Archive of Our Own

Dust filled air burned in Aragorn’s lungs. The sweaty, shouting bodies around him had become one mass, pushing him this way and that as he stumbled through them, swinging Andúril where he could, aimless like a blind man. Dark orc blood dripped from the blade. It stained his hands with its corrosive bite, but he couldn’t spare a moment’s pity for the enemies that fell before him. The animal desperation for survival had scorched his mind senseless.

The blow forced the air out of his chest. He fell to the ground, sinking into mud and dirt. Chest heaving as he gasped. In front of him loomed a wicked mace. Its iron blades curved like the fangs of a wolf. His eyes followed its lines, and found an armored hand gripping the handle. The creature wielding it blotted out the smoke filled sky. If the elves glowed with light, Sauron was crowned with darkness, the intricate lines of his armor lost in the shadow that he cast.

Aragorn staggered to his feet. He lifted Andúril, though his arms trembled with the weight of it.

“O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!” He shouted with all his strength. His throat burned and he tasted blood in his mouth. “You will burn in her light!” And he swung Andúril with his entire body behind the blow.

There were no chinks in the armor. The blade glanced off, sparks lighting the dark for a moment. It left a blackened stain on the iron. Aragorn stumbled after it, throwing himself down to dodge the mace blow that Sauron aimed at his head. His hands slipped in the mud. His boots scrabbled for purchase.

Sauron stepped towards him. He had raised the mace once again. He stared at Aragorn’s defenseless form, and Aragorn felt the gaze scraping against his bones, squeezing his pounding heart, his aching lungs. He could hide nothing.

But neither could Sauron. His eyes burned, and their depths were empty. Aragorn felt as though he could fall for all eternity. There was no food that could quiet this appetite. There was no flesh that could quell this compulsion, no trophy that could satisfy such drive. Those eyes were nothing but hunger.

Aragorn shuddered, and dragged himself to his feet. He gripped Andúril with both hands.

New vigor burned in his chest. The darkness that had seemed so all consuming now seemed like a shroud, there to hide the rot and decay beneath. A fire so bright it had burned itself to ash.

“I see you for what you are!” He shouted, and raised Andúril once again, aiming for the small slit in the armor where the eyes blazed.

Just then a great shudder came over Sauron. It was echoed in the host around him, a sudden hesitation. Lightning split the dark sky.

Sauron took another step forwards, but his leg couldn’t bear its own weight, and he fell to his knees. Mud sizzled beneath his armor. The iron had begun to glow red hot. A great wail of agony burst from inside the helmet. Those eyes seemed to burn so bright they filled all the armor, flames spilling out between the links of chainmail, iron warping with heat.

Sauron’s hands hit the mud too. His gauntlets dug into the bubbling earth. His wails were echoed by his host, orcs and trolls and humans alike shouting in fear.

Aragorn wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the tower of Barad-dûr. It was collapsing. Frodo had done it. Hope filtered through the clouds as rays of Arien’s light, illuminating the plumes of dust that rose where Sauron’s fortress had once been.

Sauron himself had grown still. He lay in the mud like a dog, silent now but for the slow rise and fall of his chest. The shroud had been lifted, and in the light his armor looked corroded and misshapen, a relic of ages past that had stewed under water and in ill-tended armories for too long.

Aragorn sheathed his sword. He would not strike the final blow. There was nothing to strike it against. Perhaps there had been nothing all this time, just a ghost who couldn’t let go.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The knights of Dol-Amroth had locked Sauron up in one of the towers of Minas Tirith. If they had found Aragorn’s mercy ignoble, they didn’t remark on it, their faces stony and blood stained as they bore the great armored figure on their backs. Everyone’s thoughts were on their wounded brothers and sisters. They obeyed their King thoughtlessly.

Sauron had still been unconscious when they’d left him, still in his armor, laid upon the floor under the light of a small barred window. He had looked like some malformed metal statue looted from Barad-dûr. They had left him there to continue rusting in peace, and turned back to their healing and their celebrations.

Aragorn had been unable to join them. He regretted looking into the Eye. He wondered how Frodo had done it, staring ceaselessly into that burning void for days on end, and returned to tell the tale.

He would dream of Sauron, clawing his way bloody through brick and mortar, a raving obsession that would not rest until he had wrapped his hands around Aragorn’s throat. He would wake choking on air and tangled in the sheets. His shaky hand would reach out to caress Arwen’s fair skin as she slept beside him, and slowly he would match her soft, peaceful breathing, until he could fall asleep again. 

But he never felt rested in the mornings. He would find his eyes wandering faraway during the wedding plans, replaying that moment over and over in his mind like a fractured reflection in the river. Those lidless eyes that could not sleep. He could still feel their gaze on the back of his neck.

“I want to go see him, in the tower,” he finally told Arwen one night, sitting up in bed while she was slipping into her nightgown. Her eyes glinted in the candlelight as she turned to look at him. 

“Sauron?” She asked. 

Aragorn nodded. “I want to speak to him.”

“Why? The ring is destroyed. We have him captive. We are as safe as we can be.”

“I just- I want to make sure. We don’t know what he’s doing up there, what condition he’s even in.”

She frowned, and sat on the bed beside him, placing a hand on his chest. The mattress dipped under her weight. He leaned into her, breathing in her soft scent of elanor. “Meleth nîn,” she murmured, “Do you remember how your people once fell?”

Aragorn laughed, dry and humorless. “How Númenor fell- how could I not? What are you trying to say? That my thoughts are by his design?”

“My father met Ar-Pharazôn once. He said that the King was fixated. That Sauron haunted his heart and the obsession could not be shaken.”

“You think that I should ignore these thoughts?”

“I think that Sauron is a deceiver above all. If you speak to him, one on one, that is where he will have all the power. Whether these thoughts are by his design or not, Númenor fell when one man thought he was beyond manipulation. I beg you not to make the same mistake.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Aragorn whispered. “I want to enjoy our wedding in peace, but his presence haunts me. You don’t know what it was like to look into the Eye. It’s burned into my mind. I need to know that he’s not going to come back.”

She squeezed his scarred and calloused hands gently. “I have spoken my warnings first and foremost,” she murmured. “And now I will speak my heart. Whatever you choose to do, I trust you. But if the worst is true and he is awake and well - do not go alone. Do not speak to him.”

“If you truly told me not to,” Aragorn said fiercely. “I would not go. I would obey your wisdom.”

“I know,” she said, and kissed his forehead. Her lips were warm with life. “If you think it will relieve you, then do as you must. And return to me with the good news that we have Middle-Earth’s greatest enemy locked safely in a tower, and he will not threaten us again.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“I still can’t understand how you spared him,” Gimli said, half out of breath from the stairs. “I would’ve put an axe in his head there and then.”

“And I would have added an arrow,” Legolas said. “Or two. Or my entire remaining quiver. One can never be too careful with such things.”

“He was defenseless,” Aragorn said. “Unconscious.”

“We have many tales of Sauron the deceiver,” Legolas said. “You should never trust his appearances or his words.”

Aragorn sighed. “Arwen said the same thing.”

“All Elf-youths are taught young,” Legolas said.

