CHAPTER SIX

The name "South Ithilien" was more a tradition than a reflection of the territory's true geography. It held the shady woods and laughing streams that its northern namesake was known for, but only sporadically. For the most part it was composed of broad expanses of dry scrub. The Haradrim camp had found itself quite at home in the middle of it.

The true woods did not start until the slopes of Emyn Arnen.

As he rode through the valley between the Hills by the Water and the Mountains of Shadow, Aragorn scanned the foliage. The trees grew tall and thick, shading out most undergrowth. Every now and then, a fallen giant would create a gap in the canopy, allowing young trees and other plants to grow. In one such glade, the ranger found what he sought. It was a tall weed, broad, succulent leaves spiralling out from a single fleshy stem.

Slowing Rána from her gallop, he bent over and pulled it up from its root. It parted easily from the soft loam of the forest floor. Shaking away the excess dirt, he spurred the mare forward again. She ran with a smooth gait, and he found no trouble in keeping his balance, even with his hands occupied.

Breaking a leaf off in the midst of its stem, he allowed a drop of white sap to form. He then carefully transferred it to his face, rubbing thick juice into his skin. As it dried, its milky colour faded to a dusky-brown. He repeated the process with each leaf, then with lengths of the stem. When he was finished, the skin of his face, neck and arms matched those of the Haradrim.

He then slipped off his pack. Balancing it on Rána's shoulders, he exchanged his tunic for one from its contents. Its colours were those of Captain Ezrie's company and sewn on its sleeves were the marks of an errand rider. He had let the sun's heat melt the wax seals a little and now refastened the scrolls. After smoothing away his fingerprints with an edge of his shirt, he placed both messages in a messenger's dispatch pouch. He slung both it and his pack back over his shoulders and smiled to himself in satisfaction. He could now be confused with any one of a thousand riders in the service of Harad.

Settling back into to the saddle, he let his horse's even pace lull him into a half-doze. He had ridden with Rohirrim for almost five years, and had learned form them how to nap on the road. The Riders of Mark could ride for days without pause if they had change of horse. He knew that in a little over two hours the road would begin to descend into the Morgul Vale, the change in Rána's stride would wake him. For now he desperately needed rest.

He thought of Denethor, a man much like to him in many ways. Learned and valiant, a leader of men, but proud, so very proud. He had seen Aragorn as a rival from the moment the ranger had entered Ecthelion's service. Thorongil, as he was then known, had not intended to garner favour, but events had progressed with a life of their own. With every word of advice and service given, he had risen in the eyes of the father and fallen in the eyes of the son. After that victory in Umbar, he had known that it was time to leave. Blood would have been spilled had he returned to the White City.

That had been six years ago. He very much doubted that the heir's temper had improved much since.

With visions of angry aristocrats raging in his head, he drifted into a light sleep.

The day had lengthened into the early evening by the time he woke. A brake in the trees gave him a view of the sun falling towards the peak of Mount Mindolluin, over Minas Tirith.

To the East he caught a glimpse of another White City as it loomed above the trees. A single red light crowning its highest tower flickered ominously.

Instead of going to the Crossroads and following Imlad Morgul to the Tower of Dark Sorcery, he cut across country. Ezrie had told him of a shortcut used by many of his people. It was barely a trail at all really, hardly wide enough for a single rider. The going became slower as it narrowed, and he had to check the mare to a fast trot. At least the rougher pace and branches slapping his face helped rattle the remaining sleep from his senses.

The track wound through the woodland and skirted below the cliffs that plunged into the Vale, all too soon leading him to the clearing that surrounded the City of Sorcery. From there it preceded directly to the bridge beneath the Tower.

What he saw as he approached the edge of the trees caused his heart to stop. For a brief moment, he wished that he was still deep in slumber and that this was some unnatural dream.

He had seen the Fortress of the Ringwraiths before, it would be impossible not to after so many years in Gondor. Never had he been near this close. Upon further study, he decided that he never wanted to be again either.

The same hand built that Minas Tirith had crafted its sister. Tall white walls swept up to meet soaring towers. It was intended to project both power and beauty, like the prow of a proud ship of Westernese.

