the grass. "Your chivalry is admirable, son of Gondor, but I require no assistance. You'll meet with trouble in your crossing, mark my words."

She set off across the bridge, keeping one hand clenched around Reena-domë. Aragorn watched her go, tracking her progress meticulously. It would not do to lose the Ring-bearer to a simple chasm. But Diamond's footsteps were sure, and she crossed the bridge swiftly and safely, then turned to wait expectantly on the other side.

"Boromir, you shall precede Merry and I," said Aragorn. "I do not wish to let any of you out of my sight."

In reality, he wished to keep every member of the company near to and in front of him lest they should fall. The bridge was slick with rainwater, and the moss that adorned it at regular intervals did not help matters. Truthfully Aragorn was not sure he could steady Boromir should he fall; even without mail, shield, or hobbit Boromir outweighed Aragorn considerably. The only one Aragorn could be certain of catching was Merry. Nevertheless there was no shame in trying.

"Will you be alright, Merry?" Aragorn asked, looking down at the hobbit. "Do you wish for me to carry you?"

Merry shook his head. "I'm alright, Strider, thank you. I think it shall be enough for you to stand behind me."

"Very well, then." Aragorn clapped Merry on the shoulder as hard as he dared. "Let us be off."

Aragorn's body seemed to vibrate with tension for the whole of the crossing. He stayed as close to Merry as he could, his gaze flicking between the stone beneath his feet and Boromir, who walked a yard ahead. Strong gales blew about the Fellowship as they crossed the bridge, and Aragorn narrowed his eyes against it. The wind knocking one of the company into the chasm seemed within the realm of possibility, and so he kept a close eye on Boromir and Pippin as they passed the halfway point.

For a moment, as they drew near to the end of the bridge, Aragorn thought that perhaps they might all cross safely. But it was a foolish hope, for, a mere three yards from the other side of the chasm, a vast clap of thunder rolled across the land. Pippin yelped in shock, startling Boromir, who stepped a hair's breadth too far toward the stony edge. He lost his footing, and this time Merry's shout of terror joined Pippin's as the latter and Boromir plunged into the chasm.

There was a horrible sickening crack as the side of Boromir's face met the bridge, and the son of Gondor cried out. Aragorn lunged forward then, having been frozen in shock for a fleeting moment, and sought to grasp Boromir's hand—but, to his horror, his boots did not hold their grip, and Aragorn felt a swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach as his chest hit the stone. Desperately, his fingers scrabbled for purchase, the image of Gandalf's fall into shadow filling his mind, but just as Gandalf, Aragorn could not hold on.

The fall into the chasm was thankfully more of a steep slope than a sheer drop, and it was this that saved Aragorn from certain death, for the precipice was perhaps fifteen yards deep. Still every nerve in his body flared with terror as he fell, stone after stone impacting against his skin.

He felt the back of his head collide sharply with yet another stone, and then he slammed against something much softer, something which groaned in pain when Aragorn hit it. For a moment, there was nothing but darkness and the roar of the wind.

Then came a small, worried voice. "Strider!"

Aragorn became aware that he was lying on his front, the scabbed-over wound on his cheek leaking new blood onto the earth. His skull seemed to pulse with fire, but it faded to a dull ache after a few moments. Next to him something moved, barely a twitch, and panic shot through Aragorn's muddied senses as he realized that it must be Boromir.

"Strider," said Pippin's voice again. "Strider, are you alright?"

Aragorn turned onto his side, blinking the lingering stars from his vision. Lifting a hand, he brushed his sodden hair out of his eyes and looked into Pippin's horrified face. The hobbit crouched next to the feebly stirring Boromir, dark curls damp against his brow.

"I am alright, Pippin," said Aragorn. "I do not believe I have broken anything, save for my pride. That was foolish of me, to come after you as I did; I fear that I have injured Boromir."

"You need not fear," said Boromir, and he pushed himself half-upright, though he still seemed dazed as he blinked at Aragorn through the rain. "I am not hurt, save for perhaps a bit of bruising."

