On the bed Aragorn moaned, twisting his head from side to side. His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles turning white from the pressure of his grip. Elrohir instinctively reached out to him, and Elladan caught his hand and pulled him back. At his twin’s questioning look he shook his head. ‘We do not know where he is,’ he stated sadly. ‘You cannot risk it.’

‘We cannot do nothing,’ his brother protested, attempting to shake off his restraining arm. ‘He is in pain.’

But Elladan did not release his grip. ‘Have you forgotten whom he faced tonight?’ he demanded harshly. ‘With whom he might yet be battling?’

Elrohir glared back at him. ‘All the more reason we should help him! You cannot expect me to sit by and watch while. . .’ He broke off at the look of sorrowful determination on Elladan’s face. ‘What?’ he asked desperately. ‘What are you going to do?’

But his brother did not speak at once, rising slowly to his feet and gathering Aragorn’s weapons from where they lay beside the cot, propping them against the wall out of his reach. Then he turned back to Elrohir who was watching him with curiosity and alarm. ‘I would not have him injure himself,’ he said by way of explanation as he returned to the bed. ‘Or us.’

Elrohir frowned. ‘He would not do so.’

‘Not intentionally. But he is dreaming. For us to try to reach him in this state. . . .we must be careful. He may not realise who we are.’

‘So you will try?’ Elrohir pressed. ‘I thought. . .’

‘I will try,’ Elladan confirmed grimly. ‘But you will not.’ He offered his brother a crooked smile. ‘I need you to watch over us.’  

* * *

Sleep had come swiftly, and Aragorn had fallen with ease into a dreamless slumber, utterly exhausted by the strains of the days just passed. And as he rested his cares were washed away, and taut muscles unwound and relaxed.

But it did not last.

Suddenly his mind snapped to awareness, tearing him from oblivion to face a living nightmare. For though his mind was awake his body slept on, and he was trapped. His vision tunnelled, all sensation fading as a sheet of blackness rushed up to meet him, hurling him into a void. There was no light, no sound, only darkness; an absence of light so complete he feared he was blinded. All around him was still and silent save for the rapid thumping of his heart. This was a dream, he was asleep, but he also awake and afraid, for there was no escape. Something was coming for him.

Into the silence, into the void, sensation returned. His eyes were still masked by darkness and though he could detect no form before him, somehow Aragorn knew his enemy was there, and seeking revenge for that which was taken from him. Terror rose up from the depths of his soul and his strength fled.  All the skills he had armoured himself with waking were of no use now, not here, in a place he had no control. He wanted to run, to hide, to find some corner far away where no one would ever find him, but he could not move.

Then, in the midst of his terror, he heard a voice calling him, Elladan’s voice, and the soft elvish words soothed his fear. He latched onto the sound, used it to claw his way upwards out of the abyss.  There was a halo of light above, beckoning him on, but before he could reach it he felt a darkness tugging him back. Bright fire exploded into the darkness and the flaming Eye stood before him. Pain came, ripping into his body as it seared his mind, and he lost the voice. He lost his brother. Panic seized him and he felt himself falling, falling, and there was no end to it. Shadow swirled around him, dark and threatening, and he wished only for the fall to end, for he knew then he would be dead and the pain would be gone.

But he did not die.

The voice returned, cutting through the shadow, and though it was his brother still the words were harsh and cruel. They spoke of hatred, of fear, of bitter betrayal, and he hung suspended between them. A horrifying choice confronted him. Turn back to his Enemy who waited silent in the darkness below, or go forwards to his brother who was known and trusted and yet at this moment was neither of those things. He had an instant to make his choice, a tiny window in which to choose one threat over the other, for the fall was ending and only death awaited him there. So he turned his face from the dark and went to Elladan, for how could he not? But in that moment of decision he glimpsed a third way, a hidden way, and as he awoke he knew somehow he had made a mistake.

Hot agony exploded in his chest and he tried to scream but no sound could he make past the constriction of his throat. Yet, awake now, he was free of the dream and Aragorn rolled his head to one side, his breath coming in short gasping heaves of relief. Through the red haze in his mind he heard voices, lilting and soft, and tried to answer them but the effort was beyond him. 

A hand rolled him onto his back, pressing him down onto the hard bed. He coughed, struggling for air, and weakly tried to swat the hand away.

‘Don’t move,’ he was instructed, and he recognised the speaker as Elladan, but his voice was cold and his touch rough.

Forcing his eyes open Aragorn looked up into his brother’s face, and felt a finger of unease brush against his spine. The Elf’s face was hard and grim, and a cold anger burned in the depths of his grey eyes. Behind him Elrohir sat motionless, watching them without seeing, his body rigid.

Elladan sat back, relieving the pressure on his chest. ‘You are awake,’ he stated simply. ‘Are you in pain?’

‘Yes.’ Aragorn raised his hand to his shoulder, to the wound just above his heart, and felt the slick wetness seep through his fingers.