That had changed. A dark hand had taken every fair design and twisted it back on itself. The white walls, which once had gleamed in light of sun and moon, now glowed a sickly, translucent yellow, like a bone boiled until soft. They seemed to catch all light and reflect it back distorted. Even the blossoms that carpeted the clearing before him were perverted, each one matching the walls in colour and bearing a deadly needle at its heart.

By leaving the shelter of the wood, he seemed to cross some invisible boundary. The very air thickened so that all sounds sounded faint and distant. Rána immediately slowed to a reluctant walk. He barely had the heart to urge her on; he felt no more desire to pass below the menacing walls than she did.

But time was not on his side. The Sun had now sunk below the peaks of Ered Nimrais, her last rays transmuting the sparse clouds into molten gold. He had to be ready before the company transporting Denethor left at nightfall. To be ready he had to be on the other side of the pass. He gave the mare a solid kick. "Make haste, milady! The swifter your pace, the sooner our departure form this accursed place." In response she returned to a fast trot, adding as many bumps and jolts as she could manage.

Together they advanced, going unchallenged beneath the city. But when they came to the bridge over the Morgul River, they found it guarded. A dozen Orcs were split between both ends, lounging on the stones and appearing bored.

As Aragorn approached, the largest of them slouched to his feet. He was not as tall as a man, but made up for it by being twice as broad across the shoulders. Ritual scars webbed around his silted yellow eyes. He leered, exhibiting a mouth containing enough teeth for three Men. "What your business, Man-flesh?" he snarled, his rendition of Common Tongue distorted almost beyond understanding. His scars danced as he spoke.

Aragorn found that he was at a loss for words. Normally he would not be in the least daunted by such a challenge. But then, normally he would not be in Imlad Morgul preparing to enter the Land of Shadow. He could feel his hands shaking as he gripped the rains.

I have slain better than you! he thought to summon courage. It helped somewhat and after a few repetitions he felt able to speak.

"I. I am a messenger," he said, leaving a slight tremor in his voice for authenticity's sake. The situation was probably enough to put the fear of Morgoth into most living beings anyway. "I bear dispatches from my Captain to the Dark Tower."

"Stay time! More come when burning light gone. You go with us!" the Orc obviously found Aragorn's pretence of fear greatly entertaining. He seemed to want to have the diversion for the entire journey.

"No!" the ranger did not have to feign emotion this time. "I cannot! My orders are to travel with utmost haste. If I terry my head is forfeit." Maybe next time, he added silently.

The Orc leaped forward, shoving his face into Aragorn's. Ranger and horse jumped back as one. He laughed and the others joined in if and when they got the joke. The sound was akin to two score cats being beaten to death with chain mail shirts. Still, they stepped aside, opening a path. "Run, Man-flesh!" the leader shouted as Aragorn shot by at a full gallop. "Next time eat you!"

When they were safely past the crossing, they both let out the breath they had been holding. Aragorn had been afraid that he would be forced to travel with the very company that he sought to ambush. Rána also had seemed concerned, but with becoming Orc food.

His relief was short lived. Looking ahead he saw the jagged crags of Ephel Duath and in a cut between them, the way to Mordor.

"Shell we go then, Lady?" he asked as they started up the pass. "Shadow and darkness await."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Even the stars were dimmer in the Land of Shadow. A foul vapour filled the air suppressing their light. Only the brightest of Elbereth's jewels could be seen, weakly flickering though the gloom. Eärendil the Mariner was hidden behind the Fence of mountains. The waning moon had yet to rise.

The glow that illuminated Aragorn's way came from Mount Doom. The light of its fires caught in the haze, turning the sky into an ocean of burning blood.

The ranger had little need of it. He had scouted this side of the pass some years previous, committing the terrain to memory.

The road snaked it way south along a cliff face, the sheer wall of the mountain rising on his right and diving to his left. Occasionally, a small ridge jutted out, and the way was hewn though a narrow canyon. More like tunnels than passes, they forced the traveler to stumble briefly through utter darkness before emerging again into the light of the Mountain.