“It’s only common sense,” Gimli said. “Do not trust anyone with the deceiver in his name.”

“We won’t be trusting him,” Aragorn said firmly. “Only- only confirming his incapacitation.”

“It concerns me that you did not bring Gandalf,” Legolas said.

“Gandalf may oppose us,” Aragorn said.

“And by rights,” Gimli said. “If only so we wouldn’t have to climb all this way. Why keep him at the top of a tower? Now we are all exhausted once we reach him, and we are defenseless. If we kept him in a dungeon, he would be the tired one if he tried to crawl out. Men don’t consider such strategic advantages.”

“The Dwarf makes a rare good point,” Legolas said.

“We can wait a moment once we reach the top,” Aragorn conceded.

Indeed once they stood in front of the door to Sauron’s cell, Aragorn found that he couldn’t muster the courage to walk in immediately regardless. His racing heart and sweaty palms weren’t only from the climb. As he stared at the wooden door, it seemed to loom over him like his visions, and he kept his mind firmly on the bright memory of Arwen instead.

He could feel his companions’ gazes on him.

“Are we going in?” Gimli said. “Now that I’ve given it some thought, I’d quite like to talk some sense into him.”

“No one else is going in,” Aragorn said suddenly, sharply. “They are my worries to soothe, and mine alone. No one else should take the risk.”

Legolas and Gimli glanced at each other.

“We won’t speak to him,” Legolas said. “But it seems unduly dangerous to go alone.”

“Aye,” Gimli said. “Harder to deceive three minds than one.”

“I won’t see my friends harmed,” Aragorn said.

“We would argue the same,” Legolas said. Worry flashed clear and bright in his eyes. “You should not bear your fears alone.”

“No use fighting now,” Gimli said. “We are coming in with you, whether you like it or not. You might as well like it so we can present a united front.”

Aragorn sighed. He frowned, staring back at the door, his eyes dark and faraway. “Alright,” he said finally. “But please, don’t speak, and don’t listen if you can help it.”

“Gladly,” Gimli growled, pulling out his axe. On Aragorn’s other side, Legolas fitted an arrow to his bow.

Aragorn nodded at the guard, and the guard unlocked the door with a heavy iron key. It swung open with squealing, rusted hinges. They stepped inside.

The cell was small, but it had every comfort a prisoner could want. Sunlight streamed through the barred window. A small cot with untouched sheets lay beside it. There was a door that led to a bathroom, and in the opposite wall, a cold fireplace with dull grey coals. Dust lay on the wooden floor. When Aragorn had opened the door, he had disturbed some of it, and now it was visible floating in the rays of light. 

Sauron lay where they had left him. The condition of his armor had worsened, and there were small corroded holes in the iron, pits of rust and grime. It looked dull even in the sun.

“Look at that, he’s still knocked out,” Gimli said. “Wonderful. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Aragorn said, raising a hand for patience.

He stepped towards the still suit of armor. It still did not move, but he could see its chest rising and falling, slow and shallow. He wondered if Sauron was still conscious, clawing at the barriers of his mind and screaming for freedom. He wondered if it was all a trick.

“He’s alive in there,” he said. “Help me take the armor off.”

“Are you sure?” Legolas said.

“We shouldn’t risk waking him,” Gimli said.

“Help me,” Aragorn snapped, already trying to pull off one of the gauntlets.

The armor had become one corroded mass of metal and rust. It could not be removed without breaking it into pieces. Luckily much of it would crumble to the touch, leaving the figure inside stained with red brown dust. 

Some of the metal had melted so thoroughly that it had fused with Sauron’s skin, dripping down his arms and burning itself onto his legs. Those parts could not be removed. They would have to be cut away with surgical precision. The rest, Gimli’s axe made quick work of, though he complained about dulling the blade on such ugly iron.

As pale skin and long limbs were slowly revealed, Aragorn marveled at the creature that they were unearthing, as though born anew from the rust. The helmet crumbled to dust under his hands, trickling through his fingers, the flakes tangling in Sauron’s hair.

He wasn’t the shadowy wraith Aragorn had been imagining. His pale hair was a mess of dirty curls, all the color bleached from it, dull and lifeless in the sunlight. His skin seemed to be lit from within, as though his veins were filled with radium. His features were angular but delicate, a curved, slender nose and pale lips. His eyes were closed. Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of it, falling to his knees beside him.

The pieces of armor they hadn’t been able to remove remained black and aberrant against Sauron’s pale skin. The rest they had managed to peel off, leaving behind angry red welts and dusty smears.

“I have never seen a Maia before,” Legolas murmured in wonder, standing above Aragorn. “Besides that foul beast of Morgoth’s, or the wizards I suppose.”

“This is mighty different,” Gimli said, his voice filled with reverence.

“Frodo really did do it,” Aragorn said. “We really did do it.”

He leaned in closer. Sauron’s breathing was faint and ragged. All throughout the removal he hadn’t moved or made a noise once, and they had been able to puppet him about like a marionette. Aragorn reached out and pressed two fingers to his neck. There was a pulse, but it was faint, and fluttering.

“There’s something wrong with him,” Aragorn said.

“I should hope so,” Gimli said, resting two hands on his axe. “We worked hard to make it so.”

“We should leave now,” Legolas said. “Clearly he’s no threat.”

“It might be some trickery.”

“And if it’s not, interfering might wake him,” Legolas said. “Best to just let him be.”

“Indeed,” Gimli said. “Better this way, in fact. It doesn’t look like trickery to me. Look at how peacefully he sleeps.”

“It would just settle my soul, if we knew what was wrong with him,” Aragorn said. “If we could confirm this was no trick.”

“How will you do that without waking him?” Legolas said. “I say we have received a gift from Eru; our enemy, alive so that you do not have to corrupt your morals, but in a state where he can do us no harm. Your compassion has been rewarded.”

“Come, Aragorn, let’s go,” Gimli said. “You can do nothing to assess him right now anyway, and I’m famished.”

Aragorn sighed. He stood up, taking one last glance at Sauron. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Thank you both for coming with me.”

Legolas squeezed his shoulder. “Always, my friend.”

“Aye, this was a nice thrill,” Gimli said, rubbing his hands together. “I hope it’s turkey legs tonight.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Arwen glowed in the dark. Aragorn had never noticed it before. Something beyond the bright divinity that all elves shared in their countenance. As she sat in bed beside him, he gently took her hand, turning it so that the veins under the skin of her forearm were visible. He traced his fingers over the shapes. It was such a faint glow, unnoticeable unless you knew exactly what you were looking for, and the room was pitch black. But it was there. Traces of Melian sang in her veins.

“What was he like?” She asked, her voice splitting the quiet darkness. He let go of her arm.

“Asleep,” he said. “Defenseless.”

“And are you satisfied now?” 

He took a moment to answer. “I don’t know,” he said. “He seemed ill. But it may have been a plot to lower our defenses.”

“What do you think?”

“Legolas and Gimli think it’s genuine. But I don’t know. Your warnings ring in my mind. He deceived my ancestors too.”

“I could ask my father,” Arwen said. “He would be able to tell.”

“Your father would flay me alive if he discovered I spared Sauron.”