"Strider!" called another voice, and Aragorn looked up to see both Diamond and Merry peering over the edge of the chasm. It was Diamond who had called out; she had an expression of supreme aggravation upon her face.

"After all that fuss you made over crossing safely!" Diamond scolded. "This is why we do not let the males rule in our kingdom; with them at our head we would meet with our inevitable demise. How do you suppose you'll get out? I don't believe Meriadoc and I shall be able to pull you up."

Aragorn had to admit that she was correct. If he tossed a rope up to Diamond and Merry, perhaps they could lift Pippin back up to solid ground, but it would be extremely difficult for them to lift Aragorn, with Boromir next to impossible.

Before Aragorn could respond to Diamond, Merry called down, worry etched across his face. "Are you alright, Pip? Have you been hurt?"

"I am only shaken," Pippin reassured his cousin. "But we are trapped, Merry; I do not know what we are going to do."

"Is there perhaps a tree or a stone to tie a rope to?" Aragorn asked. "We might climb the side of the chasm."

"Not that I can see," said Diamond. "We shall have to leave and look for one. You may follow us as we go or you may wait for us to return with news. That is provided you can even get a rope to us; I don't like your chances of simply throwing it fifteen yards in the air."

"We shall follow you," Aragorn decided. "But will you and Merry lift Pippin up with you? If I can get you a rope it shall not be difficult for you to get him up."

"Perhaps you could tie the rope to an arrow," Merry suggested, "and fire it toward us. Of course we'll have to move out of the way, but if you back into the opposite wall I don't think it would be too hard."

Aragorn was still wary of tying ropes to arrows under any circumstance, but he could not deny that Merry's suggestion was a good one, and it seemed as though it may be the only thing that would work. He got to his feet, wincing at the pain that flared through his skull and down his spine, and in searching for his arrows saw that many of them had spilled from his quiver onto the earth. Two had been broken, likely by Aragorn's less-than-graceful fall, but it was not so great a loss as it could have been.

He took his ever-enduring rope from his pack and tied it about the end of one arrow. Seeing this Merry and Diamond moved back, until Aragorn could not see them any longer. He nocked the arrow and backed toward the opposite side of the chasm, eyes narrowed as he pulled back the bowstring and let the slender black projectile take flight.

Diamond appeared moments later at the edge of the cliff, the sleek gray rope clenched tightly in her grasp. "If nothing else, Strider, you are a fine shot. Come, Shire-child, take hold of the rope, and Meriadoc and I shall pull you up."

"But what about Strider?" Pippin asked, glancing worriedly about. "And Boromir? They mustn't stay here all alone!"

"We are not alone, Pip," said Boromir, stumbling to his feet and grinning crookedly at the hobbit. "What misfortune has ever come of Aragorn and I being alone together?"

"All that is possible, from what I have seen," Diamond quipped.

"We shall come to no more harm," Aragorn reassured Pippin. "Go now, take the rope and let Diamond and Merry pull you up. Boromir and I shall walk beneath you. Shout if you find anything, won't you?"

Pippin nodded and took the end of the rope. Almost instantly his feet lifted into the air as Diamond and Merry pulled valiantly. Pippin helped them somewhat; kicking against the wall of the chasm and boosting himself higher. Once he had scrambled over the edge of the cliff he turned and looked back into the chasm. "Good luck, Boromir, Strider! We will be quick about this, I promise!"

"We have no doubt you will," said Aragorn. "Go on ahead now, my friends; Boromir and I shall catch up in a moment."

Three pairs of feet went scampering over the grass as the hobbits set off back the way they had come. Aragorn turned to Boromir, his gaze finely tuned to catch injuries. "Boromir, my friend, allow me to point out that you are not alright."

Boromir laughed, though it sounded pained and was muffled by the hand pressed tightly to the injured side of his face. "Come now, Aragorn, when have I ever let something as simple as a fall hinder me? I was truthful when I said I had sustained no injuries save for bruising; I have certainly been spared from greater harm."

