Chapter 36 - Bitter rain

A shadow had fallen over Parth Galen, darker than the night's clouds. Aragorn now knew the source of that shadow, and looked up to the imposing Nazgûl with horror and awe. A wave of evil washed over him and almost enveloped him with its smothering cloak of fear. Yet he would now turn his back upon this meeting. He could not. There was nowhere to run, and turning away from his fear would only bring this black plague upon the rest of the company.

The black voice still hung on his dulled hearing, 'So you have come at last,' and he realised that the Nazgûl had been expecting him! He breathed deeply, not allowing his fear and horror blind him to fact that this creature could not read minds, nor could he even harm him further than the fetters on his dark master's desires allowed. The knowledge that he was equal to this dark king bolstered his spirits, and he gripped Andúril more tightly in his fist. Surely, as the dark minions of Sauron cowered beneath this terrifying leader, he, the heir of Isildur was stronger still. All the free people of Middle Earth stood at his back, and he was both the equal of elves, and the leader of men.

He stepped forwards, knowing that this confrontation had always been inevitable, though wishing it had come at a later hour. "You stand in my way," Aragorn said steadily, knowing that despite the distance between them the Wraith would hear his words. "I would look west, yet your foul darkness hinders my way." Aragorn's words were bold, and said with far more confidence that he felt.

"I sense your fear, king of Men," the Wraith hissed in anger, drawing nearer to the edge of the crumbling watchtower, its shadow looming over the place where Aragorn stood, "do not think to shelter behind your sharp tongue. Beware lest it cut your own throat, or that of your companions."

Aragorn felt his stomach tense, and a bitter taste rise at the back of his throat. He had been a fool not to already expect the dark king to have knowledge of the fellowship. Perhaps Frodo's body already lay at the feet of the Nazgûl, and the ring...

"You thought you were saving their miserable lives by facing me, did you not?" The Wraith laughed, a deep, horrible sound that cut through his mind like a blade. "I have waited long for this meeting, yet now I see the king of men is nothing more than a foolish child, weak because of his devotion to the living."

Again the Wraith laughed, and indeed Aragorn did feel like a child. His mind spun endlessly, repeating over and over the mistakes he had made that night. Frodo should not have been left alone, Gollum should have been more carefully guarded! Ai, what damage had his convoluted and indecisive mind caused?

The Nazgûl watched him silently, and Aragorn felt its enjoyment at the way his own guilt and confusion tortured him.

A sudden swell of rain whipped against his body, and he gasped at the sudden sensation. The Wraith seemed unmoved by the elements, but the startling touch of rain against his skin had awakened Aragorn to his situation. He suddenly wondered whether the Wraith really did hold something over him, or whether it was merely a lie spawned by the creature's forked tongue, and bolstered by false confidence and the knowledge that Aragorn would fear him. Perhaps the Nazgûl was merely playing with his loyalty and affection for his companions. Fear was a powerful enemy, and fear for loved ones perhaps the most deadly of all.

Aragorn felt the heavy cloud fear had formed upon his senses dissipate, and he realised also that in his haze of fear he had failed to notice the trees shifting behind him, and the black shapes of Orcs rimming the hill. He was surrounded.

"You may walk away from here free, if you wish it," the Wraith said quietly, its black form shrinking slightly against the sky.

Aragorn did not move. Anticipating the cruel choice, he had began frantically forming the possibility of the Wraith already having taken his companions captive. Choosing to save himself now would surely mean death to them. Could he take the risk the that the Nazgûl was lying?

Suddenly something dark and thin struck the earth close to Aragorn's feet. He steeled himself not to flinch from the object he had so often avoided in battle. He stooped to retrieve it, and raised it up, holding it gingerly between his fingers. It was an orc arrow, and the metal head glinted wickedly with fresh blood.

Raising his eyes to the dark king who had flung the arrow down to him, he realised that he had been given the assurance he had so desperately craved. The solid walls he had built as a defence for his mind crashed down around him. The blood was red, and freshly drawn, falling from the foul arrow-head to mingle with the rain splashing upon his shaking palms.

At that terrible moment there was a series of shouts behind him, and a familiar voice that turned Aragorn's blood to ice.