“My father… can be hypocritical. He has more reason to hate Sauron than most. But he would understand that this is a matter of safety. We must know the truth.”

“Will you talk to him?”

“I will. Better for him to find out what you’ve done now than from wild rumors.”

Aragorn shuddered at the thought. “And please tell him that I meant no offense by my actions. That I was acting only through mercy.”

“I think he will know that in his heart,” Arwen said. “Though his words may be harsh.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The three hunters and Elrond stood in Sauron’s cell at the break of dawn. Gimli and Legolas both had their weapons drawn, staring down Sauron's unmoving form. Elrond was staring too, albeit with greater trepidation.

He hadn’t spoken to Aragorn. He hadn’t let Arwen enter the cell either, and she waited outside the door now. Her footsteps could be heard as she paced. Aragorn wished that she was here, if only to act as a buffer to her father’s tension that was suffocating the room.

Elrond had eyes for none of them. He crept towards Sauron, and kneeled, placing a trembling hand on the Maia’s shoulder. His lips moved as he murmured something soft and low. Sauron did not move. His chest rose and fell with the same steady rhythm. Elrond stood.

“Alright,” he said, turning to the others. He made no eye contact with Aragorn. “If this goes awry, strike immediately. Do not let pity stay your blows.”

“Aye,” Gimli said. He tightened his grip on his axe. “Gladly.”

“We are ready,” Legolas said, aiming his arrow.

Elrond nodded, and raised his hands over Sauron’s still form. He opened his mouth, and began to sing.

It was the voice of a healer that fell from his lips. His expression cleared, and what hatred had been in his eyes fell away in favor of a pure light, creeping into the soul of all those who beheld it. His voice was filled with the soaring melodies of Lúthien.

The sun had risen high enough to hit the singular window of the cell, and its rays fell upon Elrond, making his red robes glow golden. For a moment he looked more otherworldly than even the Maia at his feet, who seemed grey and lifeless in comparison.

Then he lowered his hands, and the moment faded with his voice. Even the sunlight seemed to dim in respect.

“Oh Tyelpë,” he murmured to himself. “Did you know the horrors you dabbled in?” He sighed, turning back to Aragorn. His face was weary yet again. “You were right,” he said. “He is not lying.”

Aragorn felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He exhaled slowly in relief. “That’s good news,” he said.

“It was a good idea to check,” Elrond said. “But we need not fear him now. Ringcraft is a dangerous business. He ripped his own fëa in two, yet all these years there was some connection between the two halves through the ring. But now one half has been destroyed. The tear was not clean. His fëa is struggling to mend itself. It is not far enough along for him to wake, and when he does, who knows what state he will be in?”

“So he will wake?” Aragorn asked.

“Yes,” Elrond said. “Eventually. But there won’t be much left of him, besides his poisoned tongue. If we leave him here and don’t speak to him he will be left to rot for all eternity. Estel - you should not have spared him. You were always too gentle a child for your own good. And if he must stay alive, this is as good a fate as any.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Aragorn was safe. He felt safe, for the first time since he had left Rivendell as a youth, but for brief trysts with Arwen in her father’s gardens.

They celebrated Elrond’s good news with the whole fellowship over a meal, drinking and joking and toasting to their success. 

“Bad design,” Gimli said around a mouthful of chicken. “A fire spirit in armour that melts at one thousand kîdi. Terrible design! Even your average volcano could melt it!”

“Perhaps we could ask him whether he did something with the Entwives,” Legolas mused. “I would love to bring some news to Fangorn when we visit him.” He elbowed Gimli jovially, who groaned at being reminded of their upcoming tree-centric trip.  

“Can you offer him some Old Toby?” Pippin asked. He held out an unsmoked joint for Aragorn to take. “Imagine that. Sauron trying our pipeweed.”

Merry slapped it out of his hand. “Don’t you dare!” He protested. “We aren’t wasting perfectly good weed on Sauron.”

Only Frodo and Sam did not seem in high spirits. Frodo looked frail even in the warm candlelight. The light seemed to go right through him, leaving him pale and ghostly. Beside him, Sam kept glancing over at him, and piling more food onto his plate whenever he wasn’t looking. But he ate very little of it, pushing it around his plate listlessly, taking small sips of ale. He kept his eyes down on the table, hardly sparing a laugh at Merry and Pippin’s jokes. A lifeless smile split his lips for a moment, fleeting and forced, more of a grimace than anything.

At one point he met Aragorn’s gaze, and his blue eyes seemed to burn, before he looked down again.

Once their meal was finished, Aragorn pulled him aside as everyone else was clearing the table.

“Are you alright?” He asked. “You didn’t eat much.”

“I’m fine,” Frodo said. “I just haven’t been very hungry lately.”

“Is it him?” Aragorn asked. “I should have spoken to you before I chose to spare him. I’m sorry.”

Frodo pushed his hands into his pockets, and shrugged. “Oh, it’s alright,” he said. “I was quite far away. Your pity was noble.”

“You saved us all you know.”

“I only did what I had to.”

“If you want me to kill him now, I will go up there and do it,” Aragorn said.

Frodo’s eyes widened. “Oh, no- no, that’s not what I want at all. It’s only that- well, I feel quite empty, I suppose. Killing him wouldn’t fix that.”

“Empty?”

“It feels like half of me is gone. I don’t suppose I’m explaining it very well, but I can’t think of anything to compare it to. It’s like I’m hungry, but nothing fills me up, and everything tastes like ash.”

“I see. Have you spoken to Elrond?”

“The residual effects of the ring, he says,” Frodo said. “Most of the elves’ knowledge on ringcraft was lost, but he seems confident it will pass with time… if I can bear it for long enough.” He sighed. “But don’t listen to me. This is a joyous occasion. I only regret that I wasn’t in the mood for it.”

“It’s quite alright,” Aragorn said. “Don’t hesitate to come to me if you ever need to talk to someone.”

“I will, thank you,” Frodo said. He smiled, and this one reached his eyes. “You’ve always been a good friend, Strider.”

Aragorn squeezed his shoulder. “I’m honored to be so.”

He turned to help with the table, and almost bumped into Sam who was looking up at him with a scowl. Before he could open his mouth, the hobbit pointed an accusatory finger at him.

“I mean no disrespect, King of Gondor and all, and you really were a great help to us,” Sam started. “But it really was a foolish thing, what you’ve done. And after poor Frodo over here went to all that trouble. You may as well just spit on his face.”

“Sam, it’s alright-” Frodo tried to pull him away.

“You should have chopped his head right off,” Sam said. “And I usually look up to your decisions Mr. Aragorn, but this one really was a right mess. And I don’t care how much elven magic Mr. Elrond knows, I wouldn’t trust myself around that monster for a second. There, I’ve said my piece. I hope you won’t take offense. I am happy you’ve been talking to Mr. Frodo. He’s had no sleep since the whole affair.”

“I take no offense, Sam,” Aragorn said with a weary smile. “In fact, I’m quite sure you may be right.”

“He’s not,” Frodo said. “Sam, come on, I’m tired, let’s please leave.”

“Alright, alright,” Sam huffed. “But if ill comes of it - and it will - I’ll say I told you so. And you’d better make it up to Mr. Frodo somehow!”

