Chapter 35 - Indecision

Aragorn wiped blood from his mouth with the back of a dirty sleeve. He stepped backwards, unconsciously berating himself for allowing the enemy to gain a foot. His hair, soaked with rain, hindered his sight, and his feet struggled to keep a grip on the muddy slope beneath his feet. He was distracted, his mind far from the battle with the Orcs before him. His mind tunnelled to Frodo, ill prepared for such an encounter, and to those left on the shore of the Anduin equally unaware that this black hoard of Orcs had surprised them from the opposite side of Amon Hen. The hill of sight! He almost laughed at the irony, he had been blind! His own sense of haste and tentative musings had brought this upon them.

Growling in frustration he raised his heavy sword arm for another bout. From every side the Orcs closed in, taking the place of those already slain. The dead were many, and Anduril shone a dull black against the falling sun.

He took a small step forward as though to engage the closest Orc in combat, but at the final moment he lunged to the side, taking another of the creatures off guard and thrusting his weapon through the dark gap left by the Orc's unprepared shield. Wrenching his blade out from the resisting flesh he felt the dead weight fall to join the black heap of the dead already lying in the mud at his feet.

Then the others were upon him and he was enveloped in a mass of black limbs and twisted weapons. Crying out in frustration as he struck at them, his sword found flesh more often than resistance. The shields the Orcs carried were heavy iron, splashed with red as a symbol of their dark master and his dominion, and although strong, they were cumbersome.

Aragorn knew well the weaknesses of mass produced armour. Between the arm and chest plates there were often weaknesses of which a carefully angled strike could pierce the black heart of an Orc. Yet Aragorn was in no mood to be careful or precise. His thoughts were as black as his enemy's skin, and his mood as foul as their stench.

His frustration at being separated and unable to aid his companions caused him agony of mind, and he had already sustained several blows to his arms and shoulder as a result of his straying thoughts. The rain splashed on his exposed skin and stung with its harsh touch.

Miscalculating another attack Aragorn stumbled as a heavy shield slammed into his side. He retained his balance, his feet slipping slightly on the muddied ground, yet felt the impact of the blow shoot up from his previously injured leg. Despite the rest in Lorien it still troubled him, and he had to lean his weight upon his other side to compensate. Striking out angrily at the Orc that was again attempting to throw him off his feet with its superior strength and bulk, Aragorn managed to sever the Orc's shield arm from the elbow. Black blood spattered his own arm and chest but he remained steady and thrust his sword into the side of the crippled Orc, felling him with one blow.

Turning back he realised with surprised relief that he was almost alone amid the circle of Sauron's dead creations. The orcs he could see through the trees would take a moment to reach him, and he took some of that time to steady his breath and wipe the sticky blood from the hilt of his sword.

Now he had time to choose his course he realised with yet more frustration that his attempt to aid the others would most likely result in him drawing more Orcs in their direction. Was his only purpose then, at this, the darkest moment of their quest, to stand aside and let fate take its course? How cruel that in his moment of trial he could do no more than abstain from bringing more danger to the paths of those he had vowed to protect! He clenched his fist and felt the wound he had sustained there tear and spill more blood upon the wet earth. The pain brought him back to himself.

'It doesn't seem like you somehow,' he could hear Sam saying in his mind, and Aragorn smiled slightly at the revelation. "No Sam, it would not do my character in credit in your eyes," he said under his breath, seeing now something he could do.

Frodo could be out there upon the slope somewhere, hiding until chance gave him an opportunity to move back to the shore. He could find him and guard him! Yet with archers hunting them he could in truth only bring Frodo into more danger. Would it be better to let Frodo make his own secret way back to the others?

Curse this indecision! He was to be a king, and a king with such indecisiveness would not last one day as a leader of men. Never before had he been so indecisive!

I will find him, he said at last, feeling tremendous relief of having finally a course of action. He turned his steps westwards, to the crest of Amon Hen.

"Pass that bag up here, Master Brandybuck. Quickly now, use those Hobbit muscles of yours." The Dwarf's tone was light, and his order meant to reassure, but Merry could feel nothing but empty shock. Pippin had left him. And he had not even had the chance to say farewell!