‘It would have been better if you had not woken,’ Elladan told at him sadly, and for the first time Aragorn noticed the dagger hanging by his side, the tip dripping red with blood; human blood, his blood. As he watched a single drop fell from the point of the knife and joined a growing pool on the floor.

He lifted his hand from his chest. It too was covered with his blood. He turned horrified eyes to his brother. ‘Why?’

‘You would have betrayed us, Estel,’ the Elf answered, his tone still flat and cruel. ‘You should not have done as you did. In the end you could not resist him.’

Aragorn shivered, his body growing cold. He groped his hand back to the wound, pressing down hard but the blood would not stop. He tried to push himself backwards, away from this creature that was not his brother, but he was too weak. Already he could feel his heart starting to slow as his blood drained from his veins. His hand went instinctively to his side but he was weaponless. Sword, dagger, bow, all stood propped against the wall outside his reach, but he could no more have drawn his blade on his own kin than he could have turned it on himself, even had he the strength to do so.

His mind grappled for answers. He did not understand. But speaking was too hard now, and he could not order the thoughts that swirled in his mind. In the end all he could ask was, ‘How?’

Elladan cocked his head to one side, watching him curiously. ‘How?’ he repeated, seemingly unmoved by his foster brother’s struggle to live.

Aragorn coughed, choking on the blood that gurgled in his throat. ‘Not I. . . taken . . . you. . .’  The questions he could not voice screamed in his mind. How did he get to you, how did he take your mind?  He could not breathe. He was drowning, sinking, and there was nothing to cling to.  One hand reached out to Elladan, seeking the comfort of his touch even now, even though it was his stroke that had killed him, and for a moment he thought the Elf would respond. But Elladan’s hand brushed his roughly aside and rested for a moment on the wound he had made, his grey eyes devoid of emotion. Then he balled his hand into a fist and raised bloody knuckles to his lips in an Elven salute.

The last sight Aragorn saw before his vision spiralled into blackness was his brother’s face, watching him, lips red with his blood.

* * *

Elladan shook himself, throwing off the revulsion that crawled across his skin. He placed Aragorn’s hand gently by his side, his fingers curling around the slack wrist, measuring the slowing of the pulse that beat there.

‘It is over,’ Elrohir murmured. ‘He is at peace now.’

But Elladan did not answer him, his eyes locked on the still form of his foster brother.  His shoulders hunched in pain, and he felt a knot of misery rise in his chest. He still felt the horror of what he had just witnessed, of what he had been a party to, however unwilling. He heard his twin call his name and the worry in his voice brought him back to himself.

‘I fear I have done more harm than good,’ he confessed at last. ‘I wish such a role had not been forced upon us. Rarely has there been a sight so hard for me to witness, and I have seen many things.’

Elrohir reached out, grasping his shoulder in support. ‘It was troubling for me also, yet we expected this, we knew it had to come. For such a foolhardy act there will always be consequences. Estel must have known this. But look, he is at peace now, and we should be glad of that. If we had not stopped this now who knows what greater damage might have been done, to all of us.’

But Elladan shook his head, not trusting him to reply to his brother’s hopeful words.

‘You did reach him?’ Elrohir asked in concern, seeing the troubled look in his eyes.

Elladan raised his head. ‘Someone did,’ he answered slowly. ‘But I do not think it was I.’ He shivered, turning away from the dawning horror on his brother’s face. ‘I could not see clearly, I do not understand what happened. I could feel him reaching out to me, then nothing. I lost him. And then, then I. . .’ He stumbled over the words, as they recalled that awful vision to his mind. He could not go on, lowering his head into his shaking hands.

‘What?’ Elrohir demanded, taking his brother by the shoulder and frantic now with worry. ‘What did you do?’

Elladan looked up, tears glistening in his grey eyes. ‘I killed him, Elrohir. I killed my own brother.’

* * *

Cold darkness took him, soothing the pain, the fear, the bitterness of betrayal. His mind wandered, adrift from his body, free of care. If this was the end then he reached out to embrace it for he could not bear to live now. But something tugged at his consciousness, some urgency that would not let go, and though he longed to surrender to the sweet release of death he found he could not.

Sensation returned slowly. Torn once again from the darkness he was aware of pain spreading in waves from his shoulder. He heard soft, whispered voices above him, and though he could make out no words he felt the distress in them. He was confused, lost, unsure of where he was, or what had happened, and then he heard a voice speak Elladan’s name and memory came flooding back.

Terrified, hurting, he lashed out with his good arm and rolled sideways onto the floor. Opening his eyes as the jolt sent agony running up his arm, he saw his brothers watching him warily, surprised and concerned. But as Elrohir reached out to help him to his feet sudden panic sent him sprawling backwards, and the breath was knocked out of him as he collided heavily with the wall. Bracing his back against the stone, he levered himself to his feet, one hand still tightly pressed to the wound in his shoulder.