In one such place, a narrow path had originally worked its way around the obstruction, but when the road was widened, it had been carved straight through. There were now two paths, the outer one now somewhat overgrown with coarse bracken.

He dismounted and led Rána along the cliff edge. When he came to a place hidden from view of the main road, he loosely tied her rains to a bush. Striping off his cloths, he fashioned a crude mannequin by stuffing them with dead ferns. He also filled a spare hood, creating a head. After lashing the whole process into place with twine, he stepped back to survey the results. Close up, it looked to be an escaped scarecrow on a rather surprised horse. He hoped that from a distance, it would more closely resemble a Haradrim messenger crouched low in his saddle. At any rate, it would be hard to distinguish any clear details in this gloom.

He hastily donned a set of dark garments form his pack and hurried down the path. Where the two ways rejoined, there was a high stone bridge above deep crevasse. Five could walk abreast over it, but years had worn it thin and some of the stones had cracked. As he picked his way through broken cobles, he passed under a tall crag that over shadowed the crossing from the far side.

He smiled to himself as he looked up.

The rock face on the south side of the ravine loomed above him. From below, the overhang seemed insurmountable. Climbing without pause straight to the pinnacle, the rock was smooth and almost free of handholds. Now and then, a jagged fang of rock protruded slightly from the face. An expert climber could perhaps have made the ascent unaided, but Aragorn had little knowledge of that art.

Instead, he gathered his rope. After tying a bowstring knot, finished with a simple knot for safety, he ran the other end of the rope through the loop he had just made. He held the new loop in his right hand, with the coil of remaining line in his left.

Now if only he could remember how to use it.

This was another skill he had learned of the Rohirrim, it came as naturally to them as breathing and riding. It had taken him years to learn it properly, and he had not made use of it in many years. After a few tentative swings, he picked up speed until the rope was singing through the air over his head. The closest outcropping was perhaps a dozen yards distant, above him to his left. He took a moment to shift his weight, then aimed carefully and released. The rope sped away, disappearing into the darkness above him as its length uncoiled from his grip.

It was a clean miss.

He re-coiled the rope tried again with renewed concentration. This time the lariat grazed the edge of his target, before slithering back down.

The ranger sighed; he could ill afford such an error. By now, company would have left Minas Morgul, and he had to have ascended before they reached the bridge.

The third attempt was successful. He tested it with his weight, but the rope was looped securely around his chosen escarpment. A basic harness around his upper body was all he had time for. He did not rightly have time for any safety concerns at all, but more than one life would be lost should he fall.

Without being able to use his feet for more than balance on the sheer face, his arms were forced to bear him upwards. He was glad for the daily ritual of sword practice that he had kept since early childhood. "Wrists of steel," his master had said on many occasions. "If you have wrists of steel you can accomplish any deed." Somehow, Aragorn doubted that this was what the old Elf had had in mind. Or perhaps not, one could never really tell with Elves.

There was a slight ledge behind the point where his rope was attached. He rested there for a brief moment, rubbing his burning arms with raw hands. As it happened, looking down, even for a brief moment, was not a wise idea. The road he had just come from seemed very narrow and far away. Below it, the cliff dropped for at least another two-hundred yards before it was lost in shadows. He quickly averted his gaze, turning his attention to the climb ahead. That seemed far less daunting. The summit rose above him at perhaps half the distance that he had already traveled.

As he loosened the line, he saw that the sharp edges of the rock had begun the fray it. Thus far, only a few strands were separated, so he did not trouble to retie his knots at the other end.

This time he caught his target, on the first throw. The rope fitted snugly to a projection up and to the north, right below the peak of the main crag. The second climb was far less difficult, for the distance was shorter and the grade much shallower. He still supported most of his weight with his arms, but could occasionally lessen the strain in his back and shoulders by finding footholds.