"I do not believe you to be untruthful," said Aragorn. "But a blow to the head is not something to be taken lightly. Might I see your face? I saw you collide with the bridge."

"I suppose there is no hiding it forever," sighed Boromir, and he removed his hand from his face. Beneath his rapidly swelling eye was a gash running the length of his cheekbone. The wound bled copiously, crimson droplets diluted in the rain running down into Boromir's beard.

"Does it look as awful as it feels?" Boromir's voice was slightly higher than usual. "I…I knew not of the…of the blood…"

He swayed upon his feet and nearly stumbled into the wall of the chasm. Aragorn hurried to Boromir, moving to put an arm about the injured man's waist, but Boromir lifted his bloody hand as he leaned against the wall, waving Aragorn away.

"You are frightened of blood." The realization stunned Aragorn. "Forgive me, Boromir, I did not know—and yet I still do not understand. How is it that you can fear this and fight as you do for Gondor?"

Boromir smiled weakly. "My father worked tirelessly to stamp it out of me. I must confess, I never truly got over it…I've gone soft, I'm afraid. I learned to ignore it in battle; I would close my eyes as often as I could and think of more pleasing things. Still there were many times when I could not bear it. I could not carry a dying soldier off the battlefield or number the dead when the fighting was through, for I would be no help to my people if I lay senseless in the Houses of Healing. Faramir was always stronger than I in that regard; he felt no fear when it came to bodily harm. He was the one to number the dead."

"And yet you still ride into battle for your homeland." Aragorn shook his head, amazed. "You are a remarkable man, Boromir, whatever your failings. I shall not hold this against you; all that you have done in the face of fear is admirable. Sit now; I shall tend to your wound."

Boromir obliged, sinking down the wall to the earth. Aragorn knelt next to him and took two leaves of athelas from his pack, chewing them into a salve as he cleaned the gash with a scrap of cloth. The wound was not as deep as he had feared and swiftly stopped bleeding, and though the skin was swollen the wound itself had spared Boromir's eye. There would be no complications.

Aragorn spat out the salve and rubbed it into the wound, pressing a clean white square of bandage over the site of injury and silently thanking Ilúvatar for Valor and his vast array of healing supplies. He secured the dressing with an adhesive of pine sap—another commodity he could never have come by without the healer—and sat back on his haunches. "Better, mellon?"

"Indeed." Boromir looked much improved, with no sign of dizziness, as he stood and offered a hand to Aragorn. "Come, we must follow the little ones. I fear that they shall get themselves into trouble without you."

Aragorn took Boromir's hand and pulled himself to his feet. Boromir set off briskly down the canyon, and Aragorn found himself hurrying to keep up. How could Boromir move so swiftly, especially with only one eye functioning properly? The man's devotion to hobbits knew no bounds.

By the time they caught up to the hobbits Diamond had found a small tree and was tying the rope to it. Aragorn insisted that Boromir climb out first, for he was unwilling to leave any member of the company behind, even for a moment.

As Boromir climbed, Aragorn turned his attention to the various aches plaguing him. He had not thought on the injuries he had surely suffered in the fall, being preoccupied with Boromir's. When he brought a tentative hand to the back of his head he found that the last stone had raised a swelling of considerable size, and the muscles of his back ached when he stretched. Apart from the reopened wound on his face, Aragorn did not think he had suffered any further injury, which he found rather miraculous; in his younger years he had been prone to injury and illness. Perhaps it had only seemed that way, though, as he had been a mortal among so many elves.

When his turn came Aragorn took the rope and climbed swiftly, reaching the top of the cliff in half the time it had taken Boromir. As he stood once more upon solid ground, Aragorn looked out over the plains: after a league or so of dryness the flood stretched as far as he could see, with the swollen Anduin snaking through the silvered grass. The sight of the vast gray land sent a pang of weariness through him; he did not like to think of how much further there was to go. Were the Valar indeed hindering their quest? Perhaps they were angry with Aragorn for leaving Gandalf.