Aragorn watched them go with a tightness in his chest. Frodo’s words echoed in his mind. As he helped Legolas gather the plates, he remained in quiet thought.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

That night Arwen and Aragorn stood outside the tower. Its marble walls gleamed against the dark sky, lit by a full moon.

She held a torch, and had tucked a dagger into her belt. Aragorn carried Andúril in its sheath.

“I was surprised my father seemed so calm,” Arwen said. “But he will surely not be calm about this.”

“As long as he doesn’t find out,” Aragorn said.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Arwen said. “You really think it’s worth the risk?”

Aragorn nodded. “You didn’t see him, Arwen. He looked like a ghost at death’s door.”

“Well, I hope something good will come of it,” Arwen said.

Aragorn took her hand. “I trust you to keep me steady,” he said. “To not let me fall for anything he says.”

She squeezed his hand comfortingly. “And I trust you to do the same for me,” she said.

“You are not the one with treachery in your blood,” Aragorn said, walking into the tower.

“Perhaps not my blood,” Arwen said, following him. “But Elrond was raised by Fëanorians. I’m sure something transferred. Certainly the recklessness, considering what we are doing.”

“As long as you don’t swear any oaths,” Aragorn said, mimicking Elrond’s gruff tone.

“I’ll be careful not to accidentally slip into any,” Arwen said.

“I wouldn’t put it past Sauron to try.”

“I’ve had centuries of training to evade it.”

Her confidence wavered a little once she stood in front of the cell door at the top. They both paused to catch their breaths. She glanced at Aragorn, who found his trepidation mirrored in her expression.

The room looked different in the dark. The walls flickered with shadows in the torchlight, making everything look harsh and unforgiving, outlined in darkness. The air was cold, heavy with the scent of mildew. Sauron lay still, flat on the floor, peaceful face looking up at the ceiling with closed eyes. Hands clasped on his stomach as they had left him. The faint glow of his form was clearer in the night. Veins pulsed sluggishly with divinity under pale skin.

Arwen set the torch into one of the brackets, and she and Aragorn crept closer together, shoulders brushing. He looked at her. She nodded, and knelt beside Sauron, the skirts of her nightgown fanning about her on the dark floor. The fabric was as white as snow.

She reached out and clasped one of Sauron’s hands in her own. Her sleeves traced over his chest, picking up dust and ash, delicate laced hems dirtied. She held his hand in her lap, and closed her eyes.

Aragorn watched in silence. He stood over them both, one hand on the hilt of Andúril.

She opened her mouth, and music poured from red lips, weaving through the room and dancing with the candlelight. She sang of newborn trees bursting from seeds, of ferns unfurling, newborn calves opening their eyes and flowers blooming. She sang of wounds stitched shut and old aches soothed, of frayed nerve endings cauterised and sorrows washed away. The air in the room hummed with new life.

Eventually her voice quieted. The last lines faded to a hum. She breathed heavily, her cheeks flushed, looking up at Aragorn.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. Kneeling, he reached out carefully, and laid a hand on Sauron’s shoulder. The skin felt unnaturally warm under his fingers. Gently, he shook the Maia.

Sauron opened his eyes. He stared at Aragorn. His irises were ash and dust now, hollowed out black holes. The thin veneer of flames he’d maintained for so long had consumed everything. Then he blinked, and Aragorn jerked backwards, the sensation of falling suddenly breaking. He reached for Andúril.

Sauron snarled at him. He wrenched his hand away from Arwen, and pushed himself to his feet. The attempt was unsuccessful. The moment he got his feet under him and tried to stand up, he tipped right over again, landing on his hands and knees with a dull thud.

“Stay calm,” Aragorn said. “We aren’t going to hurt you.”

Sauron was not listening to him. He was staring at Arwen, trembling. He spat something in a foul tongue, then in Sindarin, “Lúthien’s bitch.”

Arwen paled somewhat. She took a step backwards.

Sauron wrenched himself up again. This time he got a little farther, but stumbled, and his back hit the wall. He slid slowly down until he was curled up on the floor, knees to his chest, staring at them with a wild expression.

“We only want to talk,” Aragorn said. He had let go of Andúril, and now held up his hands palm forwards in surrender.

“You didn’t have the Ring,” Sauron snarled. “You destroyed it. You fool. Do you know how much power you could have had?”

“I do,” Aragorn said. “That is precisely why I commanded it to be destroyed.”

“Ach, but it wasn’t even you,” Sauron clutched his head in his hands, long nails digging into his scalp. “What happened?” He muttered to himself. “They were small… a gardener… master and servant. Fire… it was fire… no, but I saw them- Baggins… it was Baggins?” He lifted his head again, looking up at Aragorn and Arwen. “Did he survive?”

“That is none of your concern,” Aragorn said.

“It is very much my concern,” Sauron hissed. He tried to leap forwards, to lunge at Aragorn, but his legs once again failed him and he collapsed against the bed by the window. He clutched at the frame with shaking arms, bent over.

“Please, calm down,” Aragorn said. “We are both healers. Let us help.”

“No,” Sauron snapped. He was panting heavily. “You are- you-” he wheezed, slipping down to the floor, resting against the bed. His arms were twitching, his eyes glazed over and flickering around the room. He shuddered with every breath.

Aragorn crept cautiously towards him. When Sauron didn’t react, he reached out a hand, trying to prop up the Maia’s neck so that he wouldn’t fall.

“Arwen?” He asked, looking back at Arwen. She hovered uncertainly behind him.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. “My healing was rushed. He needs to rest.”

“Did you hear that?” Aragorn turned to Sauron. “And yet you try to snap at us while we try to help you.”

Sauron didn’t reply, just whined, quiet and low in his throat. It could have been an attempt at an insult, or just some expression of pain. 

“We should try to get the pieces of armor off of him,” Aragorn said. “If he keeps acting like this he will tear it off and injure himself.”

“Does it matter if he injures himself? He is our enemy, after all,” Arwen said.

One piece of iron had already been ripped off when Sauron had stumbled against the bedframe, and now it hung half attached to his arm, blood pooling around it. He bled just like any mortal. Aragorn brushed his hands across the edge of the wound, watching the red streaks in fascination.

“I don’t know,” he said. “He can’t help us with anything in this state. And… I don’t believe in torture, no matter the enemy.”

“Me neither,” Arwen said. She crept closer, and her eyes widened at the sight of the blood.

“He can’t hurt us,” Aragorn insisted. “His suffering now is needless.”

She nodded. “You cut the pieces off, carefully, and I’ll sing as you do it. It will be painful, but it’s better than leaving them.”

“Alright,” Aragorn said. “Let’s take him to the bathroom. We can clean all this dirt off of him too. Thank you, Arwen.”

He slipped his arms under Sauron, bracing himself for a struggle, but found that he could be lifted with ease despite his tall form.

“He’s so light,” he told Arwen, who was watching with fascination.

“The fana of the Ainur are only constructed,” she said. “It is the fëa that gives them weight. I suppose most of his is gone.”

“It is truly difficult not to pity him,” Aragorn murmured, looking down on Sauron’s pale face. The Maia had his eyes closed, and was softly gasping for breath, shivering.