When he crested the ridge, the ranger could see Eärendil shining brightly over the White City. Again, he felt the familiar light calling to him. He wished he had a ship of stars like his ancestor. At least it would ease the strain of long voyages and painstaking climbs. A chill wind out of the north-west dried the sweat from his face. Beneath the cloying scent of the Morgul flowers and the tang of Harad fires, he could taste a trace of pine needles. He had not seen a pine tree in six years. It smelled like home. "Soon," he told the distant Mariner. "Soon I will again walk in you grace, among your people." He had been too long away.

He sighed and turned back to the business at hand. Leaving the lariat where it hung he coiled the remainder rope neatly out of sight. He doubted that anyone below could possible see it, but it was better to be safe. The rest of his route inclined gently enough that he could scramble up with ease. Here he sat almost directly over the centre of the bridge; the drop from his perch to the gully bottom was near upon three score yards. He could see the entire length of the road leading to the pass, save only the places where it passed through a gap in a ridge. He even caught sight of Rána, waiting tolerantly for he master far below.

Then he saw them.

Not half a mile up the road. A group of Orcs heavily armed and two dozen strong. They surrounded a pale figure, who stumbled weakly along with the unyielding pull of his lead.

And behind them rode a Nazgűl.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Dark Horseman drove his Orcs before him. Even a look was enough to spur on any creature that should lag.

They had bound a color about Denethor's neck, attaching a chain by which they led him. His hands were trussed behind him, allowing no means to catch his balance. His captors saw this and made a sport of it. They would jerk his leash one way then the other, and then laugh and clap as he staggered listlessly to their rhythm.

As the ranger watched from above, the game was carried too far. Someone yanked violently forward. The steward's son dropped like felled wood, barely able to keep from smashing his face into the road. Either unseeing or uncaring, the Orc continued on, dragging his prisoner over the rough paving stones.

Just then, they passed behind a ridge, and Aragorn could not see what happened next. He heard a low hiss, followed by a yelp. When they emerged from the shadows, Denethor was on his feet. The soldiers now supported their charge with a firm grip on each arm. At the back of the party, two others dragged the still form of their former comrade. They paused briefly to toss the offending Orc off the cliff edge.

Aragorn turned away, focusing his gaze on the top of the crag. Long ago, lightning struck it; now a web of cracks and scars cut through the stone. Near the crown, an open fracture ran fully around its bounds. At the widest, it was perhaps a hand's breadth, and it ran deep into the rock.

With the aid of the lesser faults, he climbed up further. Drawing the messenger's sword, he wedged as far it as far into the gap as he could. When he finished, over half the blade had disappeared in the rock. He hastily wrapped the sharp edges in a stripe of leather.

The first of company were starting over the chasm below. They spread out where the way narrowed.

He kicked hard at a cleft, wedging his foot deep into it.

Denethor was on the bridge.

Setting his shoulder under the cold steal of the pommel, the ranger gripped the leather binding near the rock.

As the captive left the bridge, Aragorn drove his upper body against the blade.

It did not budge.

Beneath him, he heard flakes of rock rattling down the cliff as they split from his foothold. Drawing a deep breath, he flung his strength into a steady conflict with the unmoving boulder. The blade cut through its covering and into his palms.

It gave all at once.

There was a crack like lighting splitting the sky, and then his world turned upside down. He shot up and away from his footing on the crag. The sword flew from his grip and spiralled out of sight. He found himself sliding down towards the rope. He tried to catch his fingers in one of the cracks, but there weren't any this far down.

To his left, he saw the tooth of rock where the line was attached. It seemed to come towards him at a disturbing speed. Below that, the cliff dropped sheer to the road.

He shifted to his right side, and then threw his weight into a roll to the left. He managed to fling his sword arm around the rock as he shot past. Completing the roll, he brought his other arm up, clasping hand about wrist. His descent came to a bone-jarring halt.

For a moment, he just hung there, heart pounding wildly against the stone. He tried to calm himself with the knowledge that his harness would have eventually stopped him, but his body insisted on panicking. Drawing deep lungfuls of air, he slowed his ragged breathing. He closed his eyes, letting the rock cool his face.

After letting out one last steady breath, the ranger hauled himself back up onto the ridge. From there he could see the results of efforts. The bridge had disappeared, the sudden weight of the boulder proving too much for its decaying stones. Joining it at the bottom of the rift, were a good half of the Company. He could not see where either the Nazgűl or its horse were. He hoped his missile had crushed them.