Aragorn forced himself to put the thought out of his mind. Gandalf or no Gandalf, Valar or no Valar, the quest must be completed. He had always believed in destiny, but Aragorn had never wished to have it all laid out in stone; he had wanted to discover it for himself. And in this quest, he had. This was the path he had always been meant to walk.

As he looked on Boromir, on Pippin and Merry, on Diamond the Ring-bearer, he forgot for a moment how long the journey was, and Aragorn could not help but smile, for he knew now that he had found the only thing worthy, to him, of being called destiny.

Of course, floods tended to ruin whatever good mood Aragorn somehow managed to scrape together.

The chill water came up to his waist, just beneath the nearly healed wound in his side. He worried that it was still too new, that the injury may become infected if the water reached any higher. Even so there was nothing to be done about it; the water would do as it pleased. If it became deeper they would have to carry the hobbits, which Aragorn knew would be quite difficult with only himself and Boromir.

If only they had Legolas and Gimli with them. Aragorn wondered if they were safe, if they had found someplace to stay or if they were making their way to Minas Tirith as the rest of the Fellowship did. Had they been injured in the river? Aragorn hoped that it was not so; he did not wish to have to use any more healing supplies.

He looked over the hobbits and felt a pang of guilt; they were struggling to keep their chins above the water. It was a blessing that they were all fairly tall in the reckoning of their species, or they would not have been able to forge through the flood as they did. Still they would soon sink beneath the rain-rippled surface.

"Aragorn," panted Boromir after a while, turning back with his sodden hair clinging to his face. "We cannot go any further today. The flood is too deep and too cold, and we have no way to see the dangers beneath the surface. I fear that it shall be the death of the hobbits and of us."

"It shall still be our death even if we do get out of it," said Diamond. "For the rain still beats hard upon the water, and there is no dry wood with which we might build a fire. We'll freeze before we can get dry. I say we'd best press on until we are out of this Valar-cursed flood."

Pippin and Merry both nodded stoically, and though Boromir looked exhausted he seemed to agree. Aragorn bowed his head against the sky's furious torrent and forged on, trying to ignore the dull throb in the back of his head where it had struck the stone in the chasm. He did not think it a serious injury, but he would have dearly loved to rest.

The wind howled over the floodwaters, chopping the surface into white-capped ripples, and Aragorn could not keep himself from shivering. Pippin did not look to be faring much better; he was shaking violently, his head now barely above water. The flood was near to reaching Aragorn's chest and it was no surprise that the hobbit was finding it difficult to continue.

He bent and took Pippin into his arms, and the little one did not protest, instead wrapping his arms about Aragorn's neck and burying his face in the soaked tunic. Ahead of them, Boromir took up Merry, and though Diamond seemed furious at the prospect she conceded to let Boromir bear her upon his back. Aragorn felt rather guilty relief at the assurance that he would not have to carry two hobbits; he still ached in many places from his fall and did not think he could bear any more weight than Pippin.

"Strider," mumbled Pippin into Aragorn's chest when the flood had become a little shallower. "I must tell you something."

"Of course, Pippin. What troubles you?"

"I had another dream last night," said Pippin, looking up at Aragorn with wide fearful eyes. "I dreamed of the blackened land again, of the Lord Denethor and the march toward Mordor, but this time Diamond was with child, and she was to give birth upon the plains. Valor was there and he seemed quite fearful. This troubled me, though it was not nearly so worrisome as the words I heard at the end of the dream. They rolled across the land like thunder."

"Do you remember what they were?" Aragorn could not keep a note of fear out of his voice. What if the words were the same that he had heard in his dream just before Isengard, with the horrible echoing voice stating that Aragorn would bring about the fall of Middle-earth? "Please, Pippin, you must remember."

"I do remember," Pippin said, and he closed his eyes and the voice seemed to speak through him. "The voice said, 'When the shadow is fallen and all fate is dire/The light shall spring forth from a trial by fire/And the reaches of evil the heir shall raze/Or befall the land with the end of days.'"