“I’ll fill the tub,” Arwen said. “And light the fireplace. We can have hot water.”

The tower was quite comfortable, all things considered. The bathroom had everything one could want, including a water supply. Since the intention had been for its occupant to never leave, everything had to be brought up through intricate plumbing. Once the fireplace was lit, the whole cell was illuminated with a much softer, comfortable light. The air slowly began to lose some of its frigidity.

Once the tub was full, Aragorn carefully lowered Sauron in. The Maia shuddered when the water touched his skin, but he made no move to fight it, sinking down with listless limbs.

“Give me your dagger,” Aragorn said.

Arwen handed it over. It was of Elven make of course, sharp enough to cut through skin like it was paper, and blessed by song. It would burn any evil it touched. It would cauterise Sauron’s wounds. 

Aragorn knelt beside the tub. He shrugged off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. Then, leaning over the tub, he gently wedged the tip of the dagger under one of the pieces of armor. Sauron groaned. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Aragorn pushed harder, so that the knife slipped under the armor, separating it from the skin. Sauron’s eyes snapped open, and he thrashed in an attempt to pull away. Aragorn struggled to hold him in place.

“Stop, or you’ll injure yourself further,” he snapped. “Give me a moment. Arwen will sing over you and you will be fine.”

Sauron froze. His eyes were wide. “No,” he breathed. “Do not let the elf-bitch sing.”

“You will not call her such if you value your wellbeing,” Aragorn snapped. He finally got the dagger all the way under the armor, and wiggled it side to side, cutting through skin. Sauron tensed, but did not thrash this time. 

“I will not sing if you don’t want me to,” Arwen said. “But it would lessen the pain.”

“No singing,” Sauron hissed.

“Do as he says,” Aragorn said. “It’s not worth the trouble.”

“Do you fear my voice?” Arwen asked curiously.

“I do not trust you,” Sauron growled. “Who knows what you have already done to me while I slept. I feel your putrid magic like a rot on my soul.”

“If I wanted to hurt you I would have done so already,” Arwen said.

“Who knows what plans you have?”

“Stop moving,” Aragorn said. “Arwen, stop talking to him.”

Arwen sighed and crossed her arms, but fell silent.

“You let some mortal command you like that?” Sauron said.

Aragorn paused what he was doing. He looked up at Arwen. “Gag him,” he said. “There are some washcloths you can use over there.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Gladly.”

Once the cloth had been tied around his mouth, most of the indignation seemed to leave Sauron. He sank low in the water, eyes closed, breathing soft and steady as though he couldn’t feel a thing.

Every time Aragorn pressed the knife to skin, the surrounding water would bubble with heat. Each piece of armor he pried off left behind a red scab of burnt flesh that would surely scar without Arwen’s healing. The marks wrapped around Sauron’s pale torso, around his arms and down his legs. They joined the other faint, silvery scars covering his body.

Aragorn wondered which of them had been left by his own ancestors. Unbidden, his hand wandered up to brush aside Sauron’s hair, to expose the soft skin of his neck. It was all silver. The remains of deep gouges, made by fangs the size of Aragorn’s hand.

“Lúthien,” he whispered. Arwen leaned in closer, her eyes fixed on the scar.

“Strange that her ancestors are all healers, now,” she murmured. “Perhaps to atone for her violence.”

“She defeated a great evil,” Aragorn said. He drew his hand away, letting the hair fall back down. The strands were matted and tangled, bits of ash caught in them. Aragorn set the dagger down. Sauron didn’t react.

“I think that’s all of them,” Aragorn said. “Get the soap. I’ll do his hair.”

Arwen raised an eyebrow. “You? You spend far too much of your life dirty to know the first thing about cleaning,” she said. She kneeled behind Sauron, running her fingers through his hair. “I’ll do it. You bring me the soap.”

Sauron let himself be maneuvered as she wished. Every time she touched his bare skin he shivered, and her fingers left behind the faintest marks, silver crescent moons that faded as soon as they appeared.

“He was foolish for not letting me sing,” Arwen said. “These wounds will be painful for many weeks.”

“He chose as he wished,” Aragorn said. “Besides, he didn’t seem to mind. He minds your touch far more.”

Arwen smiled to herself. She brushed the back of her hand across Sauron’s cheek, and he bit back a muffled whimper through the gag, pulling away.

“He should be grateful that my parents taught me the perils of vengeance,” she said. “Although, I don’t think that sparing the Dark Lord himself was what they meant.”

“No,” Aragorn agreed. “Elrond will have my hide for letting you meet him.”

“He will not find out,” Arwen said. “My brothers and I have been lying to our father since we could talk. All those hunting trips I was too young to go on. Well, to think then that I’d be here washing Sauron’s hair. But I don’t suppose he could do it himself.”

“He is quite amicable when he doesn’t open his mouth,” Aragorn said.

“Indeed he is,” Arwen said. “You sit very nicely for me, my dear.” She directed this last part towards Sauron. He didn’t react.

Arwen finished massaging the soap into his scalp, and began to rinse his hair clean, pulling the strands apart with a comb. “You could wipe the ash and dust from the rest of him,” she suggested. “Take another washcloth.”

Aragorn hesitated. “Should I?”

“Well, we’ve gotten this far, haven’t we? Maybe he’ll be ready to talk when we’re done.”

“Alright,” Aragorn said dubiously.

He was careful to avoid the wounds, working his way up Sauron’s body, scrubbing off rust stains and ash and debris. Dragging the washcloth across long lines of muscle and bone that suggested a long lost strength, now wasted into ruin.

When they were both done, the figure that lay in the tub was polished silver. His hair glimmered with starlight, catching fire every time he moved. Only the red stains of his wounds interrupted his shine. 

They both stood and stared for a moment. The walls in the bathroom seemed lit with a mockery of moonlight, the glow of the fire reflected from gleaming metal.

“Lift him,” Arwen said finally.

Aragorn did so wordlessly. He may have only imagined it, but he thought Sauron felt a little heavier now. The Maia’s head rolled back like he was unconscious. Water dripped from his body, staining Aragorn’s clothes. Aragorn gently laid him onto the bed. He reached over him, and undid the gag.

Sauron opened his eyes. He did not speak, only held Aragorn’s gaze. Again, that feeling of falling. Falling with no end. Then Sauron turned his head away, closing his eyes once again. Aragorn shuddered.

“He’s still in no state to talk,” he murmured to Arwen. “Let’s come back later. Give him some time to recover.”

“I agree,” she said, holding out a hand. He took it, and allowed himself to be led out of the cell. The slam of the door behind them echoed through the tower. Aragorn found himself shivering after the warmth of the cell. He double checked that the guard had locked the door before they left.

He slept fitfully for the rest of the night. There was a strange tingling in his fingertips, and the falling sensation would return whenever he closed his eyes, like he’d been at sea all day and still felt the rocking. When he woke, Arwen wasn’t there, or standing on the balcony watching the moon over the white city. He wondered if she felt it too, before he fell once again into strange dreams, and lost the thread of thought.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

They visited Sauron several times over the next week, watching his condition steadily improve. They had all been brief visits, bringing him clothing, or supplies, or food when they could find no guards brave enough to do it. But it gnawed at Aragorn that they hadn’t really looked for anyone else to do it, either. Sauron would stay silent during the visits. He would bow his head in thanks, and quietly stare at them from the corner with those unblinking eyes. And Aragorn would tell himself that no harm would come at all, and Arwen would note that they could not be manipulated by silence. But the nights after every visit were always long and sleepless.