The remainder of the Orcs gathered around the end of the ruined crossing. They peered into the depths, pointing and snarling excitedly amongst themselves. Fortunately, it did not seem to occur to them that the overhanging crag had fallen from anything other than pure accident.

Denethor lay unnoticed and unmoving in their midst.

Between the Nazgűl and heavy objects hurtling out of the sky, Rána had had enough. He could just see her baring her charge back over the pass at a full gallop. He wished her luck

Finding a stable perch, Aragorn retied the rope, making a slide. His hands looked a ghastly sight, skin burned and abraded, palms sliced open. There was no time to tend them now. He donned a pair of heavy, hide gloves, and on consideration, added another layer of leather around that. He also wrapped a pair of ridding breaches round his waist.

The rope slithered and slapped against the cliff as it fell. Its length reached almost to the ground, ending just over the heads of the Orcs.

Saying a quick prayer to whatever gods or ancestors might be listening, he stepped off the edge.

The line hissed through his hands, almost louder than the wind in his ears. He loosened his grip as much as he dared, and the cliffside flashed past. Every time he used his legs to direct the fall, a shock rent through his muscles.

He could smell smoke. He was clutching the rope tighter now, trying to lessen his speed before the rope ran out. His gloves, they were what was burning. The heat blistered through three layers of protection.

The end of the line, no time to worry.

"Elendil!" he cried, landing solidly on his feet. Striping away his smouldering gloves, he flung them at the first Orc to turn on him.

Clutching at its face, it jumped back, tumbling over the edge.

Aragorn pushed his advantages. They were surprised and had their backs to a precipice.

The air sang of steel and danced with sparks. He was in a dance of sorts. The stage set and lit in red. Blood, fire and eyes spun around him.

He was on the ground now, a shield in his face. It too sang as a sword struck it. He shoved it aside and saw the returning blade. His own was still in the last Orc. It would not pull free. He let it go, rolling the other way.

There was a cliff there and no further to go. The knife in his hand felt small. He spun it in the air, catching its blade and then sending it away again. It found a snug home between his assailant's eyes.

Before he could scramble to his feet, another took its place. Rolling again only trapped him for the next blow. He watched as the blade edge sped towards him. Maybe if he dove into it.

No matter, it had decided to change trajectories. It glanced off the stones by his head. Now he lunged forward, taking care to avoid Denethor's foot. A foot firmly planted in the back of an Orcish knee.

A tug was all he needed to send his opponent over him and down.

He caught up a stray sword and rolled to his feet, but there was no one left to fight.

Casting the crude blade away, he went to find his own. The sword was buried to the hilt in Orc, its guard tangled in broken armour. He remembered the creature plunging towards him as its fellows crowded over it. That was how he had fallen. He pulled back the mail; once unfettered, the blade slid out easily. Transferring the gore to an already dirty cloak, he sheathed it.

He also cleaned his knife before he cut Denethor's bonds with it. Rolling the other man back over, he asked: "Are you injured?"

A flicker of recognition passed though grey eyes that were so like his own. The voice was horse from thirst and disuse. "Thorongil, are you sinking too? I can't seem to swim."

There are a couple of things that I'd like to mention before I get back to the story. Please bear with me.

First, as Dwimordene so kindly pointed out (No, I'm not being sarcastic, I really appreciate all her suggestions), I need a beta reader. This is my first fic and I'm not really sure what I'm doing yet. If you would like to help out, could you please e-mail me?

I do plan to totally rework this thing once I finish it. Any suggestions for changes, major and/or minor, from any of you would be more than welcome. I don't promise make all of the of course, but I will deeply consider everything you might say.

Next up, here's something about Saruman that I should probably have mentioned before. The White Wizard is not a minion of Sauron at the time of the story. According to Appendix B, Saruman was not initially corrupted by Sauron, not directly anyway. What first tempted him to darkness was a desire for the Ring. He had long studied Ring Lore and had been swayed by the power that it spoke of. He also sought domination over the world of Men. He told Gandalf that the Wizards were meant to rule Men.

