My deepest apologies to everyone.  I had every intention of updating on Sunday but with the holidays and all...  Sorry!  So here's my Christmas gift to you all!  Chapter 12!  It's a short one, but better then nothing!  :-)  You wouldn't believe how much trouble it was to get this chapter from my laptop to the home computer...  Anyway,  thanks to luinthien and Kathira for reviewing!  If anyone's interested, Kathira had a good question in her review that I answered.  Check it out, and happy holidays!

Chapter 12

            Aragorn groaned as he shifted his weight.  The company of Orcs had stopped for the night, and the Ranger was finally left to himself.  The ground beneath him was rocky, and he could do little to clear a spot for himself.

            For three days, Aragorn had been tossed from Orc to Orc, each taking their turn carrying or pushing him along as they ran.  Now, as he was finally able to lie still, he could feel his ribs protesting.  They had already been abused during his stay at Isengard, but the constant jolting and bouncing was almost more than he could bear.  Several times during their journey, Aragorn had lost consciousness from the pain.  Now, he was thankful for solid, unmoving, ground under him.

            They had not unbound him or uncovered his eyes, so Aragorn had no idea where they were or what direction they were heading.  He could tell from their pace and movements that the terrain had become increasingly rocky and uneven.  It was possible they were traveling southward, using the mountains bordering Gondor and Rohan for shelter.

            Aragorn could only hope there would be travelers in that region to engage the Orc group.  But I can not hope for such an event, Aragorn thought.  Felnorvard is not a fool; he would not lead us anywhere near a possible rescue.

Felnorvard had already gone to great lengths in keeping their trail as covered as possible.  Every few hours, they would abruptly change direction and their pace quicken or slacken.  Whether something was in the area or Felnorvard was paranoid of being followed, Aragorn could only guess.

            He was mildly surprised regarding his treatment by the Orcs.  They had not been overly violent or abusive though Aragorn had suffered a blow more than once.  On the first night of their journey, the Orcs had found sport in kicking him.  It hadn’t lasted too long, and Aragorn suffered only scrapes and bruises.  However, there was one spot at the very base of his ribcage that hurt more then it should.  Whether it was just a particularly nasty bruise or was actually fractured, he couldn’t tell.  He would have needed his hands free to make an accurate assessment.  

            Aragorn lay quietly on the ground and prayed for sleep to claim him.  The night would pass in darkness either way, and sleep would allow the morning to arrive faster.  

            The deep thud of footsteps caused the Ranger to hold his breath.  He was in no mood for a confrontation, and he doubted his sore and weary body could handle anything but sleep.

            Aragorn slightly relaxed as the creature sat down several feet above his head.  This was only the Orc sent to guard him overnight.  As long as the Ranger did not move too much or speak, he should have no trouble.

            As Aragorn focused on keeping his breathing slow and even, he could feel his already dark world begin to swirl in on him.  Sleep was not far behind.  His night was plagued by strange dreams once again, dreams filled with the fire and pain of the Dark Lord Sauron.

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            Aragorn dreamt that he was standing at the base of Mount Doom.  There was no one around him, but he quickly realized his body was frozen in place.  He knew he was waiting for someone, and he feared who it was.

            The mountain began to burn and throw fire and rock from its mouth.  Aragorn looked high above him and watched as a figure slowly descended the crag.  It was Sauron.

            Aragorn struggles against his unseen bonds as the dark figure approached.  The Dark Lord appeared as he did in the many paintings in Imladris, a shadow of evil.  His dark form towered above the Ranger, and he waited for the man to become still.

            With his eyes closed and head bowed, Aragorn finally stopped struggling and waited.  On the wind that blew down from Mount Doom, he heard voices calling to him.  They whispered the names of Elendil, Isildur, and finally his own, Aragorn. 

            Sauron raised his metal clad hand and placed his palm on the Ranger’s forehead.  With a cry of pain, Aragorn fell to his knees before the Dark Lord.  Every ounce of heat was being pulled form his body.  It felt like his very soul was being taken.

            Evil surrounded his entire being as he was pulled to his feet.  Sauron was drawing him closer, bringing him to his side.  The Dark Lord turned Aragorn around, allowing him to look out upon the rest of Middle-Earth. 

            Darkness.

            Darkness had swept over the countryside, spreading into every outlet, and Aragorn was standing at Sauron’s right hand.  It was as he had always feared.  He had not been strong enough to resist the power the Enemy had offered, just like his forefathers.

            As the two of them stood together, watching over the land, Aragorn felt the Dark Lord’s strong arms pull him closer, embracing him.

            Then Aragorn’s vision shifted, and he looked from afar at himself and Sauron.  Slowly, he saw the Dark Lord pull his entire body back.  Aragorn watched himself slowly fall back against him and disappear.

            It was over.  He had become part of those whom he hated most.  There was no escape, only defeat.  This would be the only existence that Aragorn would ever know, payment for his own weakness.

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            A sharp blow to the ribs quickly pulled Aragorn back to the world of the waking.  The Orc kicked him one more time before roughly dragging the man to his feet.

            Aragorn coughed several times as he was shoved from one Orc to another.  Apparently none of them wanted to carry him that day.  Because of the blindfold, the Ranger tripped several times and landed at the Orcs’ feet. 

            With his arms still bound behind him, Aragorn’s head hit the ground, and yellow spots danced before his already restricted vision.  He struggled to regain his footing for fear of another blow to his ribs.

            Through the deep laughs of the Orcs, Aragorn heard Felnorvard’s sharp command.  “We have wasted enough time!  Pick him up and move out!”

            They quickly lifted Aragorn and began their fast paced run once again.  Aragorn smiled slightly as he noticed the position of the blindfold.  When he had fallen, the cloth had caught on the ground and uncovered part of his right eye.  At least he would be able to see for a time.  Perhaps it would make a difference.

TBC