Aragorn did not reply; his thoughts had burst into a raging hurricane of terror. Perhaps the words were not the same, but they carried the same message: he, Aragorn son of Arathorn, high king Elessar of Gondor, was to bring about the end of days in Middle-earth. He was not only doomed to lose the war but to destroy the land itself, to bring about the creation of the horrible blackened landscape that Pippin saw in his dreams. What was the point of continuing on when all Aragorn would do was bring destruction on his friends and his people? Why should there be a war at all?

"Strider?" Pippin whispered. "Strider, are you alright?"

He had stopped in the middle of the floodwater, his feet seeming now as leaden ingots. Aragorn could not breathe, could not move, could not think of anything but the horrific truth.

"No, Pippin," he choked out. "All is lost."

His head was pounding now, lightning searing through his body. The floodwater seemed as if it had turned suddenly to blood, a sea of blazing iron come to drown its prey. Aragorn would let it take him. He knew now that he could not continue, that he must never reach Minas Tirith lest the White City should fall.

A splash echoed vaguely through his thoughts, but Aragorn paid it no mind. He raised his hands to his temples, nearly doubling over with the blinding pain that now speared through him. His breath came swift and shallow, and dark swathes of shadow began to overtake his vision.

"Strider!"

It was Pippin's voice, and it sounded so like the cry in his dream, when Pippin had called out for him from a rising tide of blood…and the palantír was as a globe of fire, burning through his cloak…and suddenly vision upon vision of horrors poured through his mind, enclosed in a circle of flame…

Hosts of beings—elves, hobbits, men—fight upon a dark battlefield, and a vast black gate rises in the distance. The sky is dim and filled with ash, and a legion of orc-spears pierce the dusty heavens.

Splintered grass slick with blood covers the battlefield in a gruesome carpet. The air is filled with the cries of dying warriors, the ground with the bodies of the dead, who are great in number. Aragorn looks to the fiery red sun casting its weakened light over the scene and wonders bleakly if it too has been soaked in blood.

He scans the field desperately, searching for some familiar face to ground himself. He finds Queen Honor amid the throng, seated upon a dark horse and wielding a black-stained scythe. Her dark curls are whipped around her face as she swings the curved blade, cutting through the necks of orc after orc. Valor rides a white horse beside his wife, his mouth open in a desperate cry that goes unheard in the roar of battle.

A blade similar to Honor's, long and curved, slices across Aragorn's forehead in his moment of distraction. Blood runs into his eyes, tinting the battle scarlet. He raises Andúril and smites off the head of the orc that has wounded him, despair coursing through his veins as the men of Minas Tirith fall around him.

He cries out in horror as Honor falls from her horse. Valor leaps after his wife and takes up her scythe, tears running down his face as he wields it clumsily. Aragorn rides toward the queen and consort, passing a bloodied Legolas and Gimli, who fight back-to-back. They drive back many orcs, but more come, and Legolas roars in fury as Gimli is cut down.

Just beyond them is Merry, who is curled on the ground, writhing in pain as blood pools beneath him. A pale-haired woman is lying near to him, with a young man who looks much like Boromir crouched beside her. Is this Faramir? Aragorn has not seen him for many years, but the resemblance to the Captain of Gondor is striking. He too is bleeding, but he clutches the hand of the woman, pleading soundlessly.

Aragorn makes out the small figures of Majesty and Ruby Dellshore, unaware of their mother's fate, firing many arrows into the oncoming orcs. Their faces are bloody and filled with fear, but still they fight, unfazed by the march of their enemies.

The army of Gondor is falling. Everywhere Aragorn looks he is met with more fallen soldiers, more gouts of blood cascading onto the scarlet grass. Ash is whipped through the air by a burning wind, a horrible dark poison grating against his lungs.

And then—oh, Valar—

In the distance, the mountain shakes and the earth itself trembles in unadulterated fear. Fire is coming, spewing forth from the top of Oroduin. Aragorn's horse rears, terrified—for what man or beast would not be—and unseats him, and he falls, blood from the crimson-soaked earth splashing over his face.