Again Elrohir tried to approach but Aragorn held his arm out before him, forcing him to stay back, and all the while his eyes were fixed on Elladan who had neither moved nor spoken.

‘Why?’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘Why would you seek to kill me?’

Elrohir gasped, his eyes flickering between the two, but his twin gave no outward reaction. ‘I would never hurt you,’ Elladan replied evenly, though his heart clenched with fear and guilt. ‘And I have not.’ He held out both hands, palms up, and they were empty of weapons. Aragorn’s eyes slid to the sheath at his belt where the Elven blade nestled, then to the floor where the blood had been, but it was gone. He looked again at his brother’s face, the image of his lips flecked with red still fresh in his mind, but no stains marred the Elf’s fair countenance. Yet the wound in his shoulder ached still, and his fingers were sticky and wet.

‘You lie,’ he whispered, removing his hand and holding it out to his brothers so they could see the blood. ‘You did this.’

Elladan’s eyes narrowed. ‘It was not I, Estel,’ he answered, and for the first time Aragorn could hear the worry in his voice. ‘I do not know how you came by this hurt. You were sleeping. . .’

‘. . .and I awoke,’ Aragorn finished, his head starting to ache from confusion. ‘I spoke with you. You said I would betray you.’

‘Nay, little brother,’ Elrohir soothed, realising his twin was struggling with his own guilt and would be unable to respond. ‘You have only this moment awoken. You were distressed. You cried out to us and struggled, but it was only a dream.’

‘No, not a dream. I could touch, hear, feel. I. . .’ He stopped, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness hit and the floor lurched under his feet. Memories assaulted him. Flames in the night, rain pounding against rock, trickling between the chinks in his armour and fouling the hilt of his sword; huge black-clad Uruks, brandishing their weapons, jeering his words; confusion, fighting, pain, a blow glancing across his chest, rocking him on his feet.  Catching himself before he fell, he opened his eyes to see Elladan jump to his feet and take a step towards him, anger and concern flashing across his face. Instinctively he tried to retreat, but his back was against the wall and he had nowhere to go. At his movement the anger in his brother’s gaze shattered, and the hurt that replaced it seared straight through his heart and washed away the last cobwebs of the dream.

Elladan was there to steady him as he staggered, and lowered him gently to the floor. ‘I could not hurt you,’ he whispered fiercely, laying his hand against his brother’s face. ‘Never.’ And yet somehow he had, and they both knew it.

Aragorn forced himself to meet his eyes, though inside he burned with shame. It had only been a dream, and he had believed great evil of one he loved. ‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘I know. Forgive me, I did not. . .’

Elladan shook his head. ‘There is nothing to forgive. The wiles of the Enemy are subtle, even to the wise. I wanted only to help you, but I did not hurt you. I could not. That was not me.’ He took a deep breath, steadying himself against the wild beating of his heart as he too remembered the bloodied knife, and the stroke that had taken stolen his brother from him in the dream. 

‘Elladan, I know,’ Aragorn whispered, pulling his brother towards him. ‘I know you would not hurt me. I should never have doubted you, but I did not understand. It was so real.’

‘Too real. I thought. . . for a moment I believed. . .’

‘No!’ Aragorn silenced him. ‘You did not! Do not even think it.’ He gripped his brother tight, his fingers digging into his forearm as he strove to shake him free of his black mood. ‘It was only a dream.’

Elladan smiled weakly. ‘And you must learn to guard your dreams, Estel, for he knows you now and he can reach you if he wishes.’ His hand strayed to the stain on his brother’s tunic and his eyes grew shadowed. ‘But I did not think he could do you physical harm and for that I am sorry. I thought we could protect you.’

But Aragorn caught his hand and pushed it away. With shaking fingers he peeled back the torn fabric to expose the damaged flesh beneath. ‘He did not harm me,’ he answered softly. ‘This wound I took at Helm’s Deep but in the events that followed I forgot, for it did not pain me much and it is not deep. See,’ he insisted, laying his brother’s fingers on his chest. ‘No knife made this bite. An orc scimitar found a tear in my armour and the blow drove the metal links through my skin. I had no time to care for it then, and it must have started to bleed again as I woke. It is but a scratch.’

‘Yet it is hot and angry now,’ Elrohir observed, as he knelt by their side, skilled fingers probing the injury. ‘Why must you always take so little care of yourself, Estel? Orc blades are never clean and often poisoned.’

‘There is no poison,’ Aragorn assured him, ‘and the blade barely touched me. My own armour did this damage.’

A wry smile graced the Elf’s taut face then. ‘That is good to hear,’ he answered. ‘You are lucky, Estel, and so are we. Come, let me see to this now, for it is nearly noon and we must soon decide on our road.’

‘That decision is already made,’ Aragorn reminded him bleakly. ‘The Paths of the Dead can wait no longer.’