Thanks to luinthien and AM for reviewing!  Because of you, I'm posting a day earlier then I expected!

A few notes:

I'm having a hard time finding enough time to edit this story.  I'm still quite a few chapters ahead of this posting, but I've decided to post a new chapter every other weekend.  That way you won't have to wait as long for the last few chapters.  Okay!? :)   Next...

In this chapter, I make a reference to rape. It's only implied, and if you're not paying attention you'll miss it. For that reason, and because it doesn't play a major role in the development of the story, I've decided to keep the rating at PG13.

Chapter 7

           Aragorn awoke with a start, as if something had disturbed his sleep, though he could find nothing out of place.  Except that I am sitting in a dark cell in Isengard with my hands bound and a metal mask about my face, Aragorn thought as he searched through his memory.  He had been dreaming, but the visions were quickly vanishing.  He struggled to keep hold of them.

            It is not to be, he concluded.  The dream had completely vanished from his mind.  There was something new, however, growing in his subconscious.  It was affecting him, though he knew not how.  There was a feeling of fear and helplessness in the back of his mind that had not been there before, and it disturbed him greatly.  Aragorn decided to let the matter rest.  He could do nothing about dreams.

            His cell was very cold and letting his bare back rest on the stone wall had done nothing to hold in warmth.  It would be colder to lie on the floor, Aragorn thought as he shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position.  The only good thing was that the cold stone numbed his sore back and decreased the swelling, a small comfort with the future still uncertain. 

            He had no way of knowing how long he’d slept, but from the stiffness of his limbs, it had been several hours.  It could be several more before his captors returned, and Aragorn wasn’t sure if it comforted him or not.  Their return would certainly mean more torment, but the ache in his stomach reminded him just how hungry he was.  It was entirely possible that they would bring him food.  Possible, but unlikely.  He could do nothing but wait.

            The darkness of the dungeon caused the Ranger’s mind to wander and play tricks.  He thought of Rivendell and of his childhood there.  He even imagined that he could hear Elrond’s voice, telling him about his ancestry.  Aragorn did not bother to try and control it.  There was no harm in day dreaming especially if it helped to pass the time.

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            After what seemed like days, Aragorn heard the unmistakable sound of life beyond his prison door.  Someone was coming for him. 

            He could feel his breath quicken, and he struggled to regain control of his emotions.  Although he was concerned about what was going to happen, Aragorn would not let it develop into fear. 

            As the door swung open, brilliant white light flooded the room, forcing Aragorn to turn his head.  As his eyes struggled to adjust, he could barely make out two figures enter and move toward him.  The features of Saruman and Felnorvard slowly came into focus.

            Saruman stood back and quietly watched as Felnorvard placed two jugs on the ground and leaned close to the Ranger, reaching to remove the mask.  Aragorn did not struggle since he wanted to be released as well.

            He felt the mask loosen and fall from his face, but the other man’s warm breath was still next to his ear. 

            “It would be wise to remain silent, Ranger,” Felnorvard quietly growled before he pulled away.

            Now it was Saruman who lowered himself to the floor and stared intently into Aragorn’s eyes.  The Ranger kept still and returned his gaze, determined to show the wizard his strength. 

            Saruman brought up both of his hands, placing them on either side of the Ranger’s face.  If Aragorn had not already been backed against the wall, he would have drawn away.  He still had vivid memories of what the wizard was capable of doing with his touch.  But now, there was no pain, no pressure, no suffocation. There was nothing.

            Saruman muttered several words under his breath which Aragorn could not understand. Then a smile spread across the wizard’s face, and the Ranger shuddered at the sight.  Whatever had caused the smile could not have been good.  With a nod to the other man, Saruman rose and surrendered his position to Felnorvard.

            “Once again, this will be as difficult as you make it,” he said as he picked up one of the jugs. 

            Aragorn took a deep breath and prepared himself, both physically and mentally, for the battle to come.  Something told the Ranger it would be long and difficult.