Only after years of searching for the Ring, did Saruman dare to use the palantír. Sauron caught him and further polluted his mind. After that he was allied with Sauron, but not his servant. He (for some reason I just typed "I" instead of "He," an interesting slip don't you think?) really wanted to overthrow the Dark Lord and set himself in his place. This is probably the largest break between the movie and the book.

This story takes place in the winter of 2979/2980. Though the White Wizard has been corrupt since at least 2851, he did not make contact with Sauron until around 3000th year of the Third Age.

Last but not least, the disclaimer: I fully realise and understand that most of the persons, places and things in the following story are the property of the Tolkien estate under international copyright law.

Now to the story at last.

CHAPTER NINE

"Can I swim?" Aragorn asked blankly. "Denethor, the land could not get any drier." He stared worriedly into the other man's face. The numerous bruises did not especially concern him, nor did the bloody abrasion across his face, or even the broken nose. It was his eyes that frightened him.

Once they had been full of life, taking in the world around them, able to pierce the very hearts of men with a keen glance. Of that fire, only the barest spark remained. The grey-green gaze could only just meet his own, as though they were looking at each other from separate worlds.

"A Elbereth," the ranger sighed; "What have they done too you?"

Denethor did not answer, seeming to slide deeper into whatever held him. He kept his eyes fixed on the other's face as though it were his last hope.

Aragorn could not understand what had happened. The Steward's son had always been strong, a fearsome opponent in both battle and argument. He had never been seen to bend knee to anyone save his lord and father, and sometimes not even to him.

The ranger did not hold the childish faith that a strong man could remain unbroken. He well knew that given enough time, even his own soul could be destroyed. Still, they had not held Denethor for more than a handful of days. He would not believe that even a Nazgűl could have broken this man so quickly.

Besides, Aragorn thought; why would the Nazgűl bother torment him if they planned to bring him before the Dark Lord in Barad-dűr?

Nazgűl. There was something that Gandalf had told him about Nazgűl. He frowned, trying to recall the old man's words. "They have knives, Blades of Dark Sorcery, if one should pierce mortal flesh, it would consume the very soul of that man." That sounded about right.

He searched Denethor's body for injuries. He had not been captured easily, bruises discoloured his skin and several cuts still bleed. Yet he could find no wound deeper than a jagged slash across his forearm. Nor could he discover any signs of torture. His flesh was unmarred by lash or burn, and other than his nose, no bones had been broken.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked in exasperation.

At first, Denethor looked as though he could not quite comprehend the question. Then he closed his eyes and seemed to gather the last of his strength. When he spoke, his words were a mere hint of form in an exhalation. The ranger leaned closer and heard: "Black Breath."

Aragorn cursed himself for a fool. It had been over twenty years since he had last seen the Grey Wanderer, but still, he should have better remembered the wizard's words. When he had declared his intention to journey into shadow, his friend had pronounced a long list of things to be weary of. The evils of the Nazgűl had featured prominently in it. At the time, Aragorn he felt Gandalf was being something of a mother hen and had wished he wouldn't worry so, but over the years he had come to value his words. Never more so than at this moment, for along with a warning, the wizard had given him a cure.

"When the black breath blows And death's shadow grows And all lights pass, Come athelas! Come athelas! Life to the dying In the king's hand lying!"*

He delved into his pack, quickly procuring several sheets of wax concealed in the lining. Inside the wax were several long, narrow leaves, looking somewhat withered, but in good condition considering their age. Carefully unpeeling the protective coating, he removed three of the precious leaves. He smelt them carefully. Being preserved for several years had done little for them, but they still seemed to hold most of their virtues.

In other circumstances, he would have boiled the leaves to release their greatest powers, but now he could risk neither the light nor the time.

Helping Denethor sit up a little, he propped his pack under his head and shoulders. It was not very comfortable perhaps, but the ranger had little time for anything else. He took another look at the other man's face and grimaced. "Like as not, I should set that nose while you are still drugged," he muttered. Placing both hands on the broken bone, he drew a deep breath then twisted sharply.

