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inzilbethDisclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.
To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.
And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.
Chapter 22: Deadly Perils
“…messages came to me out of Lorien that Aragorn had passed that way, and that he had found the creature called Gollum. Therefore I went first to meet him and hear his tale. Into what deadly perils he had gone alone I dared not guess.”
“There is little need to tell of them,” said Aragorn. “If a man must needs walk in sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he will have. I, too, despaired at last and I began my homeward journey.”
“The Council of Elrond” The Fellowship of the Ring.
Aragorn could not sink any lower. He flattened his body onto the hard ground as far as he could, but it was no good. The scant vegetation was too short. They were surely going to find him; escape was impossible. He cursed his stupidity in allowing orcs to surround him, although he knew in truth there was little he could have done to prevent it. Travelling on his own this near to the territories of the Enemy was always going to be hazardous. It was too late now to consider he may have been foolish not to have returned with Gandalf when he had the chance. Having come this far, he had decided not to abandon the hunt without thoroughly scouring Ithilien, even as far south as the Morgul Vale. Too many years had been spent in pursuit of this Gollum already to not completely exhaust every possibility of finding the creature now.
He was on his homeward journey and had been travelling near to the foothills of the Ephel Dúath in the hope of avoiding detection by the ranger patrols which regularly frequented the area. Being presented to Denethor as a spy was a distraction he did not particularly relish. But other hazards also lurked in the Mountains of Shadow. For some time now he had been aware of a small band of orcs up ahead, moving away to the east. He was down wind of them, so was not unduly worried by their presence, but, as the light began to fail, a much larger group had unexpectedly appeared behind him as they emerged from their daytime dens.
Suddenly he was trapped.
There was no cover that he could possibly reach in time. He would have no choice but to fight them, although he knew there was no chance for victory. A group of a dozen perhaps, with surprise in his favour, he might be able to handle, but there must be at least forty closing in on him now.
He did not doubt he would either be captured or slain. But there was no time now to dwell upon either prospect. He pressed his chest and stomach down harder in the desperate hope that he would disappear from view. He could hear his heart beating faster as it thumped inside his chest. His breathing quickened and sweat broke on his back. He tightened his grasp on his sword, which lay stretched out beside him. Any moment now they would be upon him. He waited, willing his breathing to steady and his nerve to hold. If he was going to fall, the warrior in him would not allow his life to be lost cheaply; he would do his utmost to ensure he took as many of his foes with him as he possibly could.
Suddenly a cry tore into his ears. He was found. He rolled quickly to one side, dodging the spear that flew to where he had been lying a second earlier. He was on his feet in an instant and ran through the first orc that came at him and immediately withdrew his sword in time to behead the second with a single, well-practised stroke. Orcs swarmed towards him, but the fervour of battle now surged in his veins and his mood turned fey. He roared as he lunged into his enemies and smote them where they stood. Time after time his sword rose and fell as he expertly dispatched the vile creatures, dispassionately moving swiftly from one stricken body to the next.
But all too soon, he felt the weight of their numbers against him. He was attacking no longer. He twisted and turned and parried and deflected their blows, but it could not last; he knew any moment that fatal blow would come. But when it did, it was not a blade that felled him, but a cudgel at the back of his head. Stunned, he staggered sideways, unbalanced by the blow. Instantly the orcs grabbed their chance and seized him, knocking him to the ground, kicking and beating furiously at every part of him. He was soon completely in their power, but nonetheless they kept up their vicious assault for the pleasure it gave them. Aragorn tried to curl up to protect himself as best he could, but his arms were quickly yanked behind him and his hands tightly bound. He tried to stifle his cries as iron-shod feet blasted repeatedly into his ribs and back. More and more blows rained down on him; he doubted he could even survive much more. Finally a kick to his head brought merciful oblivion and, as his sight tunnelled, he escaped into darkness.