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            Aragorn was lying flat on his stomach, with every muscle in his body sore and stiff.  Although his captors had not been overly physical with him, the encounter had been draining.  As he expected and feared, he’d lost the battle, and Felnorvard had forced another dose of drug into him.

            This time, however, the metal mask had been forgotten, though his arms were still bound.  There was also more light entering his cell now, and Aragorn could dimly see the four walls around him, and in the far corner, a piece of cloth.

            It was his long forgotten shirt, and Aragorn thanked whatever luck he still had.  He sorely needed the herb pouch that was hopefully still hidden in an inner pocket.

            He slowly moved over to the shirt, trying to be as quiet as possible.  He did not want to draw the attention of the Orc guards outside his door.  With his hands still tied behind him, Aragorn was forced to rely on memory to find the pouch.  The shirt had many small pockets which were perfect for holding anything a Ranger would want kept hidden.  But sixty years of habits are hard to forget, and Aragorn knew exactly which one to look in.  He dumped out its contents then turned his body around to examine them.  Even though he didn’t know the name of the drug used on him, it was possible he could counter it.

            He had a few herbs on hand that would have an effect on just about anything.  It was commonly used when there was no absolute cure, or when one was not available.  But that wasn’t his only option.  He had much stronger medicine in his possession.

            Aragorn looked at his small supply of athelas and hesitated.  He was not altogether convinced that it was a Morgul poison, and he didn’t want to waste his precious supply.  Morgul poison worked in obvious ways, not the subtle ones, and the symptoms were severe.  No, he would keep his athelas to use another time.

            After several minutes of searching in the dim light, Aragorn found the small herb that he was looking for.  He leaned over, picked the plant up with his mouth, and quickly ate it.  It tasted bitter, and the Ranger wished he had some water to drink.  All of his herbs worked much better when taken with a liquid, but he would have to make due with what he had.

            Aragorn quickly turned back around and scooped the herbs into the pouch.  He decided that it would be best to put the shirt back in the corner where it would hopefully remain forgotten.  As things were going, he would probably need it again.

            Thirty minutes passed before Aragorn began to hear a change in his Orc guards.  There was too much movement; something was happening. He slowly moved closer to the door, trying to hear what was going on.  Even though the welts on his back had finally closed, it was still painful for Aragorn to do anything quickly, therefore, he only caught the last part of the Orc’s conversation before they started to argue.

            Abruptly, the voices in the hallway fell silent, only to be replaced with the dull thud of boots against stone.  Aragorn groaned; someone was coming, again.  He quickly made his way back to the cell wall.  He wanted to appear physically weaker then he was, and he needed every advantage he could get.

            The solid wood door groaned and creaked as it was opened.  Four Orcs entered dragging two large objects behind them, bodies, and Aragorn resisted the urge to get rise to his feet.  Now would not be the time to draw attention to himself, and past experience told him that more would be learned in quiet observation.

            The Orcs did not even look at the Ranger as they dropped their captives to the ground.  What happened next surprised Aragorn.  They brought out their daggers and cut the strangers’ bonds.  Adding to his confusion, they cut the ropes on his own wrists as well.  Then, as quickly as they had come, they left, not having said a single word.

            It took Aragorn a moment to remember that he was no longer alone in his cell.  He stiffly climbed to his feet and slowly walked over to the two prone figures.  They were both lying very still and face down on the floor.  Aragorn knelt down next to the first figure.  He laid a gentle hand on the person’s shoulder, trying to wake him.  Not getting a response, the Ranger carefully rolled the stranger over.

            Aragorn cringed.  Lying in front of him was the bloody face of a young man, probably no older then twenty-five.  The right side of his jaw was black and blue, along with his right eye, and blood was caked in his hair and down his face.  This man had not been as lucky as the Ranger in his treatment from the Orcs. 

            Aragorn ripped a piece of cloth from the young man’s shirt and began to wipe away the blood from his nose and cheek.  Suddenly, the young man opened his eyes.