An Orc moved out from the circle of trees, dragging with him a small resisting figure brandishing a short sword. Blood spread from a small wound on the arm of the Orc who was holding the Hobbit, but he seemed not to have noticed the Halfling's attack. He was thrown forwards towards Aragorn, and the Orc retreated back a few paces, as though deeply afraid of his own captain.

"Aragorn!" Pippin cried upon seeing a familiar face, "forgive me, I never thought to..." The Hobbit trailed off, staring with horribly wide eyes over the Ranger's shoulder.

Aragorn turned his head slightly, clenching his fists in agitation at what he knew must follow. The Wraith had descended from the dark watch tower, and now stood only a few feet away. He could feel its evil more strongly now, and it seemed to permeate his clothes and skin and work its way into his bones like maggots. Pippin felt it too, and seemed frozen in horror at the sight of the black hooded figure.

Aragorn turned back upon the Wraith, feeling his face grow hot in anger and frustration. Pippin's appearance had cursed him with responsibility, the Nazgûl would utilise his affection for his companion. There was no hope.

"Would you not turn your back, king of Men?" the Wraith asked with such obvious pleasure that Aragorn's skin crawled at the sound.

He did not answer. There was nothing to say. Walking away from here would condemn Pippin to a painful death, and if he could do anything in his power to prevent that, so be it.

"This is not the Halfling," the Nazgûl murmured, circling the two figures with interest. "I see it in your face, and thus he is no use to me." The Wraith waved his hand to the Orcs a little behind Pippin, "kill him."

Aragorn stepped toward the dark king with frantic haste, failing to hide the panic from his eyes. "Do not kill the Hobbit," he said in a voice seemingly unlike his own. "he is nothing to you, or your master."

"And that is the reason he will die." the Wraith's voice was without emotion, and Aragorn knew he was loosing this fight.

Andúril fell from his grasp and struck the earth with a dull thud. He lowered himself to one knee, taking the blow to his pride without protest. "I will submit if he remains unharmed."

"No, Aragorn!" Pippin cried, fighting against the Orc who had grasped is arm. Aragorn cringed at the sound of the Hobbit's distress, but knew there was no other way.

The black sound of laughter echoed over the hill and left silence in its wake. "The king of men bends his knee before me!" the Nazgûl retrieved Andúril lifted it as though it were its own. "So be it, you come quietly and the Halfling lives."

Aragorn closed his eyes in relief, clasping his hand tightly around the arrow in his hand. Suddenly he turned, his eyes sweeping over Pippin in a search for injury. There was nothing but a few scrapes and bruises. Who then, had been injured by this arrow?

The Nazgûl had turned his back upon them, shouting orders to the orcs in the black speech that made even such black hearted creatures as they tremble in fear. "Curunír will enjoy matching his wits with your own," he said to Aragorn in passing. "Yet I am afraid you will lose this battle, king of Men."

Aragorn said nothing in reply, the reprieve granted on behalf of Pippin made him wary enough to sport no more words with the dark king.

"I will find your companion on the west bank, will I not?" The

Nazgûl ran an armored hand over Pippin's dirty cheek as he spoke, and Aragorn saw the Hobbit's face lose colour as the Black Breath began to take effect.

"Enjoy your swim," Pippin managed to murmur as the Wraith turned its back upon them, before slipping to the ground in a faint.

Aragorn felt heavy arms descend on his, and he was shoved onto his stomach. Peering up as far as his position allowed, he saw the metal boots of the wraith moving away from him through the bitter rain.

The trees were moving. Faramir could sense black shapes shifting and looming closer behind him. The Orcs were in pursuit, and he knew with a growing dread that stole his senses that the darkness of his surroundings meant he would not be able to distinguish the dark bodies of the Orcs from the trees. But he could hear them at his back, and that was all the more terrifying.

The glade in which he moved was enveloped in a tight shadow, darker and more stifling than the place in which he had bidden Frodo to hide himself and the ring... The ring! It taunted his senses still! His mind was slowed by a terrible feeling of loss, and even as he drew the Orcs away from the cursed object, it called to him with its sick promises to return and claim it for his own.