~oo0oo~
As he slowly surfaced, he rather wished he had remained in his state of oblivion. There was no part of him that was not in pain. He lay still as he furiously tried to recall how he came to be in such a mess. He was immediately aware of the stench of orc and groaned as his memory slowly returned. He cautiously tried to raise his head, but it felt as if it might explode if he did so. He was sure he was going to vomit, but as he fought to hold down the contents of his stomach, he realised breathing was agony. His ribs must be damaged, if not broken. His breath came in shallow pants as his chest seized in vice-like spasms. He felt he was being cut in two. He was also bleeding from the rough handling of many claws, and his limbs throbbed with the swelling of countless bruises.
He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but it was dark and the orcs about him appeared to be engaged in frantic activity. Coarse voices shouted and bellowed orders as many heavily booted feet passed perilously close to his head. But he had no time to gather his wits as almost immediately, rough hands grasped and jostled him. Involuntarily, he cried out as pain rocketed through his body, but his distress was greeted with shouts of derision from his captors.
Two huge Uruk-hai dragged him to his feet, and he was obviously expected to move, though his body stubbornly refused to comply. He stumbled to his knees as he struggled to overcome pain and nausea. One of the orcs pulled a bottle from its tunic, while the other yanked his head backwards by his hair. He gasped at the sudden pain inflicted on his injured scalp, but the orc jammed the bottle into his open mouth and poured into it a foul, sticky liquid. Aragorn coughed and gagged as he choked on the vile potion. But a huge, paw-like hand clamped his jaw shut, stopping him from spitting out the noxious fluid and forcing him to swallow. Whatever it was stung his throat and burned his insides as it reached his stomach, but almost at once the pain left his limbs. The orcs hauled him to his feet again and off they set. Aragorn meekly submitted to his captors as he knew there was no advantage to be had in provoking them and he doubted he could not take another beating at this time. He had little choice but to do as they demanded as any hesitancy on his part was rewarded by a cruel lash of a whip to his legs. Calling on his deep reserves of will, he somehow forced his battered body to move.
The orcs set a fast pace and it was clear he was required to keep up, though his body screamed in protest. The Uruk-hai ran on either side of him and dragged him up when he faltered, lifting him by his tethered arms which ached from the awkward position in which they were restrained. On and on, mile after mile they went. He stumbled often in the darkness and was punished brutally for it. His head was pounding and he thought his sides would rupture, but between gasping pants, he kept going, concentrating on nothing more than keeping one foot moving in front of the other.
~oo0oo~
He could not understand why he was still alive. He had fully expected to be hacked to pieces before becoming the orcs’ next meal. But slowly, through the fog clouding his mind, he realised he was being taken somewhere. They were now heading east, into the western slopes of the Ephel Dúath. Horrified, he realised this could only mean they there making for the strong-holds of the Enemy, maybe Minas Morgul or even Barad-dûr itself. Panic surged in him. Dying on the field of battle was one thing, and something he had come to accept, having faced that eventuality many times in his life. But the prospect of being held captive by his Enemies and being completely at their mercy, terrified him in a way he had never experienced before. Constantly his mind turned to escape, but with mounting despair, he realised there was little likelihood of that.
As the orcs continued on through the increasingly mountainous terrain, he dragged his reluctant body along with them, but all the while dread settled more and more in his heart.
~oo0oo~
At last, as the first light of dawn appeared over the mountains, the troop finally stopped its long march. The orcs released their grip on their captive and Aragorn was dropped face down onto the rocky ground. Immediately, a rope was strapped around his feet, binding them together as tightly as his hands. He closed his eyes in an attempt to blot out all that was going on around him as he concentrated on trying to master the pain surging relentlessly through him. He gasped for air as he struggled to breathe without moving his agonised ribs. He felt sick from pain. His head throbbed, as much from lack of water as from his injuries, and there was an unrelenting ache in his shoulders and arms. His hands had long since gone numb but at least they no longer troubled him, though he would not help but wonder if he would ever regain the use of them.
The orcs settled down nearby and drank from their waterskins and ate what food they carried with them, but they offered him nothing. His throat was on fire and his mouth was as parched as a desert in Harad, but he dared not ask for anything from his captors. He guessed they were deliberately depriving him to weaken him; a policy he ruefully had to admit was working only too well.