That brought Denethor back to Middle-earth for an instant. Eyes flew open and hands gripped wrists, pulling them away from his injured face. Then the moment passed, and he slipped back into a daze, ignoring the blood that now flowed freely.

Aragorn gently disengaged his arms from the now lax grasp, replacing them with a soft cloth. "Hold this to your nose," he said softly. "It will slow the bleeding." When Denethor did not comply, he moved his hand for him. At the same time, he slipped the wad of athelas into the other's mouth. "And chew on that," he added. "Do not worry, I will return shortly."

Leaving the steward's son to recover his strength, he surveyed the situation. Most of the Orcs were already at the bottom of the ravine, having fallen either with the bridge of in the fight. He spent the next few minutes wrestling the remaining corpses over the edge. Let them think it an accident, he prayed as he gave the last one a final shove.

Peering after it, he could make out vague shapes at the bottom. Boulders and bodies littered the ground, but he could see no sign of either dark horse or rider. There did lie a sizable pile of rubble that could have easily covered them. Aragorn said another prayer asking for them both to be under it, and then returned to his feet.

His rope still hung against the cliff face, ending just above his head. He eyed it speculatively, wondering how best to get it back. Finally, gripping it firmly in newly wrapped hands, he jumped, throwing his weight against it as if ringing a bell. Of course, when he had last hauled on a bell pull, he remembered there being a certain amount of slack given, not this sudden shock through his back and shoulders. And the rope attached to a bell doesn't usually break after several pulls, which this one did.

The ranger found himself sprawled on his back with the remains of the line in a tangled coil on top of him. For a moment he stared in dazed confusion at the stars above him. Then he heard a low chuckle behind him. "And just what about our predicament do you find so amusing, Son of Ecthelion?" he asked, not expecting to like the answer.

He didn't. "The look on your face, Son of No Man," Denethor answered, voice still weak, but now holding a life brought by laughter. "I wish that I had the poet's gift so that I might immortalize it in song. I would name the piece 'The Fall of Thorongil.'" He laughed again.

"At least now you are well enough to have found your sense of humour," Aragorn grumbled as he rolled to his feet, discreetly rubbing the portion of his anatomy most bruised. "There is some grace in that." He saw that the other man had also risen and now leaned tiredly on a discarded sword. Bundling the rope together, the ranger thrust it at him. "Why do you not put some of your newfound vigour to a useful purpose and coil this?"

As Aragorn repacked, Denethor did just that, knelling to conserve his strength. The last things to be placed in the ranger's bundle were the severed pieces of rope, now neatly tied.

He gave the road one last look, making sure that there were no more signs of their visit. "Do you plan to keep that?" he asked the Denethor, indicating the Orcish blade that he now bore.

The other man nodded. "Travelling with you, I imagine that I will need it." The steward's son levered himself back to his feet, ignoring the ranger's proffered hand.

Free and together, they continued down the road, heading South and further into Mordor.



*From page172 of a soft cover edition of the Return of the King. Not mine, Tolkien's. Go ahead, sue me; I don't have any money anyway.

CHAPTER TEN

The wind from the northwest had increased in strength, dispersing the smog. It lightened Aragorn's heart; he had quickly tired of the stench that wafted from below. Now the quarter moon was rising from the shadows of a distant arm of hills. It cast a pale light on their path, replacing the reflected glow of Orodruin that had faded with the haze.

He heard a soft curse as Denethor tripped on the edge of a paving stone. A hand grabbed his sleeve as the other man involuntarily steadied himself. Aragorn did not move, expecting the hold to be removed immediately. But the Steward's son did not let go. Instead, he increased his grip, supporting some of his weight of on the ranger's shoulder.

Without a word, Aragorn guided Denethor's arm over his shoulders. He slipped his own arm around the other's waist, accepting the burden. Thus joined, they resumed their journey.

More weight settled on him as they walked. He hoped that the Steward's son remembered that although the ranger had a few inches more height, he was much lighter in build. And that he too felt weary. He had not slept in two days.