He shuddered. He knew now his own venerability to its evil. Even the very best intentions and dreams, a father's love, a country's salvation, were twisted into putrid desires by its evil. He knew well that a man with a more violent nature than his own would have killed to gain such a treasure. He could only breath his relief that each of the Fellowship had been strong enough to resist the temptation.

There was a sudden sound, and he threw himself to the ground almost without thinking. Wincing as his left knee struck hard rock he saw the black arrow strike the ground several metres in front of him. He barely breathed before another arrow from a different direction slammed into the earth to his left, spraying mud up from the ground like fireworks. Then he scrambled to his feet and bounded forwards, hoping desperately that he could bring himself out of range, if only for the moment he needed to take aim.

Steeling himself, he turned and raised his bow. Here perhaps he had the advantage over the Orcs. While a swordsman might have found himself riddled with arrows in this situation, Faramir's training as a ranger and archer in Ithilien

enabled him to determine the most probable position for an archer, and therefore anticipate the direction of attack.

The slight rise to his left struck him as a possible vantage point for an enemy archer, and he knew himself to be correct as the sound of bowstring being released. He stumbled backwards, gasping as the arrow embedded itself in the place he had been standing. He raised his own weapon, and felt the comforting weight of Orophin's bow in his sweaty palm as he drew back on the taught string. Ignoring the slight ache in his back from the wounds he had sustained in Moria, he slipped into the calm he needed to steady his aim.

The arrow flew straight, and was rewarded with a cry of agony. Hearing the Orc's body slump to the forest floor, Faramir did not allow himself a moment of relief. Squinting ahead into the dark trees he felt his blood rise at the dark shapes that moved towards him at a great pace. These were no archers, for they lacked stealth in their thunderous footfalls, and the dull sheen of metal through the trees revealed them to be soldiers.

White arrows pierced their skulls and throats as each revealed their position. It was no difficult task for Faramir to pick them off one by one as he would when staging an ambush in Ithilien. But when another black arrow found its mark in the body of an Orc close to his feet he knew himself to be the hunted, not the hunter.

The earth slipped precariously beneath his feet as he shuffled backwards, and the weight of his cloak, soaked with mud and rain hindered his movement as he sought to fire another arrow towards the next invisible foe. Suddenly he realised the ground behind him fell away sharply into the crest of a precipice. He had been so distracted by the orcs that he had not even sensed the danger before it was too late. Even as he leant his weight forwards and scrabbled in the mud with his free foot to retain his balance, the earth beneath his other foot began to shift and slide.

A noise invaded his panicked senses, and he barely had time to realise his peril before the arrow slammed into his shoulder, throwing off his already teetering balance. Pain flowered through him, and in that vague moment he realised he had been hit. Then he was falling, tumbling down the jagged slope. The world spun, and he barely felt the rocks and plants that tore at his reeling form. It was a seemingly endless tumble, in which his grasping limbs and clutching hands were only further battered for their trouble.

Then everything was still. Sucking in a shuddering breath, Faramir felt the shock in his mind slowly subside. And then there was only pain. He was on his side, and opening his eyes through the red haze of blood that clung there, he saw the thick black shaft still protruding from his shoulder. How it had not broken in the fall, he knew not, but somehow seeing it lodged deep in his own flesh made his body shake with nausea, and his mind reel out of the range of logical thought.

The sound that broke him from his haze of pain and delirium was that of footsteps. Someone was making their way down the slope towards him. He tried to roll onto his back in an attempt to see who was approaching him, but the movement sent more stabs of fire through his arm, and a dull ache to his head. His faint hope that is was Frodo come to find him was replaced by fear in the next moment, when he recalled that there was another orc lurking above somewhere, the one who had shot him...

He was left in doubt no longer, however, when the footsteps neared and the sound of heavy breathing grated upon his mind. Then an iron-shot boot slammed down upon his chest, ripping him onto his back with such violence that the arrow shaft shifted in the wound. Gasping for breath that would not come, he writhed beneath the crushing weight of the Orc's boot, struggling to regain some semblance of self control.