The topic of Frodo and the ring had not been discussed. Not for lack of trying; Aragorn would attempt to start some conversation every time they visited, but he was always met with a prickly silence.

Sauron’s eyes always seemed to linger on Arwen. He watched her like a hawk, and shrank away whenever she got too close, like her very presence burned him. Sometimes he would whisper thanks to Aragorn when she was out of earshot.

Thus, Aragorn had come to the conclusion that the Maia was afraid. Or perhaps he was trying to lure Aragorn out on his own. Either way, the point remained that he would not speak around Arwen.

This line of reasoning had brought him to stand outside Sauron’s cell again that night. This time, alone. Arwen had gone to dinner with her family. He tried to quell the guilt that had been chasing him all night. He would tell her everything that happened, of course. He would not let himself be manipulated.

He’d brought some clothes with him as an excuse. They were nicer than the worn grey tunics Sauron had been provided with so far, black with gold patterning. Sauron looked surprised to see him.

He watched Aragorn in wary silence. Deciding to push his luck, Aragorn crept closer. He placed the clothes at Sauron’s side on the bed. 

“Are they to your liking?” He asked.

Sauron frowned. He halfheartedly lifted the top robe to peer at the one underneath. “They’re fine.”

It was more words than they’d gotten out of him all week. Aragorn decided to keep pushing.

“I can bring more if you’d like. I suppose it was a bit cruel to dress you like this, when you must have been accustomed to finer fabrics in Mordor.”

Sauron shrugged. “No one sees me here. There is no need for finery.”

“Still, we try to look after our prisoners in Gondor. We hold high standards.”

“I’m sure I’m no ordinary prisoner,” Sauron said wryly.

“For that reason, even more so,” Aragorn insisted. “How are your wounds healing? Let me check.”

Sauron obediently held out his arms. Aragorn held his wrist, and with his other hand traced his fingers over the rough, scabbed skin across his forearm.

“It hasn’t gotten infected,” Aragorn said. “That’s good.” He turned Sauron’s arm over to inspect the wounds on the back. They should have been better healed by now. He reached into his pocket and drew out a small vial of salve, which he pressed into Sauron’s hands. 

“This has athelas in it,” he said. “I made it myself. There should be enough for one application. It will help you heal.”

Sauron closed his hands around the vial. “Thank you, my Lord.”

The words sent a shiver down Aragorn’s spine. They were as smooth as silk in Sauron’s mouth. He suddenly wondered what the point of asking his questions was, when he wouldn’t even be able to tell whether the answers were truthful or not. Still, he took a deep breath and steeled himself.

“Before I go,” he said. “I must ask you something.”

“Ah, so you’re trying to buy favors,” Sauron said. He tossed the little vial in the air and caught it again, smiling slightly. “Let’s hear it.”

“What did the ring do to its bearers?”

Sauron raised his eyebrows, like he was surprised at this question.

“Nothing in particular. It gave people some connection with the spirit world, I suppose,” he said.

“But it must have been something more,” Aragorn insisted. “Otherwise it would not leave its bearers so lost.”

“Well, it did have a piece of me inside it,” Sauron said. “Perhaps they simply couldn’t bear to lose me. I can be quite charismatic.”

“There really wasn’t anything else?” Aragorn said. “It didn’t take pieces of the soul, or- or drive people mad?”

Sauron shrugged. “Not particularly.” He smiled, baring his teeth. “Unless having me in their head all day was enough to drive them mad. In which case it might have been a weakness of character.”

“And I don’t suppose you remember what the ring was doing?” Aragorn said. 

“I’m afraid not,” Sauron said. “That half of me is destroyed now, thanks to you.” He held up the vial. “Have I been obedient enough to earn this?”

“I guess you have,” Aragorn said dejectedly. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

“Of course,” Sauron purred. “My Lord.”

“No need to call me that,” Aragorn said. The words came out a little too quick, perhaps betraying his racing heart too easily. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’d better be going. Good night then.”

“Good night,” Sauron said, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

Aragorn rushed out of the cell and shut the door behind him, resting with his back against the wood as he waited for himself to calm down. The guard watched him curiously.

“Sir?” He said.

“I’m alright,” Aragorn said. “Double check the door is locked. And if the Queen comes, tell her I was here.”

Then he bade the guard goodnight and rushed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He had forgotten his torch. It was a miracle he didn’t trip and break his neck in the darkness.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“You gave our hand away,” Arwen said.

“I did no such thing,” Aragorn insisted. “We would have had to ask eventually. How else were we going to get an answer.”

“And what now? Can you trust that his answer was truthful? That he didn’t just lie for whatever purposes he’s planning?”

“We were never going to be able to fully believe him,” Aragorn said.

“There are truth spells,” Arwen insisted stubbornly.

“And who knows if they would work on a Maia or not? Frodo wanes with each passing day. At least now we have some answer.”

“An answer,” Arwen scoffed. “What sort of answer? It doesn’t help us at all. All he did was imply that Frodo had weak character. The clearest lie I’ve ever seen.”

“Well maybe he’s not lying. Maybe his soul in the ring really was that powerful.”

“So you’re calling Frodo weak too now?”

“No!” Aragorn said. “I’m calling Sauron powerful. It’s no moral failing to be seduced by a Maia. We all would have been.”

Arwen sighed. “I just don’t like that you went up there alone. It was reckless. I haven’t known you to do needlessly reckless things.”

“I would say it was necessary,” Aragorn said. “You should be honored. He really was quite terrified of you.”

“Or he was waiting to get you alone so that he could better manipulate you.”

“Perhaps so. But either way he talked. And I can’t think of anything he said that could be manipulative.”

“Neither can I, from what you’ve described,” Arwen admitted. “But who knows what his plans are. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“I won’t go alone again,” Aragorn said. “But I really think there may have been some truth to his words. I need to speak to Frodo.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Frodo sat in quiet contemplation. He fiddled with his hands in his lap, twisting at the hem of his shirt.

“I think he’s telling the truth too,” he said finally.

“You do?” Aragorn said.

They were sharing luncheon in the King’s House, with cold cuts of meat, cheese, and wine. Frodo hadn’t touched the alcohol. He claimed drinking too much made him feel funny these days, like he was drifting in and out of his head. He’d requested a chamomile tea instead.

He laughed bitterly at Aragorn’s surprise. “It’s quite demeaning, isn’t it? I wish there’d been something more. Some explanation that wasn’t just my own weakness - I’d been hoping for it, too. But he’s right. I never felt any blight on my soul like the Black Breath of the Nazgûl. I was only lying to myself if I ever thought otherwise.”

“It could have been something subtler.”