And pain spears through Aragorn's chest, three wicked prongs of fire driving straight through him. It is not from the impact with the ground, nor is it made by any orc-blade. It is three long-ago arrows that pull the life from within him, three arrows come to finally do his shattered soul justice. Finally, he has retribution for his otherworldly deed.

"Ilúvatar, O One, father of heaven," he chokes out, barely able to speak, "hear my prayer!"

Footsteps thunder around him, the shapes of orcs and men blocking out the ashen sun, and Aragorn knows with a punishing finality that this is the day that his fragile mortal life is extinguished.

"Hear me," he whispers, even as the sky fades into darkness and an anguished cry echoes across the battlefield. "Spare him!"

Those words send the earth into tumult, and fire seems to sweep over Aragorn, carrying him to what he hopes are the shores of Valinor. But if not, even if he is not destined for such light and beauty, he will not allow the winyanost to be condemned to the same fate as he, simply because they share a soul…

"Spare him!"

And he falls.

"Estel!"

It was Boromir's voice. The strong hands were upon his shoulders again, just as they had been the night of the summoning, and he was on his knees, water lapping against his chest. His hands were still pressed to his face, shaking violently as he withdrew them and looked up.

It took Aragorn several moments to register that Boromir knelt before him, his eyes so wide that Aragorn could see the whites on every side. Rainwater cascaded in rivulets down Boromir's face, and his chest heaved as if he had spent a considerable time under exertion.

"Mellon." Aragorn's voice was hoarse, scratchy as if he had truly breathed the ash-filled air of battle. "Amman, honeg? Amman can-nin Estel?"

His voice broke over the words. "Beria hon, Ilúvatar…edraith iôn Gondor…"

"I cannot understand you," said Boromir desperately. "I speak only Westron, Aragorn; I know not what is the matter! Please, you must speak with me in the Common Speech, for I am unlearned in the noble art of tongues!"

The palantír had ceased to burn, and with its fading fire came the return of conscious speech. Aragorn struggled to form the simple words, as if he had regressed to his earliest days, when he struggled to learn proper Westron in the house of Elrond. His mother Gilraen had spoken the language to him when he was a babe, but when he came to Imladris he had learned only Sindarin; Westron was as good as his second language. Still he usually spoke it so well; he did not know why the skill seemed to have fled his tongue.

"Gohen—forgive me, Boromir," Aragorn whispered, choking back the Elvish words. "I…I do not know what possessed me. Was it you who cried my Sindarin name? I did not know that you knew of it."

"I spoke no Sindarin," said Boromir. "Nor did any of the hobbits."

"I heard you." Aragorn could not wrap his wearied mind around any other explanation. "Boromir, you spoke my name. You cried Estel and called me back from the palantír, or whatever it was that sent me such visions."

"Aragorn," said Boromir, firmly but gently. "I speak no Sindarin, nor did I even know your Elvish name. I thought the question was best left unasked; I did not know if it was a personal matter. But you are troubled and weary, and perhaps also pained from what I can tell. Come, lean on me; we shall find a place out of the wind and the rain, and we may rest for the afternoon."

Aragorn let Boromir pull him to his feet, where his trembling legs nearly sent him back to the ground. He looked over the hobbits, who watched him with apprehension in their gazes.

"Fear not, little ones," he said. "I am well, only shaken. Pippin, I think I must have dropped you, and for that I am quite sorry."

"Do not be so," said Pippin with his usual smile. "I was in no danger. Let us find someplace to shelter; I wish nothing more than to get out of the water."

Boromir pulled Aragorn's arm over his shoulders, and Aragorn leaned more on him than he would like to admit. His legs seemed as though they were made of the water that surrounded them, and his head ached as if some dwarf had taken a hammer to his skull. It seemed odd that a single vision had taken so much strength from him. Would it always be so taxing? Would Aragorn always be brought to his knees, passing out of the waking world and into the dreaming, and awake speaking in tongues foreign to his companions, with pain like this?