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            Rayford stared up at the last thing he ever expected to see, another man.  He had been startled when he felt a hand touch his face.  The only thing he had known for a long time was the cruel hand of the Orcs, under the leadership of Felnorvard.  Now, this strange man was leaning dangerously close to his wounded face.

            Rayford shot his arm up and caught the stranger square in the chest, causing him to fall back.  He scrambled to his feet but was too weak from poor treatment and malnutrition.  He only made it to his knees before the stranger was beside him again, this time speaking.

            “Peace, sir.  I did not mean to startle you,” the stranger said as he tried to calm the younger man.  “Please, be still.  I may be able to treat some of your wounds.”

            Rayford did not relax under the other man’s touch. “Wait!” he said, pushing his hand away. “My cousin! Is she all right?  She needs my help!  Let me up!”

            Aragorn quickly released the young man.  He had almost forgotten about the other person the Orcs had brought in.  As Rayford struggled to get back on his feet, Aragorn was already moving to his companion.  She was also lying face down and very still.  The Ranger took her by the shoulders and slowly rolled her over. 

            Aragorn gasped; this woman was no more then a child, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old.  She did not seem to be as injured as her cousin; there were bruises on her face, but there was no blood.  Aragorn visually searched for any sign of a hidden wound, checking her clothes for blood.  The Ranger was stunned at what he saw.  He turned back to Rayford, who was now at his cousin’s side. “She is with child?” Aragorn asked, stunned.

            The young man brushed the woman’s hair away from her face and replied simply, “Yes.”  He leaned over his cousin and listened for any sign of life.  After a moment, Rayford sighed and sat back up.  “She still lives.”

            Aragorn was still so completely taken aback, that all he could do was nod.  There were a thousand questions flying through his mind.  Why had they been taken alive by the Orcs?  What did they want with a pregnant girl?  How long had they been prisoners?

            The young man broke through the Ranger’s train of thought when he spoke. “I am truly sorry for striking you.  Were you injured?  My name is Rayford, by the way, and this is Milena.”

            Aragorn shook his head. “I am known as Strider, and no, my friend, you did not injure me.”  He looked down at the unconscious girl.  “How is it that you two came here?  Orcs do not usually take prisoners.”

            Rayford had been mumbling softly to Milena and did not even raise his eyes when he responded. “We were captured traveling to our new home, and I know not why.”  That was all the young man said as he continued trying to wake his cousin.

            Aragorn saw that he would get no answers at that time, so instead, he joined Rayford.  After several minutes, the two men were able to coax the young girl back to the conscious world.  They slowly helped her up to a sitting position so Aragorn could assess her injuries.

            With a shaky voice, she assured him that there were no hidden hurts.  Aragorn accepted this but insisted that she remain seated.

            “Although I know very little about the actions of Orcs, I was surprised when we were taken alive,” Rayford said, turning his attention back to Aragorn.  “We have been held here for several weeks with very little contact with any of them.”

            Aragorn furrowed his brow and asked, “Were you questioned or given any indication of why you were taken?”

            Rayford sighed heavily. “Every now and then they questioned us but about nothing of importance.  Once or twice they would speak of us being important for something, but that was all.  Until the last few days or so we were mostly left alone.  That is when they started tormenting us.  At first, it was just taunts or shoves, but,” he said, motioning to his face, “it eventually came to blows, for both of us.”  His brown hair had grown long and unkempt in his weeks of captivity and now hung over his face.  The young man tried to tuck the hair behind his ears but without luck.

            “You have the look of a Ranger,” Aragorn said, noticing Rayford’s long hair and black over coat.

            With a small laugh, the younger man replied, “You flatter me but no.  I traveled with some for about one year but nothing more.  Please, Strider, how is it that you came to be in this place?”

            Aragorn hesitated.  He could not reveal himself to these people so he had to be very careful with what was said.  The slip of his tongue had been what helped get him into this situation in the first place, and he would not make the same mistake twice.

            “I was overtaken during one of my travels.  When I was brought here, they questioned me about things I can not speak of.”  That was the most Aragorn could say.  He only hoped it would be enough.