Numbly he lifted the bag and passed it with difficulty to the Dwarf who stood with his ankles in the dark waters of the Anduin. The sky was already dark, and no moon shone to light their task.

They had already laid the unconscious Frodo in the boat, and Sam sat with him now with his masters head resting on his knees. He was ashen faced, as was Merry felt himself to be.

Gimli had looked troubled ever since Legolas had left them in search of the others, promising to Merry that he would find Pippin and protect him. The Dwarf had tried to look confident for Merry's sake, but the Hobbit could easily see through the facade to the confusion beneath.

It all seemed like a dream. First Frodo had disappeared, then Aragorn and Faramir, now Legolas and Pippin. Although Frodo had returned to them his news had been a blow to each of them, Legolas most especially. And although the Hobbit could not resent the Elf for using Pippin as excuse to search for Aragorn, he was concerned that perhaps ill would come of it for others of their company.

Gimli ushered Merry into the boat, saying little. He seemed to be thinking deeply, and his brow was furrowed with anxious thought. When Merry had settled himself in the bow of the craft he handed him the paddle.

"Now you row hard, young Hobbit," Gimli said firmly, placing a strong hand on the Hobbits shoulder, "all the way to the other shore and do not stop for anything."

Merry opened his mouth in shock, surely the Dwarf was to accompany them! "Where are you going?" he stammered.

"The western shore is my road, young Hobbit, I see that now."

For a moment Merry thought he saw tears in the Dwarf's crinkled eyes, but then they were gone and once more glinting with determination.

"Wait for a while on the other side," Gimli advised, stepping backwards towards the shore, "some of us may follow. But keep out of sight!"

Merry heeded the warning and knew that the Dwarf was speaking directly to him. This was his time to prove his worth on this quest and he knew he must not fail, however much of his heart remained waiting for his cousin on the western bank.

The he remembered Pippin's words when they had escaped Moria, and knew that even as he took his charge of protecting Frodo on his quest, Pippin was endeavouring to repay the debt he felt towards Faramir.

And so they would part.

Gimli thrust the boat out into the lake with incredible strength, and Merry felt tears well up in his eyes and spill over onto the paddle he gripped tightly in his hands.

The darkness was a dense cloud about him as Legolas ran through the trees following what he hoped was Pippin's trail. There was no moon, and although he kept a keen eye out for signs that any of his companions had passed this way, he had so far discovered nothing.

His heart burnt in a keep panic that he kept trapped within himself. If he let it rise up to the surface he would be overwhelmed by grief or despair and he would lose the ability to focus on his surroundings.

Surely, he reasoned, Frodo had been in a great panic and agitation after his killing of Gollum, how could he have been sure of the death of his companions? In his mind this theory seemed sound, though his heart cried out that something black had tainted these woods, darker than any orc he had encountered this night. His arrow count was still fresh, though he had killed five of the black creatures in the distance he had travelled.

Glancing around through the darkened forest he was careful to check for any movement. There were archers among the Orcs, he knew, for he had found their arrows further back.

His eye suddenly caught something on the ground not far ahead, it was something pale for it shone out and caught his eye especially as nothing else had. He approached cautiously, squinting to make out the distorted object, and when he realised that it was a body he almost choked.

He had seen many dead, friends and enemies alike, but none had he ever wished dead so vehemently than this pale creature twisted and left rotting in the mud. He approached still, not knowing what possessed him to do so, and knelt beside the body of the one he had despised.

Gollum's face seemed so sad and innocent in death, and the eyes, animated and bright in life stared piteously at him now from the dead sockets. A dull sickness raged in his chest, and he felt terrible shame and remorse for every vengeful word, every thought in which he had denied this creature a second chance.

Reaching out he touched Gollum's shoulder and shuddered with the feeling of the dead cold skin. He whispered under his breath an apology, and felt the enormous inadequacy of his remorse. He saw now what Frodo had been trying to tell him, why Faramir and Merry had pitied Gollum for his misled past. The power of the ring had destroyed many lived, and Legolas saw now how his own hate and disgust for Gollum must have wounded Frodo deeply. Frodo saw Gollum as a vision for his own future, and his own scorn had made this image even more repellent.