“Subtler, indeed,” Frodo said. “Just honeyed words and sympathy. I’ve never told anyone but Sam this, but I think you deserve to know. Do you know how he got me in the end? He told me his story. All of it, from the darkest dungeons of Utumno to the golden towers of Númenor. I felt so special. He poured himself into me until there was no room for anyone else, and he told me no one else would ever understand. I suppose he was right. Only he knows what it’s like to be in his head. He knows… and so do I.” He sighed. “Well, I’ve been saying he all this time when really I should be saying it. The ring was only half a person.”

“He says he doesn’t remember anything as the ring,” Aragorn said.

Frodo smiled into his mug. He gripped it with both hands, since it was human sized. “You don’t suppose I remember things that he doesn’t, then?” He mused. “Wouldn’t that be funny.”

“It might be likely,” Aragorn said. “I have to say, I think it speaks to your virtue, that the only way he could get to you was through sympathy.”

“Perhaps so,” Frodo said. “But I think you give me too much credit. I think he got to me through power the same way he did everyone else. I mean, what greater power is there than having someone share their darkest secrets with you? His vulnerability was intoxicating. Wandering into the darkness was like pressing on a bruise even when you know it’s going to hurt. But I did it anyway. Sometimes I wish I had only cared about riches or glory. I feel like it wouldn’t have lingered so much if he’d only tempted me with superfluous things.”

“But you may have succumbed faster,” Aragorn said. “I came here expecting you to tell me he’d lied. Now I think that you may have some strange power over him that I hadn’t seen before.”

“I’d never thought of it that way,” Frodo said. “You don’t suppose the misery goes both ways?”

“I don’t know,” Aragorn said. “I can’t read a thing on his face. He seems at the same time terrible and beautiful and entirely unknowable. But - I looked into the Eye, once or twice, and it’s the most curious sensation. I’m almost convinced he’d burn himself out if we let him and we wouldn’t have to raise a finger.”

“You’re more right than you think,” Frodo said. “Then maybe you understand some echo of my condition.” He had a curious expression on his face. “You don’t suppose I could meet him?”

“In fact you’d have a greater right to it than anyone else,” Aragorn said.

“Just don’t tell Sam,” Frodo said. “Or he’ll find some way to come along.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Aragorn led the two hobbits up the tower. In the end Sam would not hear of leaving his master to meet with Sauron alone, and Frodo had begrudgingly agreed to let him come, on the condition that he was sworn to silence.

They’d gone bright and early in the morning, and the place looked a lot less eerie by daylight. Just a dusty old cell. Sauron had been kneeling by the fireplace, hands clasped in his lap, and jumped up when the door opened, as though he hadn’t heard them coming. His eyes lingered on the hobbits.

“Here he is,” Aragorn said to Frodo. “Say what you wish.”

He glanced at Sam, who had a hand on the hilt of his sword, and was staring down Sauron with such a dirty glare that it could have killed a squirrel. Aragorn placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. It was quickly shrugged off.

Frodo took a hesitant step forward. “Hullo,” he said.

“Welcome, ringbearer,” Sauron said. 

Sam suddenly burst out, “You’d better be grateful, you know.”

Sauron’s eyes snapped to him. Sam faltered, but he remained staunchly infuriated.

“You really did a number on poor Frodo over here,” he said. “And on the rest of the world too, though I didn’t get much of a chance to see much of it. But I did see enough of Mordor to know that it was a miserable place, and I hope you were the most miserable of all, sitting in your tower looking at all your ugly rocks and dead plants. And you’d better be grovelling at Mr. Aragorn’s feet for sparing you, cause no one else would’ve done the same.”

“That’s enough, Sam,” Aragorn said.

“And one more thing,” Sam said quickly. “You’d better apologise to Mr. Frodo before he says whatever kind things he intends. Go on, look him in the eye and say how sorry you are for causing him all that trouble. It’s the least you could do. Alright Mr. Aragorn, that’s all, I am sorry for running my mouth even though I promised not to. I just had to get that off my chest you see. I haven’t even pulled out my sword, see?”

“Does this one speak for you?” Sauron asked Frodo.

“Yes,” Frodo said. “You’d better do as he says.”

“I see. In that case I do apologise, Baggins, for what trouble my ring caused you.” His expression remained passive, like he was watching an insect crawl across a window.

“Good,” Frodo said.  “Now I’ve heard that you don’t remember anything from the ring’s perspective, however there was an argument between us that I’d very much like to conclude. You see, I think I’ve won it fair and square now.”

“You’re right that I remember nothing,” Sauron said. “So you will have to elaborate.”

“You always claimed your philosophy of the world was the right one. Well, only one of us is a prisoner of Gondor now. So you were wrong. Your self-contained design failed. My hobbitish failings were correct.”

“Ah. I’m afraid I won’t concede the point that easily, ringbearer. I may still have some tricks up my sleeve.”

“Is that the case? Then I’ll tell Aragorn here to get rid of you right now. I’m sure he’d be glad to.”

“Let’s not get hasty, I’m only talking about hypotheticals,” Sauron said quickly. “All I mean is that there is still time for the situation to change.”

“But at the current moment,” Frodo insisted. “You admit that I won.”

“Alright,” Sauron sighed. “Yes, have your victory.”

“Then you will adopt our principles? The ones you called lazy and hedonistic?”

“Well, really,” Sam muttered under his breath.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Sauron said. His eyes narrowed. “In fact, I think you’d better leave now. I’ve had quite enough of hobbits to last me a while.”

Aragorn placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Come on, Frodo.”

“Alright,” Frodo said. “But really, if you were as logical as you claim, my victory should have convinced you. You’d better think about it.”

“I make no such promises,” Sauron sneered. “Since I don’t consider eating and smoking all day to be a philosophy.”

Aragorn pulled Frodo back, out of the door. “Let’s go.”

“What a bitter old codger,” Sam whispered to Frodo. “Goodness knows he wouldn’t deserve it, but maybe we should’ve brought him some of Pippin’s weed after all. It might do him some good!”

“I don’t think he responds well to such arguments,” Aragorn said, once they were well out of earshot and halfway back down the tower. “But you look better, Frodo.”

“I feel better, somehow,” Frodo said. “It’s a terrible way to feel, but I quite enjoy talking to him.”

“You may be the only person I trust to do so without consequence,” Aragorn said. “Myself included.”

“I can’t imagine why you would,” Sam said. “He seems just like the ring was. All glitter with nothing but salt underneath. Mr. Frodo, you don’t suppose you just miss the ring?”

“I suppose I do,” Frodo said. “But I don’t think his temptations will be quite as powerful.”

“As long as we all keep our heads,” Aragorn said. “Continue to come talk to him if you wish, Frodo, but don’t go alone, and be careful. I didn’t like how he reacted today. He seemed like a cornered animal.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Waves pummeled into the side of the boat. They were writhing, living beasts, leaping into the sky and crashing down with all their weight. The men had pointed the nose of the boat straight into the wind so that it would not tip, and rowed with all their might, shouting great songs to keep time. Their voices were lost in the roaring wind. The boat leapt and fell over each wave like a great dragon borne on invisible wings.

