Disclaimer: This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes. All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.
Once again I thank all you wonderful reviewers! :) Your thoughts and comments are absolute gems.
*looks over precipice* Well, there’s no going back now…
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~ Chapter 18: One Shall Pass ~
Bergil gasped in shock. He had not expected the corsair to strike so quickly.
Bitaliel twisted frantically as she was dragged to her feet and bound. “What has happened?” the woman demanded, her voice pitching slightly in panic. “Tell me!”
Bergil blinked several times, his mind attempting to make sense of what he had just witnessed. His eyes fell upon Legolas and he was at once alarmed to see the look of horror upon the Elf’s normally calm visage.
Following the gaze of the Elf lord, Bergil looked down.
His eyes widened in disbelief. He was surprised to find himself cradling his abdomen. And even more surprised to find the knife protruding from it.
His body shuddered. There were sounds of scuffle upon the sands, and then the sharp threat, “One more move and the Dwarf dies, Elf.” A pain unlike anything Bergil had ever experienced rushed from the knife and through his body like liquid fire. The earth began to spin. He doubled over with a moan, feeling his legs give away.
Suddenly the grinning face of Mortsdil was before him. The pirate clasped him by the shoulders and drew him in close, as though intending to embrace the young guard. His sea-colored eyes glinted with an unholy light.
The corsair plunged the knife deeper and then upward, grinning all the while. A scream tore itself from Bergil’s lips. His cry mingled with Aragorn’s roar and the frightened shriek of Bitaliel.
Mortsdil’s grin curved downward into a feral snarl as he withdrew the knife, feeling it scrape against the young guard’s ribcage. Warm blood coated his hands like paint.
He shoved Bergil backwards and the young man sank to his knees, choking and gasping for breath.
It was almost funny, the faces people tended to make while amidst their death throes.
“Bergil!” At Aragorn’s hoarse cry, Mortsdil turned his attention away from the writhing figure at his feet. The King of Gondor was struggling mightily against the two corsairs who held him at bay. Standing aside, Mortsdil motioned for the men to release Aragorn.
Aragorn immediately flung himself to Bergil’s side.
“Bergil? Bergil! Bergil, can you hear me?” He placed an arm underneath the young man’s head and drew him upright, urgency causing him to handle Bergil with uncharacteristic roughness. ‘Hear me, son of Beregond! Your time is not yet come. Not yet!’
Bergil coughed. There was blood in his mouth. He had always hated its taste; the iron saltiness caused him to gag. “My… Lord…” He gasped, unable to draw a full breath of air. Something was wrong; he could not breathe. And there was a look in Aragorn’s eyes he had never before seen. What was it?
It was fear. Aragorn was frightened.
‘He is afraid! My Liege is afraid!’ Bergil whimpered as his own panic began to rise. How badly was he hurt? He could not die, not yet—no, his king would not let him die.
The liquid fire increased in heat, causing him to double into himself. “It hurts…” He moaned, unable to hold back the tears now coursing down his cheeks. “It hurts! Please, My Lord…please…the pain…”
“Hush Bergil. Hush. All is well.” Aragorn clasped the young man’s hand within his own, ignoring the blood that poured forth in seemingly endless streams. Bergil’s knuckles turned white, so hard did he clench Aragorn’s hand in reply.
Bitaliel dropped to her knees and scrambled towards the duo. Aragorn reflexively shielded Bergil as she unintentionally flung sand upon the two in her haste.
“Boy? Boy, where are you?” Bitaliel’s bound and trembling hands found the tear-stained face. She began to repetitively stroke away the hair from his forehead, repeating Aragorn’s words as if by doing so would make them true. “All is well. All is well. All is well…”
Bergil spasmed, clenching Aragorn’s hand so tightly the blood covering them squelched in protest. He arched his back in desperate attempt to gain air, only to conversely cough and double over as the feat proved too painful.
“Bergil!” Aragorn’s voice came harsh and unnatural. Bergil opened his crimson-stained mouth in muted plea of agony and stared back at the King of Gondor.
Aragorn had knelt beside too many fallen companions to not immediately recognize the unnerving way Bergil stared directly through him. A choked sob tore itself from the young man’s lips. “Son of Beregond, do not wander! Remain, Bergil. Your King commands it of you!”
But even a King was not capable of dismissing Death.
Bergil’s body jerked once before going stiff and rigid. The once-lively grey eyes widened and extinguished; the face that so often bore the easy-going smile froze in final agony.
Bitaliel threw back her head and howled. Her scream carried long and far down the shore, causing seagulls and sandpipers to take to the air in alarm.
And thus did Bergil, son of Beregond and loyal guard to King Elessar of Gondor, pass beyond the realm of Middle-earth, never again to see the White Tower of his beloved home.
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