Title: Doom of Men

Author: Leiasky

Synopsis: Aragorn is badly wounded in the battle of the Palennor Fields.

This is an AU story that does not follow the book. This is not a happy story, so be warned….

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: No.

Pairing: Not really. Aragorn / Arwen possibly.

Disclaimer: I'm not Tolkien. I don't own these characters. (darn!) I make no money. Done for fun.

Additional Info: Movie-verse.

Archive: If you like, just tell me where.



1 Doom of Men





The stench was overwhelming. Death was everywhere. Bodies, cleaved in two, littered the ground. Blood, black as night, soaked the grass-covered fields and mingled with the red of the fallen Men.

The Men of Rohan and Gondor fought bravely in the defense of the White City, determined, to their last breath, to take as many of the enemy into the dark lands of death as was possible.

The arrival of the black ships, bearing the noble standard of the king of Gondor, had come none to soon.

Eomer surveyed the bloodied field as the un-crowned king of Gondor settled into the saddle beside the king of Rohan. "We shall ride into battle together. If this be our last stand, we will make it here, on this field, before the very gates of the White City."

Eomer nodded, his eyes widening at the flash of steel that glittered before his eyes. The sword that was broken had been re-forged and was wielded now, possibly into its last battle, by the rightful heir to the kingdom of Gondor.

Eomer raised his own blade and glared at the enemy that relentlessly pounded their lines. "If this be our last," Eomer said, "Rohan and Gondor will end it together!"

The walls of defense were strengthened by the arrival of Aragorn and his men, but they were not enough to withstand the relentless pounding of the Orc armies. They continued to file out of the woods and onto the field of battle like moths to a flame. Hill trolls and dark men led strikes against the weakest links of the line and one by one the defenders of Gondor fell to the relentless onslaught.

The armies of Gondor and Rohan backed against the crumbled city gates, making their stand with their backs to the wall of the White City. People hid in their homes or fled to the inner circle of the city as fireballs crushed the outer structures. Fires burned the outer circle of the city and were spreading quickly. Women, and children not old enough to raise a blade, dumped buckets of water over the flames, hoping to douse them before they could spread.

Aragorn stood beside Gandalf, cutting down Orc after Orc as they attempted to cut a path through the barely holding line of Men. Aragorn panted with exhaustion, his arms heavy, his body weak with loss of blood from various wounds he had received during the battle.

As all hope waned, a light shown atop a small hill toward the west, thunderous steps could be heard in the distance and Aragorn’s heart plummeted into his stomach.

More Orcs. Reinforcements had arrived to replace the fatigued, battle-worn enemy of Mordor. Aragorn breathed deeply, whispering an elvish goodbye into the wind. He looked to Gandalf then to the stars that had not shined favorably on them this night. The line of Isildur had failed once again and Middle-Earth would be thrown into permanent darkness. Aragorn shuddered at the thought, at once grateful that he would not live to see the times that were to come.

Heralds of Gondor cried out as the hosts of horseman crested the hill and descended from the western road. Foot soldiers, armed with tall shields and even taller scythe’s, followed at a run behind the mounded men. Standards were bared for those far away on the field to see. Standards not of Orc, or Uruk, Hill Man or Troll, but of a once great and numerous nation - One who had once before come to the aid of the Men of Gondor and its White City.

Eyes widened as the evening moon reflected on the golden armor of the elven army. Orcs trembled in fear but were pressed on by their Uruk overseers, determined to break through the last crumbling line of Men and charge into the unprotected City and to victory for the Eye.

A resounding cheer echoed across the fields as the men of Gondor and Rohan found renewed strength at the sight of the elven army. Even at a distance, the army numbered more than was left of the combined forces of Gondor and Rohan.

"Please get here in time," Aragorn breathed just as an Uruk blade came crashing down on his arm, nearly knocking Anduril from his grasp. Mail screeched and broke beneath the blade, and Aragorn fell to his knees.

Off came the offending creatures head as Gandalf swung Glamdring in an arc that took out his opponent and the one that threatened to cleave Aragorn in two.

Gandalf shoved a hand beneath Aragorn’s arm and yanked him to his feet before the would-be King could be seen on his knees. The mail had taken the worst of the blow, but blood still flowed down Aragorn’s arm where the blade had impacted with flesh.

