Aragorn crouched in place, shivering, buffeted by dread and black thoughts. He could not think, he could not breathe. He could not move, but he must run. He must hide. He must—

“Nazgûl!” Elrohir hissed, launching to his feet.

It was a name of legend and terror, yet Aragorn could scarcely feel more afraid than he already did. He barely noted his brother’s attack, but the panting gasps which accompanied the first exchange of blades were nothing like Elrohir’s usual silent efficiency and finally shattered the spell upon him. He struggled to his feet as the Elf was driven to his knees, eyes wide and white in the silver moonlight. Aragorn stumbled forward, catching the heavy blade with his own before the deadly stroke could find its victim. The clash swept through his whole body, an icy cold numbed his fingers and arms, and for one desperate moment he wondered if he had dropped his sword. Elrohir’s voice sounded from afar.

“A wound from this blade will bring worse than death—do not allow yourself to be cut!”

It was easier said than done. No sooner had Elrohir spoken than the foul creature shrieked, felling both as with a swipe from a single club. Aragorn’s ears pulsed and a dark curtain fell across his vision. Steel rang upon steel above him. He did not remember gaining his feet, but lurched forward to keep the Nazgûl from overtaking Elrohir as his brother tripped over a low stone lip, collapsing with heavy, un-Elven inelegance. Forcing his leaden limbs forward, Aragorn pressed the attack. The thing shrieked again, the very noise knocking him aside. It was fortunate, for the dark blade struck the tumbled rock upon which he had stood only moments before. Rather than the usual screech of steel upon stone, it emitted a dull vibration which numbed Aragorn’s feet and stole the strength from his knees. Across the stone circle, Elrohir gasped a call to Elbereth, great heaving gulps that were barely audible above the wailing and the rush in Aragorn’s ears. His fingers cramped from the cold, their breath fogged the air—though no such steam swirled before the wraith. Aragorn shook away the sweat and the terror and the crushing lethargy, and gripped his sword. He was gathering strength to attack again when a shout sounded from behind him.

Blazing orange light streaked past, blinding him, and this time there seemed something of distress in the Nazgûl’s shriek. Distress, and anger. Aragorn blinked, shaking away the spots from his vision. Daelin dodged back, loose-limbed and uncontrolled, the flaming branch in his hand nearly forgotten and far too close to Elrohir’s hair. Another lay upon the cracked cobbles, still burning, and Aragorn saw that a corner of the ragged black hem had caught fire. He struggled to his knees, but in that moment Elrohir seized the torch from Daelin’s fingers and lunged forward, flinging it full upon wraith’s cloak. It caught, flaring along sleeve and hood. The Nazgûl screamed one last time, long and drawn, before fleeing over the steep edge of Weathertop. Aragorn huddled upon his knees, covering his ears, his companions adopting similar postures until the last echoes faded.

Shaking, he relaxed onto the stone. Elrohir crawled to the opposite edge, peering into the darkness, and Aragorn looked to Daelin. “That was … good thinking.”

Even for such a short exposure, the other Ranger’s gaze was stunned. “I thought … uh …” He shook his head, grasping for the words. “Blades did not seem to be doing any good, I wasn’t convinced adding another would help.”

Aragorn nodded, as Elrohir slunk back to join them. “I see no sign of the wraith. The cloak is smoldering halfway down the hill—we may want to put it out lest it catch the brush on fire.” He sat heavily. Aragorn pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think. The Nazgûl may be gone (what in Middle Earth was a Nazgûl doing upon Weathertop, of all places?), but the cold did not seem to be dissipating. A trickle of blood trailed down one side of the Elf’s face, and Aragorn’s blood chilled.

“Did it cut you?”

Elrohir looked surprised and touched his forehead. He frowned, examining the blood, then shook his head. “No. I hit it when I fell. The first time,” he added, wincing. Aragorn released his breath, but could not feel truly relieved. The underlying sense of terror did not seem to be fading so much as twisting into a dull, overwhelming dread. Daelin pulled his cloak tight about him, hunching into it and tucking his hands beneath his arms.

“Will it be back, think you?”

“I doubt it.” For all his prompt reply, Elrohir’s tone was vague. “Without the cloak to give it form, it cannot …” The words trailed away, and for a long moment none spoke. Aragorn’s own focus was fast fading, the cold seeping into his bones, the dark night taking on a weird greyish cast. Elrohir shook himself, and the grey mist receded slightly. “We must leave here. We must … get back to the fire.” The very thought of moving was enough to make Aragorn weep. No one stirred. Elrohir rocked forward as if he intended to rise, but remained seated. “The Nazgûl expel a … a type of poison.” The rolling chill encased Aragorn’s entire body. He wished to simply lay down and sleep. “It is the Black Breath. It affects all who … who ...” Elrohir closed his eyes, resting his forehead upon his knees. “We must get back to the fire.”

He had heard Elrond speak of it, though he knew very little more. Nazgûl had not been a common dinner topic during his visits to Rivendell. “Your head needs attention as well,” Aragorn mumbled, and wondered when his own eyes had closed. He did not remember doing so. With an effort, he prised his lids open, blinking dumbly at his brother and his friend. Daelin still shivered within his cloak, blinking sluggishly as though it was a losing battle. Elrohir had leaned into the support of a tumbled down wall, one arm crept up to shield his dark head. 

We need to reach the fire.

Aragorn spent a moment convincing himself, then looked up, attempting the strength and wits to rise. He drew in a sharp breath, his heart rising to his mouth as he struggled to comprehend the sight. Though the silver-grey light still lay upon them, the moon and the stars were gone. The sky itself seemed missing, for all he could tell.

Naught but an inky, velvet blackness stretched above.