Rain struck the wood and the bowed backs of the Faithful. Like needle tips it bit its teeth into clothing and skin alike, pooling on the deck, making the sea around them prickle with tiny points of impact

The sky was black. Grey clouds blotted out the sun. Thunder and lightning struck at the same time, the noise almost lost between the shouting of men and the howling of the wind and sea. The air smelled like salt and dead fish.

Aragorn stood near the stern. He clutched at the side of the boat with both hands, knuckles white with effort as his feet stumbled on the deck with the rocking of waves. His eyes were fixed on the island they were leaving behind.

The familiar limestone houses had faded into grey. Above them towered marble monuments, temples, palaces, dark against the sky, occasionally silhouetted by lightning. They seemed like jagged teeth snarling at the assault from the heavens. Tears ran down Aragorn’s cheeks. They mingled with the rain plastering his hair to his head and his shirt to his chest. They stung his eyes worse than the sea spray ever could.

On the tallest tower stood a lone figure. Aragorn had been looking for him. The figure had his arms spread out, face tilted to the heavens, fire red hair burning around his head like a halo. The only point of color in the dismal grey. Black robes as dark as sin fluttered around him. Thunder cracked and lightning struck the tip of the tower, pure white with brightness. Mere meters away from the figure. He did not move, and for a moment as light filled the sky he seemed like the only thing in existence in a void of light. His hair gleamed. Then the moment passed, and he was a madman in a storm yet again.

He turned over his shoulder to stare at the Faithful fleeing. Tear filled eyes met Aragorn’s own. Desperation was etched on every line of the figure’s face, bone weary, clawing deeper until it spread through the soul like a plague. A terror that could not be survived. In the echo of those eyes Aragorn saw the perversion of his own faithfulness. The knowledge that you had been spurned by the One, that you were hunted by the world itself. And in his own heart Aragorn felt the One’s love for him burning like Rôthinzil, a beacon of hope that would never waver, that would guide him in the darkest nights.

He wondered how the figure lived without it. He wondered why he still stood there, what kept his limbs upright if not love.

Then the boat lurched, breaking their eye contact, and Aragorn stumbled on slippery wood, falling hard onto a deck that was coming up rapidly to meet him. He felt a sharp pain in his head, and suddenly the sounds of the storm felt faint. He heard the voices of his men, distant like they were underwater, calling his name.

“Elendil! A Elbereth! Elendil!” They cried out. But as their hands grasped him, he couldn’t hold his head up any longer, and darkness came to him. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Aragorn woke with a start. The dream was fading as reality rushed back in. He shuddered, drawing his knees to his chest, clutching his head in his hands. Taking deep breaths.

The image of the figure was hazy, but the red hair still burned bright in his mind’s eye. Sauron, Aragorn thought. He was gripped with a sudden energy. He crept out from under the covers, careful not to wake Arwen, and hurriedly dressed himself in whatever was at hand.

This time he didn’t bother bringing a light. He hurried through the streets of Minas Tirith on feet that knew the way, instinctive by now. The tower remained as he remembered it. Cold and tall in the moonlight. For a moment Aragorn pictured it wreathed in lighting and rain. He shuddered, drawing his cloak tighter.

When he reached the cell, the guard was not there. Aragorn heard voices from inside. He kept his footsteps light as a mouse, and pressed his ear to the door.

“You’ll do it.” Frodo’s soft voice was unmistakable. “He’s spared your life, despite everything you’ve done. I’ll make you do it.”

“I was only ever doing what was best for the world. You never could understand that, little perian.”

“I’ll convince you eventually,” Frodo said stubbornly. “But that’s not why I’m here tonight. You will swear it.”

“Oh, spare me. I see now that my true punishment is to be harassed by some ethical debate with you for the rest of your life. How long did hobbits live again?”

“Don’t distract,” Frodo said. “Swear the oath. It’s the only way you will be allowed to do anything here.”

“Or is it the only way you’ll be allowed to visit me alone? Does your King know you’re here?” Sauron chuckled at Frodo’s silence.

“If you want me to discuss everything I know about you in front of him,” Frodo said. “Then alright, I suppose I don’t have to see you alone. But I have a feeling you’d prefer it this way too.”

“A worthy bluff,” Sauron said. “But meaningless.”

“Is it? You don’t know what the ring said to me.”

There was silence for a moment, the light sound of bare feet, pacing. “I believe you picked up a few tricks from me,” Sauron said eventually.

“Will you swear it?”

“Yes. If only because something so fickle will make things more interesting around here. I’m quite sick of alternating between staring out of the window and thinking about throwing myself into the fire.”

“I feel the same way,” Frodo said. There was a morbid delight in his voice. “Go on then.”

“I swear to obey Aragorn and his kin and all those they love. I swear to do as they command and to be their faithful servant for as long as I live. I swear in the name of Ilúvatar, to be doomed to eternal darkness should I break my word.”

The words were filled with power, lightly spoken though they were. The magic fizzled even through the wood of the door.

“You didn’t ask me not to do them harm,” Sauron noted.

“I don’t trust your interpretation of harm,” Frodo said.

“It’s delightful how you think yourself able to outsmart me.”

“I already have. You don’t think I could do it again?”

“We’ll see,” Sauron said mildly. “Clearly it seems like I won’t be rid of you anytime soon.”

“You won’t,” Frodo said. “I have many questions to ask you.”

“About my philosophy?”

“About how you survived the things I feel.”

Sauron was quiet for a moment. “There are very few people on this earth who know absolute self destruction. Now you are one of them, if only through proxy. Be grateful that it is only so. Do not come to a dying man and cry over the memory of a broken arm.”

“If he was the one who broke my arm I think I’d have some right,” Frodo said.

Sauron snorted. “Alright, ringbearer. I’ll entertain you for now. You have your oath.”

“Good night, Mairon,” Frodo said. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

The door opened with a creak, and Aragorn backed away so that he would not be spotted by Sauron. Frodo’s eyes widened at the sight of him. Aragorn pressed a finger to his lips for silence.

They waited until they were out of the tower to speak. “It was a good thing that you came,” Frodo said. “Did you hear him swear it?”

“Elrond is going to kill you, and then me,” Aragorn said. “You can’t breathe a word of this to him.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Why did you come?”

“I had a curious dream. I saw him on a tower, challenging the lightning, and when I woke I had the strangest desire to go up there and check that he hadn’t somehow burnt to death. Now my head says you made the right choice, but I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“How could it be a mistake? I’m sure the oath isn’t perfect. He’ll find some loophole, he always does. But it’s better than nothing. It was Sam’s idea, you know. He lured the guard away with a freshly made stew.”

“Perhaps it’s just being raised by Elrond,” Aragorn said dubiously. “It does seem like a good decision. And Eru does not favor him. Well, I’m glad talking to him is making you feel better, at least.”

“Sometimes I almost feel like I could change his mind,” Frodo said. “But then he always does something to prove me wrong.”

“That would be a mighty feat indeed,” Aragorn said.

“I suppose it wouldn’t matter. No one would ever trust him anyway,” Frodo said.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, but I have a rather unique position, don’t I? You certainly wouldn’t.”

“No, I suppose not,” Aragorn said. “I’m still sorry that the ring fell to you. I wish I could have helped. I wish you hadn’t been so alone.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Frodo said. “Strangely, I don’t feel so alone right now.”