"Thank you, my friend," Aragorn breathed. He sidestepped another misshapen blade aimed for his heart and thrust Anduril into the neck of the oversized Orc. Busy as he was with the battle before him, Aragorn didn’t notice the figures who waited atop the hill as the elven army advanced on the White City.

Elrond sat atop his neighing steed, Galadriel and Celeborn on either side, Arwen behind, watching the battle take place on the sprawling fields below. Elrond searched for his sons, and finding them alive, his eyes moved to Aragorn. He shouted a few commands to the group that had stayed behind as escort to the elven Lord. Half the number rushed toward Aragorn to ensure the protection of Isildur’s remaining heir, the others remained as guards surrounding Elrond and his family.

Arwen’s heart leapt into her throat as a hideous winged creature dove onto the field , clutching at men with its claws and rending the flesh from their bodies. It dropped to the ground and it’s rider dismounted, clutching its long, deadly blade in armor-covered hands. All who came up against the creature in black fell to horrible deaths to its superior strength and skill.

It passed where Merry and Eowyn lay, the only two who had ever dealt a death blow to a Nazgul. Its disgusted hiss toward the fallen warriors would have sent shivers up the spines of the strongest man.

The un-dead creature sliced a path through the elves, through the men of both Gondor and Rohan until, at last, it came upon its intended prey.

Aragorn stood before him, dirty and bloodied, wearing the leathers of the kingdom of Gondor and its legendary white tree, on his chest.

The creature hissed as it raised its blade, "The line of Isildur will be broken this day." The deadly Morgul blade came crashing down toward Aragorn’s head and the man barely had enough time to bring Anduril up to block the fierce blow.

Tremors reverberated down his arms from the contact and Aragorn ducked beneath the next swing, rendered off balance by the last hard blow.

Soldiers battled around them leaving no man able to free himself long enough to come to Aragorn’s aid. He was left to battle this great Nazgul alone, to destroy the vile creature or be destroyed himself.

Aragorn blocked each swing aimed at his head, his chest, his arms, his legs. But with each refusal, his repost would slow, giving him no chance to break through the defenses of his opponent. He was exhausted and injured, and the Nazgul was fresh off his mount.

Elrond, seeing the battle below, ordered those who remained as guard, to ride to Aragorn’s aid. The captain of the guard refused. "We will not leave you unguarded, My Lord."

Elrond’s eyes flashed in anger and he took up his stallion's reins. "Then I will aid Estel myself!"

"Wait," Galadriel’s calm voice echoed in his ears as she reached forward and held fast the reins of Elrond’s steed. "Gandalf will aid him."

They looked on as Gandalf cut his way toward Aragorn, leaving no Orc or Uruk standing in his path.

Once more a strong blow knocked Aragorn off his feet, his tired arms finally giving way to the increased pressure from the Nazgul blade. Gandalf was there to block the steel as it sailed toward Aragorn’s head and the elven company watching from the far away hilltop breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Mithrandir," the Nazgul hissed. "Since when do Istari interfere with the affairs of Men?" Their blades clashed, steel on steel, the Nazgul still the stronger of the two.

Aragorn gained his feet quickly, drawing on whatever strength left within his arms to wield the re-forged blade of kings to victory over the creature in black.

Indur drove Gandalf into a crowed of oncoming Orcs, hissing its pleasure as they surrounded and attacked with animalistic ferocity. Gandalf, now occupied with the fresh wave of Orc soldiers, was unable to aid Aragorn as the Nazgul slowly turned its attention to the advancing would-be-King.

Their blades clashed once more, Aragorn gritting his teeth against the pain of his injuries. He swung with all his remaining strength, pushing the Nazgul back, hoping to trip him on the black cloak that fell in waves around its body. The Nazgul hissed its laughter at the man so valiantly struggling with exhaustion. "Give up, heir of Isildur. You cannot win."

--------------------------------

"Father" Arwen steered her stallion beside her father. Her eyes darkened as she watched the sight far below.

Elrond ignored her, choosing, instead to focus on his twins who were being pushed back by a fresh wave of Uruk. Elrond muttered to the stars, willing his armies to reach the battle in time. Before those that he loved were killed, or worse, enslaved.

"Father," Arwen's eyes widened as she watched her beloved furiously battle the black Nazgul.

Galadriel turned her attention to Aragorn and gasped. "Elrond! Ride, ride quickly!"