The Orc took one look at him, as far as Faramir could tell through blurry eyes, and called something course and insensible up the hill to another Orc who stood there. Faramir could not see far enough into the gloom to see the other creature, but it seemed to have retreated as the Orc above him turned back his attention to the man beneath him. The foot was lifted, and Faramir instinctively curled his body to the side. Violent coughing took hold of him, and in the midst of the haze through the jerking spurts of pain, he wondered how the Orc would kill him. He spared a thought for Frodo, and could only hope that the other Orc who had retreated had not discovered the Hobbit's hiding place.

His hand brushed against something as he gripped the edge of his cloak against the pain, and he recognised the sword gifted to him by Galadriel. He had lost his bow in the fall, but this one weapon might give him the chance to secure Frodo's safety.

The Orc's foot slammed into his back when he began to lie still once more. Gritting his teeth against the pain of moving, and of the impact of the Orc's metal boot, he grasped the hilt of his blade in his right hand and swung the blade behind him, into the Orc's unprotected ankle.

The blade went deep, and Faramir felt warm blood spilling onto his hand, before the Orc howled in pain, and ripped his leg away before Faramir could drive it deeper. It was not enough. The Orc would not die from this small wound, but perhaps the pain would drive away the thought of searching the area for other enemies.

Faramir hoped it was so, and struggling to keep the cries of pain from leaving him as the Orc roughly threw him on his back once more, he hoped also that his death would not be in vain, and that his father would take some pride in his son for dying in defence of his realm.

Then the Orc grasped the arrow-shaft and the pain as it was wrenched from his body rendered him senseless.

Faramir shuddered beneath Legolas' touch as he tentatively probed the bloodied wound upon the young man's shoulder.

It had been made by an arrow, he had discovered, and had thought, on first sight, that Faramir must have removed the arrow himself, or that it had been torn from the wound in his fall. But upon finding a streak of black blood upon Faramir's cloak, and discovering with dismay that the Ranger's wrists had been crudely bound together, Legolas knew the Orcs had not simply left the man to die.

This was black news, for it meant they would return for the body. Legolas sat back on his heels, clenching his jaw in agitation. He was no healer, and even from his perusal of Aragorn's skills, his own talent for the healing arts had remained minimal.

Dispite his lack of expertise he knew that loss of blood could be fatal, and from the torrent of sticky fluids that tainted the ground and his own hands a deep crimson, he knew his first task was to stop the bleeding. But he had nothing with which to work! All the baggage had been left upon the shore with Gimli and Hobbits.

For a moment he considered running for help, but with the thought that the orcs might at any moment return to carry off the body convinced him that he could not take that risk.

Taking his knife from his belt he bent over the body. With trembling fingers he placed the knife against the thin ropes binding Faramir's wrists and carefully severed the strands.

Then swallowing uncomfortably he looked to the shoulder injury. Helplessness rushed over him as he gazed at the gushing wound, and he felt the terrible inadequacy of his own skills.

He breathed deeply, and gently touched the torn leather of Faramir's jerkin, prying the breach in the material wider for a better view of the wound. Warm blood gushed over his fingers and he felt the man's body tense beneath him. Realising he would have to remove the barrier of the material, he reached for his knife.

Faramir's body suddenly jerked beneath his hand, and Legolas drew back in surprise and alarm. Gently laying his palm flat against Faramir's right shoulder he firmly pushed the trembling body back to the earth. The man's eyes suddenly flew open, and Legolas was surprised and disturbed by the depth of turmoil he saw staring back at him.

Again the body shifted beneath him, trying to dislodge the hands causing him such pain. Legolas winced as he held the shoulder to the ground, realising that Faramir likely thought him to be an Orc. Some dark memory seemed to be moving across Faramir's countenance

"Dartha ah enni," [stay with me] he murmured as he slid the knife into the thick leather, and began working it to one side. The stuff cut with relative ease, and it was the trembling of his own fingers, usually so firm and still on a bowstring, that truly impeded his movements.

He was almost through his task when Faramir's blood soaked hand gripped his own. Legolas looked down, startled, and was pleasantly surprised to see recognition in the pale face.

"Legolas?"

He grasped the weak hand and lowered it back to the other's chest. "I am here."