As they set off across the floodplain, Aragorn thought on the voice that had called him out of the vision. It had certainly sounded like Boromir, but now that he had time for further reflection, he thought that perhaps the voice had been slightly higher, though still the voice of a man. Could it be that another Man like himself was drawn by the palantír? If it was so, where was he?

Aragorn wished he could speak to Valor; the fallan was greatly learned when it came to these matters. He was sure that Valor could tell him what the palantír desired, who had called for him, perhaps even the truth of what he had seen—if it would come to pass or not. Aragorn needed guidance, and he needed it swiftly.

"How are you?" Boromir asked suddenly, though to Aragorn's relief he kept his voice quiet. "You do not look well, Aragorn; your face is pale as the blossoms of the elenorn and you are shaking. Visions seem to me an unpleasant business."

"I am well enough," Aragorn sighed. "It is a silly thing, but the vision frightened me, just as any night terror would. I shall be alright once I have had a chance to rest, though I hate to slow our journey so."

"It is inevitable that it should be slowed at some point," said Boromir, smiling faintly. "Why not now?"

Aragorn mustered a faint smile in return, but it quickly faded as he registered a seemingly trivial detail of Boromir's words. "Boromir."

His voice was firmer than he meant it to be, and alarm flashed through Boromir's eyes. "Aragorn? What troubles you?"

"Boromir, you have never seen the elenorn."

Their feet stilled, and they stood together in the now-knee-deep water, storm-toned eyes staring into each other, and suddenly Aragorn realized how alike their eyes truly were. The hobbits, a few paces ahead of them, looked on with confusion in their eyes.

"I remember it so clearly," Boromir murmured, his eyes glassy. "It was a beautiful thing, much like the White Tree of Gondor, and it grew beside a creek. There I heard, or perhaps I sang, a song that I think may be the loveliest thing I have ever known, and it came from deep within, borne upon some inner light."

Aragorn tried to speak but could find no utterance. Boromir remembered, he remembered the white tree of Long Cleeve, though he had never before seen it, and he had spoken with Aragorn's own internal words of the inner light. What had he been given along with Aragorn's soul?

The daze lifted from Boromir's gaze, and he looked upon Aragorn again. "Perhaps I dreamed it. Come, we must find shelter and make camp."

Aragorn was reluctant to let the subject drop, but he complied and the company continued to trudge trough the floodwaters. By the grace of Ilúvatar the flood began to grow less deep, and after another half a league or so they were walking only across sodden grass.

Near sunset, as the land became more jagged, they came to a rocky overhang and camped beneath it. Pippin and Merry curled up together, resting on top of Pippin's cloak and below Merry's, and fell asleep almost instantly. Diamond, wrapped in her own cloak, was close behind, lying a few feet away.

The sunset painted the edge of the overcast sky with fire, and Aragorn and Boromir sat at the mouth of the little cave, watching the golden light shine blinding upon the water. For a long time neither of them spoke, content to remain in the dampened, darkening world, and then Boromir broke the silence.

"What have you seen?"

Aragorn startled a little; he looked at Boromir with poorly concealed fear. "I—I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." Boromir's gaze was steady. "What have you seen, my king? I have seen before the way you fell to your knees and seemed to pass out of this world and into another. I know that you have seen something that has frightened you. Please, tell me of it; perhaps I might soothe your fears."

"No man can soothe my fears," sighed Aragorn, but he relented. "I saw a terrible battle beside a black gate, where great armies fought beneath a red sun. The hobbits of Long Cleeve were there, as were some of our company and the men of Gondor. I watched Honor Queen of Long Cleeve struck down before me and saw the loss of many men. Just before the vision ended I was thrown from my horse, and I knew that I would die there upon the battlefield. But though the vision troubles me exceedingly it is nothing when compared to what Pippin has told me."

"What has he said?" asked Boromir.

"He gave to me a prophecy, one which recalled a dream I had weeks ago before the siege of Isengard," said Aragorn. "It frightened me, for both my dream and Pippin's riddle have said that I shall bring about the end of days in Middle-earth. Now I am fearful of myself, and I wonder if I must give up the quest so that I do not place the fate of us all upon the point of a knife."