Arwen turned wide-eyes on her grandmother and nodded, "Estel needs help. He hasn't the strength..." They watched helplessly as Aragorn tripped, Anduril flying from his grasp.

Without waiting for her father, Arwen dug her heals into Asfaloth's sides and slapped his reins. Drawing her blade, she cried, "Noro lim! Noro Lim!"

"Arwen!" Galadriel, Elrond and Celeborn cried in unison.

Elrond and Celeborn raised their elven blades and charged down the hill after Arwen, their stallion's leaping gracefully over the fallen bodies that littered the field.

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Aragorn rolled away from the sharp steel as its point sailed toward his chest. The tip sliced through the leather tunic and bounced harmlessly off the chain mail the man wore beneath the leather. The Nazgul hissed and whirled around to impale a Gondorian soldier as he rushed to assist Aragorn. This gave Aragorn time to regain his feet and reclaim Anduril. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arwen on Asfaloth, galloping toward him. Elrond and Celeborn were on her heals but his heart sunk into his stomach at seeing his beloved riding willingly into the heart of the battle.

"No!" Aragorn yelled toward her, motioning her back with his raised blade.

"Aragorn!" Gandalf cried as the Nazgul turned his attention back toward Aragorn and lunged at the man’s unguarded back.

'Behind you!" Arwen cried, eyes wide.

Aragorn moved to dodge the Nazgul but his forearm was caught in the creature's iron grip and roughly twisted. Anduril fell from his grasp as the creature snapped his wrist like a twig. Pain blocked his vision as he fought from crying out in pain. Another armor-clad hand fell heavily to Aragorn's shoulder, fingers digging into the skin to hold the would-be-king from whirling out of the Nazgul's grasp.

Legolas' keen eyes were the first to see Aragorn locked in the Nazgul's tight embrace. He called to Gimli, whose eyes went wide with fear at the sight. Imrahil sliced through his opponent and rushed toward the king but was stopped by a fresh wave of Orcs. His immediate support was halted and he called to his kinsmen for help.

Legolas wove through the combatants in an effort to reach his friend but the distance was too great. Gandalf fought his way through the Orcs but had been thrown too far to be able to reach Aragorn in time.

"And so falls the last heir of Isildur!" Indur hissed loudly. He released Aragorn's useless wrist and thrust his blade into Aragorn’s back.

Chapter 2



His attention was torn. Arwen was riding toward him, a look of horror on her face. His wrist was becoming numb, he knew it was broken, and the pain was crawling its way up his arm. But it in no way prepared him for the piercing pain that came next.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aragorn heard a horrified scream.

Searing pain tore through his chest as the Nazgul thrust his blade into Aragorn's back. The would-be-king could feel the steel bend and snap as it came into contact with the chain mail but the Nazgul kept the momentum of the thrust. The mail twisted and bent, finally breaking from the pressure.

Aragorn coughed as he felt the broken steel pierce once-protected flesh. Blood immediately welled in his throat and began to drip from one corner of his mouth, halting any cry of pain that might have escaped his lips.

Time slowed and Aragorn could see the shocked looks on the faces of those that surrounded him.

Legolas screamed a long string of elvish curses as he re-doubled his efforts to reach his friend. He violently cut through each foe, fear clouding his normally clear gaze. Several times he halted his elven blades inches from a friendly throat as anger blinded him to all but his urgent effort to reach Aragorn.

Gimli had reached Gandalf and the two were merely steps away. They fought through their foes as refreshed elven warriors appeared around them. They dropped the Orcs where they stood and cleared the path for the Dwarf and Wizard.

Arwen swung wildly at any Orc or uruk in her way, slicing them cleanly in two with her elven blade. Her eyes were wet with tears, her hair in disarray as the wind and her stallion's rapid gait mussed the long, dark locks.

"Your time for rebellion is at an end!" The Nazgul hissed. He pushed Aragorn toward Asfaloth and drew the broken blade from his opponent's back with a splendid flourish.

Aragorn coughed and blood, bright red, dripped from the corner of his mouth. He could feel darkness approaching his mind and he prayed to Elbereth that death would be swift. The poison that was the morgul blade had begun its work and small shards from the broken blade had already embedded themselves deep into his back. Aragorn could feel the instant fever spreading through his body. Fear enveloped his mind as the realization struck that the Nazgul wouldn't let him die easily.

