Aragorn's mind was most definitely not with his body.

It should have been. After all, he was at the head of an army that was riding straight for the gates of Mordor. He should have been thinking about that, about the life and death of himself and those who followed him—or about Frodo and Sam, possibly struggling toward Mount Doom, more probably captured or dead.

But the closer he rode to his fate, the more his mind turned to one thing, and one thing only.

Fanfiction.

He found himself obsessively reviewing the events in his life, wondering if the things he'd done were of his own free will, or done at the whim of some writer. For that matter, what about right now? he wondered. What if all of this struggle and death is meaningless—just a shadow-play for the amusement of someone else?

And what about afterwards, if there was an afterwards? Would he finally be left alone, or would these fanfiction writers continue to manipulate him? Would they let him settle down with Arwen? Would they take her out of his life, simply on a whim?

"No," he said abruptly, reining in. Ignoring the quizzical looks of those around him, he led his horse over to a rock, and sat down. "No," he repeated. When Legolas looked about to speak, he elaborated. "I refuse to go anywhere until I can do something of my own free will."

"But the battle—the forces of Sauron—"

"No. Not until I'm sure. Now leave me." At their hesitation, he sternly repeated, "Leave me!"

The others began drifting away, murmuring and looking back at him. All except Gimli. He was staring at Aragorn, admiring the spark of anger in his eyes, the stern set of his mouth, the tensed muscles that showed even through his armor. He looked completely like a king. "Ye know, laddie," he said quietly, "you should get angry more often."

"Scram!" Aragorn shouted. Once he'd watched Gimli scurry away, he bowed his head and hid his face in his hands.

*******

Aragorn sat defiantly on his rock while an hour slipped away and stretched into two. Occasionally he glared at the sky suspiciously. It was threatening to rain, and he wondered darkly whether that was planned by the fanfiction authors too, or simply a product of natural weather patterns of Middle-Earth.

"I doubt my very world," he spat, disgusted.

Meanwhile the army kept a respectful distance. Most of the men had dismounted and were now chatting amongst themselves, carefully refraining from staring at the new king who was behaving in such an erratic manner. To look askance at him was to look askance at Gondor.

Hobbits, however, care nothing for the good name of Gondor. So when Aragorn looked up again, he found Merry and Pippin standing squarely in front of him.

"Whatcha doin'?" asked Pippin.

"Quiet, Pip," Merry admonished. "He's thinkin'."

"About what?" Pippin asked, ignoring the first part of Merry's response.

"Free will," Aragorn growled.

"Who's Will?" Pippin wondered. Merry hit him.

"I only want to be sure that I make my own decisions!" Aragorn continued petulantly, crossing his arms. "I only desire to govern myself!"

"I think there are more people than that in Gondor, Strider," Pippin offered the beleagured King.

"Yes, about that..." Merry added. "Some of the men are getting restless. That's why we came over, to see if you were ready to leave. We can't move until you do."

"What do you mean?" Aragorn asked, blinking.

"Well, you're in charge here, aren't you?" Merry continued. "It's your decision, isn't it?"

Aragorn beamed suddenly, a dawning smile chasing away the clouds upon his noble brow. "It is, is it? I. Am. In. Chaaaaaaaarge!" he announced, running after the rest of the army, hobbits in tow.

*******

AUTHORS' NOTE: The idea for this chapter was suggested by our friend Bookworm, who also wrote the first section (down to the scene break). Since it fit neatly between the events we had planned for the last two chapters, we decided to incorporate it into the story. Thanks, Bookworm!

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