He lay there for maybe an hour, escaping into his own mind, while the orcs left him unattended. Unable to do anything to help himself, he sought to conserve what little energy he had left and he attempted to rest, though he knew he would not sleep. But as he tried to relax his sore body the best he could, he slowly became aware of a presence encroaching on his solitude. His eyes shot open, but at first he could see nothing. But something approached, of that he was sure. He lifted his head and peered into the grey gloom of the early dawn.
There, still a distance away, a shadowy shape slowly came into view. It was very tall and robed in black. It was walking towards him, and somehow Aragorn knew with absolute certainty that it was evil. Fear began to well within him. Then, to his absolute horror, he looked upon its dark head and saw that it was faceless. Instantly, terror gripped him. His heart lurched as his bowels shriveled inside him and sweat broke out all over him. He wanted to run like he had never run before, only he could not move; his body was frozen. The figure came closer. He could feel the power of this thing oozing from it as it closed in on him. He thought his heart would stop such was the terror and dread that seized him.
There was only one thing in all Middle-earth it could possibly be: a Nazgûl. And more than that, the crown on its faceless head marked it as their lord, the Witch-king of Angmar. Aragorn had never felt so vulnerable and exposed in all his life. He was completely helpless; a fact which did nothing to curb his mounting terror. He knew this thing’s power was overwhelming. It could crush him in an instant or enslave him in the torment of a living death for all time. Trussed up as he was, it could do with him whatever it desired. He was completely out of his depth. Nothing in all his long years had prepared him for such an encounter. He had no idea what to do, even if he could overcome his crippling terror. He set his jaw to try and stop his body from trembling more than it was already. Manfully, he braced himself in anticipation of further physical torment, though it was what this thing might do to his mind that terrified him the most.
It was right in front of him now. It leaned over him menacingly, silently, studying him. Instinctively he recoiled, and his whole body shook as he felt unseen eyes piercing him, boring through to his very flesh.
But panic tore through him when he suddenly felt an icy tendril touch his mind; like some probe searching deep inside him. And when a thin voice spoke within his head, he could no longer prevent a scream of absolute terror escaping from his lips. The voice sounded as if it had come from the depths of a tomb and it demanding to know everything about him.
Aragorn’s fear was now beyond anything he had ever known, yet with a last mighty surge of will that he somehow summoned from he knew not where, he desperately battled to control it as he sought to drive this thing out of his head. He knew he must close his mind to it and protect his thoughts, but he had never consciously banished anyone in this way before. Few had ever attempted to enter his mind, and those that had, had only done so with his consent, in their desire to aid or comfort him. He guessed the Nazgûl’s power to invade the mind of another would be greater than most and already he felt the full evil intent of it as it clawed at his memories, searching for his secrets.
He tried to speak, as if saying the words out loud would strengthen his command to this thing to be gone, but the words would not form in his mouth. The bizarre battle continued inside his head, but the stakes were raised dramatically when the Nazgûl drew out his sword and held it menacingly at Aragorn’s throat. As he felt the blade stroke his chin, Aragorn faltered and his terror surged uncontrollably once more. The unprecedented extent of his own fear terrified him; if it crippled him completely, his battle would be over.
He had to get away. Suddenly it was all he could think about. He tried to dig his heels into the rocky ground to propel himself backwards. He turned away from the Wraith as he did so, unable to look upon it a moment longer. But an orc suddenly appeared behind him and clasped his head between its claws, forcing him to look at his interrogator.
Aragorn could endure no more; panic was ripping through him in unstoppable waves. Any moment that Morgul blade could pierce him and he would be doomed. And any second his faltering will would fail, and his mind would be laid bare. He just had to escape any way he could. Bound as he was, he did the only thing left to him; he attempted to spit into the leering face of the orc above him. His mouth was too dry, but he was nonetheless rewarded with a blow to his mouth that split his lip, and a foot thrust down on his belly which knocked the wind out of him. Searing pain erupted right through him as his already broken chest was tortured further. But so agonising and all-consuming was his torment that it swamped and blocked his fear. At that moment, he forgot about the Nazgûl. He could think of nothing more than gulping in his next breath of air. And as his fear dispersed, his mind was suddenly his own again.