Then he was falling, unable to feel his limbs, unable to slow his descent toward the ground. He watched Arwen leap from Asfaloth, screaming a vitrolic string of elven curses that would have made any man, be he elf or dwarf, stop in their tracks. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Their eyes met for one brief second before he lost sight of her and hit the ground. Eyes squeezed shut in nearly unbearable pain as Arwen rushed the Nazgul with the speed and fierceness of five Gondorian soldiers.

"You will have to eliminate the entire race of elves and men before you will take this City and its King!" Arwen spat, driving her blade fiercely toward the Nazgul. With each swing she came a step closer to cleaving his un-dead flesh. Its broken blade parried each of her thrusts, though with increasing difficulty.

The creature hissed in response. "She-elf. You will die as swiftly as Isildur's heir!"

Arwen trembled with fury. She didn't need to turn to see her father and Celeborn dismounting their steeds and rushing to Aragorn's side. She didn't need to see the rage in her father's eyes as he left Aragorn in Celeborn's capable hands and raced after his daughter.

Arwen's blade moved faster than the eye could see, catching pieces of the Nazgul's cloak and shredding it to pieces. She would not give her father the pleasure of destroying this creature.

The Nazgul made one small mistake, and Arwen caught the sword arm at the elbow and tore apart the un-dead flesh. It hissed in pain as elven steel sliced through tendon and bone. The long, thin blade broke as it met with the poisoned flesh. The Nazgul screeched and flailed, hissing a long string of inaudible words in its ancient tongue. Arwen raised her broken blade and whirled away from the Nazgul as it reached for her with an iron-covered hand.

As she thrust the broken blade into the creature's side, it's hands clawed wildly at her. She stumbled backwards, the hand only catching the fabric draped along her arm, tearing it.

"Your king will take my place!" It hissed before falling into a heap, its black blood searing and burning everything it touched.

Arwen exhaled a deep breath just as Elrond skidded to a halt behind her. He wrapped long arms around his daughter’s shoulders, embracing her tightly. Relief flooded his embrace and he exhaled a long, deep breath, grateful to Elbereth that Arwen had come out of the confrontation intact. When she attempted to turn, to make her way back to where Aragorn lay, Elrond held fast.

"No, father. You cannot…" her protest was firm, her voice unwavering.

Elrond remained silent.

Arwen wrenched herself from Elrond's grasp, eyes piercing his heart with their determination.

"Arwen, don't…" His words fell on deaf ears as his stubborn child rushed away. So determined was she in reaching her love, she didn't notice the men and elves alike part like the sea and close once again after she had passed.

Gimli and Gandalf backed away as Arwen knelt at Aragorn's side. She clutched his un-broken hand in a grip so tight the fingers turned white. She exchanged a worried glance with Celeborn, who simply shook his head and lowered his gaze. Her heart plummeted into her stomach and her eyes widened with fear. When she reached down to press a trembling hand to the side of his face, his eyes turned to her, clouded with pain.

When he tried to speak, she simply pressed a finger to his lips. "Save your strength, my love."

With effort, he shook his head and pressed a weak kiss to the finger that rested against his lips.

His eyes held a pain so deep that it broke her heart. Tears slid down her dirty cheeks, marring a very visible path down the smooth skin.

Arwen lifted his head into her lap as she struggled to hold back a sob. Trembling hands smoothed sweat-slicked hair and she could see clouded eyes struggle to focus on her face. After several tries, words croaked from between parched and bloodied lips. "Will not - become…" His body trembled and he took a deep, shuddering breath. "…. one of - them. Must - die. You - must…"

"No!" She leaned toward him and captured his lips in a determined, silencing kiss. When they parted, his blood covered her clothing, her lips, and tears fell in large drops down her cheeks. "You can't," She sobbed, "ask this of me."

Legolas fell to his knees beside Arwen, his head tilted, his eyes wet. For one who lived so long, death was as alien to him as grief. But the Mirkwood Prince was faced with both, now manifested in the fading life of a dear friend. Legolas could do nothing to stop the pain that tore at his heart.

Gandalf and Gimli stood behind a kneeling Celeborn. The elves hands were covered in blood as he attempted to diagnose Aragorn’s injuries. It was clear that the elf had stopped without a thorough examination, realizing the inevitable outcome.

"Father is the best healer Middle-Earth has known," Arwen’s voice cracked as her eyes pleaded with her beloved to fight. "You too, have the power of a healer, Estel."