"Speak not of leaving, Aragorn, I beg of you," Boromir pleaded, looking at Aragorn with plaintive eyes. "I find it difficult to believe that you and you alone shall hold the fate of Middle-earth. I think each of us has a part to play, for good or for evil, and no one of us has a greater destiny than any other. But even if that were not true, even if you did lead us into a land of blood and shadow and mountains of cascading fire, I would follow you to the end, for I would know that you had done your best to save us."

The measure of devotion, of pure and perfect hope, broke Aragorn's heart, for he had already made his choice. After tonight, Boromir would not think so highly of him—the cowardly king abdicating his crumbling throne.

Even so he reached out and placed a hand upon Boromir's arm. "Thank you, mellon. I am glad that you are here, with your kind words and your steadfast heart. Know that nothing done to me shall ever make me regret the summoning of your noble spirit."

You will lead this quest well.

He stood and walked to the wall of the cave, leaning against the stone. "I will take the first watch, Boromir. Go lie down with the hobbits, for I am sure they are in need of your warmth tonight. I…I shall wake you at midnight."

"Very well." Boromir took his sodden cloak from off his shoulders and laid it out upon the ground to dry, then curled onto the earth beside Merry and Pippin, his eyes already closing. "Good night, Estel."

Aragorn smiled faintly. "Good night, Boromir."

He stood still for a long time, watching as the sun sank fully beneath the glittering horizon. When it had gone Aragorn knelt down, looking upon his sleeping companions and ensuring that they were all, for better or for worse, deep in slumber, just as they must be.

Aragorn took his pack, which he had placed against the wall of the cave, and took from it many leaves of athelas, wrapping them in a length of bandage from the stores of Long Cleeve. He left one of his two precious jars of pine sap and a mortar and pestle, as well as a cooking pan and his firesteel. Lastly he left his coil of elvin rope, which had sustained them for so long. All this he pushed against the back wall, not wanting to let it become damp.

When it was all done he took a piece of charcoal and the parchment on which he had written the words to the summoning ritual, and the latter he turned over to the blank side. He began to write, fighting past the burning in the corners of his eyes.

The visions tell me I will destroy you. Our quest is doomed, or at least it shall be if I continue. Boromir shall lead this quest now and take my place as the true king of Gondor.

Know that I have great faith in each of you. I am sorry that I could not go with you to the end. May Ilúvatar grant you his protection and guidance as you complete your journey.

And if you can forgive me, perhaps one day we shall meet again.

With greatest love,

Aragorn

Strider

Estel

Aragorn rolled the parchment into a scroll and placed it beside the other supplies, and as he turned to leave he realized that it may be the last time he ever saw this last of his little company. Should all go wrong in Minas Tirith, should they be lost to the flood or to Sauron, he did not wish to leave them without a last goodbye.

He kissed both Merry and Pippin upon their brows, the sight of their little sleeping faces sending tiny cracks across his heart. Instead of Diamond's forehead he brushed his lips lightly across her hand, closing his eyes so he could not see the Ring on its chain about her neck. She was a valiant Ring-bearer, and it saddened him to think that he was leaving her just as he had Frodo, when it had been his duty to protect them both.

In a way, he was honoring that duty. This much he knew.

Lastly Aragorn went to Boromir. This parting hurt him the most, after so short a time of being back with his dearest friend, but he knew that it must happen, so that he might have even a chance of sparing him.

Just as he had when Boromir passed in the forest on Amon Hen, Aragorn took Boromir's sleeping face in his hands and kissed his brow, the words from that moment passing soundlessly over his lips. Be at peace, son of Gondor.

"Be at peace," he whispered again as he stood, unable to turn just yet toward the rain-washed horizon. "Farewell, my friends."

Then Aragorn went out into the night, unable to keep his tears from flowing now, and they fell upon the ground, mingling with the rainy tears of Ilúvatar, which wrapped him in a shroud of sorrow and left a trail of shattered destiny stretching out behind him.