The Witch-king was thwarted, for now. In his fury, the Nazgûl raised his sword to the orc, and Aragorn felt the spray of its blood on his face as the orc’s headless body fell away behind him. The Witch-king growled menacingly at his human victim, but to Aragorn’s amazement, he turned and left him.
Aragorn barely had time to recover his breath before the orcs dragged him into the cave where they were stopping for the day. They dumped him in the entrance and mercifully left him alone. He tried to think of nothing but calming both his body and his mind. He could not stop shaking but he concentrated hard on just drawing each laboured breath. He took no comfort from his small victory; he knew only too well that the Nazgûl would certainly return and then he would break him for sure; he could not hope to escape a second time.
Slowly his shudders subsided but he was in so much pain, and he was so cold. He closed his eyes in total misery as he realised that what little hope he had of surviving this encounter had gone. There would be no escape now. A cold despair began to appear within him that had not been present before. A chill gripped his heart and he felt darkness closing in around him. He had never felt so despairing in his entire life and yet he had known many a tight spot before now. Slowly, from the depths of his mind, he conjured up memories of things learned long ago about the Nazgul and their strange powers and he recognised that there was something not quite right about this sudden growing emptiness within him. Perhaps it was not of him at all, but connected, in some way, to that thing.
Immediately, he struggled against it, fearing where his despair would take him. He must guard against losing his sense of purpose; the Nazgûl must not defeat him in this way. While there was breath in his body, he must still have hope. He turned his thoughts to Arwen; to his people; to anything that would keep this coldness from his heart and banish the blackness that now threatened him. Slowly, he grew calmer and he felt more in control, though he could not shake off the shadow of despair completely. He tried his best to assess his predicament rationally. He knew he must take this dire situation he found himself in one step at a time and not look any further than the present. Right now, there was nothing he could do but find rest, which he knew he badly needed, though he was quite sure neither the pain in his body nor the dread in his heart would allow him to sleep.
As he lay there, inevitably, he brooded on this latest turn of events. The Lord of the Nazgûl was his ancestral enemy. He was a figure from legend, of terrifying stories from his childhood. He had been ensnared by Sauron way back in the Second Age, but later, at Sauron’s bidding had waged relentless war on his people until the North Kingdom was lost and the Dúnedain nearly destroyed. Aragorn had learnt all about those times from Elrond. Glorfindel himself had led the Elven force from Rivendell that had finally driven the Witch-king from Eriador. That had been over a thousand years ago and Angmar had not been seen in the North since. But his lair now was Minas Morgul and Sauron’s power had grown since then. The Nazgûl were his most terrible and feared servants.
Aragorn braved opening his eyes and looked on the hideous, cruel creatures that now slept all around him. The stench in that cave was nauseating. He knew no torment or depravity would be beyond them; the consequences of falling into the clutches of The Enemy would be terrible. He felt fresh sweat breaking on his brow as he knew they had yet to exact their revenge on him for slaying so many of their group. What he had suffered so far would seem as nothing to what must surely follow. And, if the Nazgûl discovered his true identity, the torture that Sauron would put him through was beyond his darkest fears. Sauron had hunted him all his life; ever seeking to find Isildur’s heir, but Aragorn had always successfully eluded him; until now.
But in spite of his fears for himself, he knew there so much more at stake now than his own life and any part that he might play in the future. He was one of the few people who knew the One Ring had been found. More than that, he knew where it was, and the name of the person who possessed it. This he must never reveal, no matter what the cost to himself. He could not betray Frodo; he could not betray Middle-earth. Yet he did not doubt that in time the Enemy would break him; it would not matter how bravely he resisted. He knew then that wherever it was that the orcs were taking him, he must not arrive; it was as simple as that. Before they reached their destination, he must escape. As he lay shivering on the cold ground with his sweat-soaked clothes chilling him further, he wondered how in the name of the Valar could he do this when every bone and muscle ached and his heart was so weighed down with despair. And what if he failed? A pit opened in his stomach as he realised he had would have no choice but to earn himself an arrow in the back or a knife at this throat.
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Date: 2008-11-23 10:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2008-11-26 07:24 pm (UTC)Yes, I have read Timmy's story and thought in brilliant. I think it's the only Hunt for Gollum story I've ever read.