He could smell the sweet savour of athelas on the other's ragged breath. Chewing the herb had given Denethor a burst of energy, but that had worn off quickly. His strength had begun to fail again.

"We may rest in a little while," said the ranger, "just as soon as we escape the road."

"I can walk as far as you," Denethor said stiffly.

Aragorn sighed. I should have known better than to say anything, he thought. Well, he will not pull me into a quarrel, not this time. I don't have the energy. Despite this resolution, his mind filled with a thousand sharp retorts. Using no small amount of restraint, he said only "Good, I cannot go much further either."

Even that should have been enough to provoke a response, but Denethor said nothing. His silence worried Aragorn more than anything that had yet happened.

That silence stretched until they finally halted, and even then it was not broken deliberately. They sat in a small gully, a few furlongs from the southern edge of the road. Rock walls rose around them, obscuring the view in all directions save directly above and to the East. The moon was now perhaps three hand spans above the horizon. Smoke stained its face a murky red, but Aragorn could still make out its features.

"I wonder how my horse fares," the ranger mused, thinking of what he had called her.

"Your horse?" Denethor asked, speaking a little louder than necessary.

Aragorn started, he had not realized that he had spoken aloud. Keeping his voice low, he explained. "Yes, my horse, Rána. Last I saw, she was bolting back over the pass. She was a fine steed; I hope that she fares well."

Denethor snorted. "Perhaps you could make clear why your horse runs out of Mordor, while we walk in." His voice still quivered, but it had recovered some of its customary pride. "No offence to your 'fine steed,' but I would prefer that our positions were reversed."

Aragorn leaned back against the rock. "As would I, until such time as the remaining Nazgűl smell you and capture us both. I might pass under their gates, being unknown to them, but you would not. We would not make the river, not with both of us on a single horse." He felt stone digging into his back. Shifting slightly, he tried to find a comfortable position. "As it is," he continued; "they will follow her, and we shall be able to travel in safety." At the other's incredulous expression, he added "It is better than going back through the Morgul Vale. I know of a pass not far distant. If we journey by night, we should escape unnoticed."

Denethor was silent for a moment. "Fair enough," he said at last. "We will walk, though your plan is not without flaws."

"It was the best I could do under the circumstances," the ranger answered, not apologetically. "If you would rather be freed in some other manner, then go out there and get yourself captured again. Only this time, do not expect my help." The words you seek, he thought, are 'thank you.' And an 'I am forever in your debt for saving me, O Resourceful One' would not feel entirely out of place either. Then he glanced at his companion and decided that those words actually would sound a little odd.

Denethor met his gaze and held it, some of the old fire now in his eyes. "I did not 'get myself captured,'" he growled. "I was betrayed."

Aragorn blinked in surprise, breaking eye connect. "Betrayed? By who?"

"I do not know." He seemed to casually examine his wrists, now scarred by the harsh ropes that had bound him. Every muscle was trembling, not with fatigue, but with ire. "It must have been one of my men. Only the rangers of Ithilien know of that path." He shook his head. "When I find that spawn of Darkness, I will stake his head above the Gate of my City as a warning."

Aragorn smiled. It cheered him that the other man had regained some of his customary spirit. "I imagine your father might object to such a decoration," he said mildly.

That earned him another sharp look. "And you know my father better than I do?" asked the son of Ecthelion.

To prevent another old argument from flaring up, Aragorn got to his feet. "Since you seem well enough to argue, you can probably find the strength to walk."

Denethor rose slowly, balancing against the cliff face. When Aragorn moved to support him, he hesitated. His expression said that he would rather be dragged over hot coals than accept the ranger's help.

"I cannot carry you if you fall," Aragorn said softly.

Denethor sighed faintly. A small sound, almost imperceptible, but the escaped breath carried with it a great load of emotion. He stepped forward and restored his arm to its place across Aragorn's shoulders.

Once again, they set out towards the South, their pace now slowed by rough terrain and lack of light.

Aragorn struggled to find a path through the tangle of boulders and pits that littered the plateau. With every step, his burden grew heavier.

The first light of morn had just crept into the sky when Denethor collapsed.

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