            Milena had been sitting very quietly with her head bowed.  Then, as if she had been startled awake, her head shot up.  “Strider is a strange name.  Where are you from?” she asked.

            Aragorn replied with his long practiced response. “I have been traveling as a Ranger of the North for many years now.  Before then, I lived in a small village of little importance to any man.”

            Milena smiled and nodded.  “We thought our home to be insignificant as well.  There were maybe fifty of us all together.  About seven months ago, a band of men and Orcs attacked us.”

            Knowing that she did not want to finish the story, Rayford continued for her. “They took us completely by surprise.  Eleven of us managed to escape into the forest where we were continually hunted.  We were never able to avoid them completely.  Milena and I strayed too far from the group, and with only five people left, they weren’t able to rescue us.”

            Aragorn nodded.  He had known Orc groups to track their victims for several months.  “Were the others before you taken alive as well?” Aragorn asked.  Perhaps this was some new trick of Saruman, capturing people to serve him. 

            “No,” Milena said.  “We would always search for them, and after a day or so, we’d find their bodies, barely recognizable.” 

            “And all of this happened over the past seven months?” Aragorn asked.  It would be a very strong willed people who could survive seven months of Orc attacks.

            Milena nodded.  Her hands rested uncomfortably on her enlarged midsection, and she shifted her weight. 

            “May I ask how far into the pregnancy you are?  Perhaps one of my herbs could help make you more comfortable, take some of the pain from your back.”

            “I am seven months along,” she said in a monotone voice.  “And no, thank you, I’m in no pain.” 

            “Married so young.”  Aragorn said to himself, his voice trailing off.  He was old enough to be her grandfather.  At that moment, the Ranger felt like a very old man, although he did not look it.

            “I am unmarried, and my child was not conceived in love,” Milena said quietly, almost too soft for Aragorn to hear.

            Aragorn could feel himself blush.  He should not have even mentioned marriage and kept his thoughts to himself.  He had suspected the truth, and now his comment had caused the situation to become very uncomfortable.

            It was Rayford who broke the silence.  “Our village lies on the border of Gondor to the west.  Before then, we had been bothered very little by Orcs; it came as a complete surprise.  What I fail to understand is why we were not protected or at the very least warned!”
           

            Aragorn frowned and sat quietly thinking to himself.  Someday, these would be the things that he would have to deal with.  Would he be able to do a better job of protecting the innocent people?  Would he have been able to prevent the Orcs from attacking the village?  How would he be able to protect those farthest away from Minas Tirith?  How would he keep the Wilds any safer for travelers?  What would he do differently?  All of those thoughts weighed heavily on Aragorn’s mind.

            “You’re bleeding, Strider,” Milena said, redirecting the Ranger’s attention. 

            “So I am,” Aragorn said.  The new freedom of motion had caused some of the welts on his back to open again.  Without treatment, it would not be long before infection settled itself in the wounds.

            “I have some training as a healer,” Milena said softly.  “The wounds do not look very old.  How long have you been a captive here?”

            Aragorn opened his mouth to respond but stopped.  How long had it been?  Surely it had not been a full week already.  Finally, he spoke. “Honestly, I can not remember the exact number of days.  They have all run together in my mind, but I do not believe it has been more than a week.”

            “It is nearly time for them to bring us some water,” Rayford said to his cousin.  “Perhaps then we can clean away the blood and dirt.”

            “Then you have been lucky that they’re providing for you,” Aragorn said.

            Before they could respond, the door to the cell opened.  Felnorvard stood just outside room, holding a large jug.  None of the captives moved, waiting to see what he would do.  Aragorn glared at the man. He was worried Felnorvard had returned to deliver another dose of the drug.

            “Come here, Ranger,” Felnorvard commanded.  His voice was cold, but not threatening.

            Aragorn replied with a soft snort.  “I think not,” he said under his breath.

            Milena leaned closer to the Ranger and whispered, “Please, do as he says.  He carries a water jug.”