He sighed, and stood, breathing anew. He had blundered, and knew it now keenly, yet he would not shelter beneath his shame. He would find the others and attempt to put things right once more.

He continued up the slope, shuddering at the feeling of those dead eyes that were still staring in his direction. He veered slightly to the right as he himself would have done if trying to lead an enemy away from the spot where Frodo lay hid. Orcs scattered the ground beneath his feet, white arrows of Lórien embedded in their chests and necks. He peered through the darkness ahead, his heat beating wildly. He knew either Aragorn or Faramir had been at this very spot, though he could not tell which because they had both carried arrows of Lórien is their quivers.

Frantically he searched the ground for any sign, and was dismayed to find dark arrows also, protruding from the ground with their tips buried in the earth. There had been Orc archers here too then, that did not bode well. As he himself knew well, the only sure defence against a flying arrow is a shield, and neither of his friends carried such a tool.

He moved forwards once more, and suddenly cried out as his foot slid on the slippery ground, and he had to scrabble backwards amid the mud to regain his balance. There was a drop directly before him, and he had not noticed it because of his intent perusal of the ground beneath his feet. He thought of Gimli for a moment and was relieved that the Dwarf was not there to observe such an amusing display of Elven grace.

Peering over cleft, Legolas' breath caught in his throat. In the slight moonlight that suddenly peeked out from beneath dark clouds he had caught sight of something that made his blood freeze.

Without consideration for his own safety he began scrabbling down the steep incline, his feet slipping down the muddy bank at a frightening speed. He landed on his knees at the bottom with a painful jolt, and scrambled on his knees to the body he had sighted from the top of the cliff.

Without knowing what he did, he hesitated. The man had his back to him, and with the dark hair and mud-caked cloak draped around the body Legolas could not tell whether it was Aragorn or Faramir he had discovered. Then he could stand it no longer, he grasped the shoulder that was turned from him and gently rolled the man upon his back. He gasped as his hand made contact with a large patch of sticky blood upon the shoulder, and felt a mixed rush of emotions as he beheld the pale face of Faramir. Legolas reached forward tentatively and felt the man's throat for a sign of life. The skin was cold beneath his fingers, but he felt the pulse was there. Legolas sighed, glad that he had come in time to prevent further bleeding. Faramir needed help, despite Legolas' minimal knowledge of healing he could see that much. Yet, he wondered, what evils would he cause by staying here. What if Aragorn were in more dire need of assistance? But looking down at the pale face beneath him he knew he could not leave Faramir's life to the mercy of fate, even if his heart cried out that Aragorn was in greater danger than he realised.

The pale light of the sky above the crest of Amon Hen emphasised the silhouetted monument that stood there, crumbling with years and battered by weather.

Aragorn approached the spot cautiously, checking each possible hiding place for signs of Frodo. The rain still splattered down upon his face and made his task difficult and tiresome. As of yet he had found no sign of any of his companions, and he was actually beginning to hope that they had escaped to the eastern shore before the orcs had discovered their presence. Perhaps Faramir had come across Frodo and brought him back to the boats, it was a possibility.

Aragorn squinted against the rain as he looked up to the dark building above. Perhaps Frodo had thought to hide himself on the roof. As he looked, his heart suddenly gave a jump as a black shape merged away from the silhouetted rock and stood facing him. It was no Hobbit.

Man sized it was, as far as he could tell, though he knew it was neither orc nor one of his companions. A sudden wave of dread washed over him and he almost cringed away in his fear. But knowing that he had been sighted and that there was nowhere to run, he stood firm, grasping Anduril tightly to contain the black hand that seemed to be tightening around his heart.

The figure upon Amon Hen moved once more, seeming to grow against the dark sky. A pale blade was in its armoured hand, and Aragorn recalled with a sickening horror their last encounter upon Amon Sûl when he had used fire to protect himself and the Hobbits. But he had no weapon now save his sword and his bow, and he had no doubt these would avail him little against such a foe.

"So," the voice from above spoke, "you have come at last."