            I doubt very much that he carries just water, Aragorn thought with a mental sigh.  “As you wish, Lady,” he said, rising to his feet.  He tried to hide his pain as he slowly walked the short distance to the door.  He set his jaw and stared dangerously at the other man.

            For his part, Felnorvard kept his face expressionless as he took a step into the room toward Aragorn.  Both men stopped only a few feet apart.  “We are not the enemy you think us to be, Aragorn,” he said quietly, so that only the Ranger could hear.  “I am offering you water, for I know you’ve had none in several days.”

            At first, Aragorn said nothing, his eyes searching Felnorvard’s face for signs of deception.  He focused on his eyes but found nothing.  “I have told you before, I will not willingly take your drugs.”

            Felnorvard laughed.  “And as I have told you, if I was trying to make you drink something, you would drink it.  But, now I offer only water.  Do with it as you please.”  He held out the jug. 

            Without taking his eyes off Felnorvard’s face, Aragorn reluctantly accepted it.

            “You could save your people, Aragorn, save them from death, he added quietly.

            “I will not hand over so many innocent lives to the Enemy.  That would not be saving them, and whether you ask me now, or in two years, my opinion will not change.”

            “I wouldn’t plan on being around that long, if that is the case.” 

            Silence.  The conversation was obviously over, but neither man moved, neither willing to back down first.  This time, Felnorvard glared while Aragorn remained expressionless.

            “Strider?” Rayford called from behind the Ranger, though he was ignored.

            Rayford’s comment, however, did break Felnorvard’s concentration.  He blinked and took a step back, as if noticing for the first time how dangerous Aragorn still was.

            “Get back, Ranger,” Felnorvard said, his voice almost a growl.  He wanted to leave, but it was impossible for the door to close with Aragorn blocking its path.

            Aragorn’s lips very slowly began to pull back into a sly smile.  I could try to escape, Aragorn though as he watched the anxiety spread across the other man’s features.  Felnorvard must have been thinking along the same line, because with surprising quickness, his hand shot up.  The sharp point of a dagger rested dangerously on Aragorn’s exposed chest. Perhaps not…

            “I said, move back,” the man threatened, the blade biting into the Ranger’s skin.

            Aragorn lowered his head in a mock bow.  With the smile remaining on his face, he took a step back, allowing the door to slam closed once again.  It was always refreshing to get a reaction like that out of his captors.  It made him feel like he was still in control of the situation.

            Taking a deep breath, Aragorn turned back to the two cousins.  He was developing a monstrous headache just behind his eyes, and the only thing he wanted now was to just sit and rest.  It would only take him six steps to cross the room. 

            After two shaky paces forward, Aragorn knew that he wouldn’t make it.  His vision blurred, and his heart began to pound in his chest.   Something was wrong.

            After two more, the Ranger extended his arms in an attempt to pass the water jug to Milena, but the world was beginning to spin.  The jug tipped and slid from his fingers, which would no longer obey his commands.  The last thing he saw was Milena diving for the jug, the surprised expression on Rayford’s face, and the ground rushing to meet him.

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            Aragorn dreamed he was sitting on the throne of Gondor.  Before him were hundreds of his loyal subjects, young and old.  They were clapping for him.

            He was the ruler of Gondor, and his people loved him.  He supported and protected them, and now he was trusted.  He was content and just sat there, watching.

            He watched as one of his soldiers burst into the large hall.  He ran toward his king, and everything suddenly became silent.

            Aragorn rose to his feet, wanting to hear what the man had to say.

            What?  How could this be?  No!  Seven villages destroyed and no survivors?  Where was his army?  Why weren’t they there to protect the people?

            Aragorn returned to his seat in silence as all of his subjects’ faces turned from joy to anger.  The hall was emptying; his people were leaving.  They had trusted him, and he had let them down.

            Aragorn sat in the empty throne room for a long time, thinking.

            His people had trusted him, trusted that he would protect them, and he had let them down.

TBC