Aragorn’s eyes fluttered and Arwen shook his shoulders to keep him from falling into the death sleep would bring.

"You are the King. You have the hands of a healer." Arwen sobbed, slapping his face to make sure she received some acknowledgment of understanding.

Aragorn coughed as Elrond knelt beside his daughter. Pain was clearly visible in the Elven Lord’s eyes as Arwen looked to her father for help.

"It is…"

"Do not speak unless you offer something I want to hear." Arwen snapped, her fingers brushed away a few stray strands of hair that had fallen across her beloved’s face.

"He can be healed. Try father!" Arwen pleaded, her breath coming in gasps as she could no longer hold back the sobs. "I will not watch my betrothed die in my arms!"

Elrond closed his eyes, resolving to use every skill he possessed to save his foster-son, and began to shout orders in his native tongue as the warriors of Gondor and Rohan looked on in disbelief. Celeborn called to his stallion and mounted immediately, riding off toward the black forests that surrounded the bloodied fields. "Celeborn will gather the necessary herbs." Elrond said calmly to his trembling daughter. "We must move him into the City. We cannot linger here."

Eomer, followed by high-ranking Gondorian captains, appeared beside the injured heir. Elrond’s sons unfolded the King’s banner and draped it over two outstretched lances. The jeweled banner was secured tightly before Aragorn was lifted onto the make-shift litter. Arwen watched in stunned silence as they laid the nearly unconscious man onto the banner she had made for him to carry into proudly Gondor – as proof that he was the rightful heir to the throne. Instead, it was carrying him. It was almost too much for her to bear as they carried him across the battlefield and into the city.

People gathered along the edge of the street, poked their heads out of windows and doors, to see their un-crowned King being carried by his people. Elves and Warriors of Gondor and Rohan walked together, the battle won but their faces solemn masks of sadness.

Arwen held tight Aragorn's hand and whispered to him in the ancient language of the elves. He was barely conscious but Arwen kept his attention by dropping pleasant kisses to his cheeks, lips and by gently blotting away the blood that dripped relentlessly from his mouth.

"To the house of healing!" one of the captains cried.

"No, to the White Tower," Eomer said softly.

Arwen caught his sad eyes and she nodded in understanding and approval.

At the confused look of the surrounding guard, he added, "Though he may be un-crowned, he is still the King. If his end must come, it will come in the place where his ancestors once dwelled."

Elrond, Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf followed the host of litter-bearers through large double doors, up the spiraling marble steps, and into the Kings chambers; a room that had gone unused for generations; a room that had been kept clean and fresh until the expected arrival of their rightful King. Little did they expect, that their King would arrive on his deathbed.

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1.1 Chapter 3



Tapestries of gold and burgundy decorated the walls. Banners of old were suspended from the ceiling. Curtains of the softest silk hung over the windows and above the bed on which the men reverently laid their uncrowned King.

Arwen was beside him in an instant, hand gripping her beloved’s in fear, fingers trembling and tears falling like rain down her cheeks.

Elrond sat at Aragorn’s side, working as quickly as he could, treating Aragorn’s wounds with skilled hands. He struggled to hide the fear that he would not have the ability, this time, to pull from the fires of death another who had been stung by a Morgul blade.

Elrond tore at Aragorn's leather tunic, taking a small knife hidden in his cloak and ripping the material, when shaking fingers wouldn't work fast enough. He winced when the fabric parted revealing the blood-stained mail beneath. The Elven Lord quickly divested the wounded man of the heavy metal and cringed when Aragorn's back made contact once again with the bed.

Elrond rolled Aragorn carefully onto his side, flinching when his eyes met the angry-looking wound that pierced the man’s back. The wound was badly torn, the skin jagged as if cut with a serrated blade. Thanks to the brute force with which the Nazgul had thrust its sword through the protective mail that covered his torso, there was no clean entry wound. The poisoned blade had also broken when it impacted with the mail, causing a much more damaging injury.

Aragorn coughed, eyes rolling into the back of his head before squeezing shut in pain so unbearable he could give it no voice. Fever raged through his blood. Already pale skin burned but was cold and clammy to the touch. His life was fading and there was little Elrond could do to stop it. Dark hair clung to his sweat-soaked face and what little strength remained, flowed as quickly from his body as the crimson blood from between his parched lips.

"Where is Celeborn!" Arwen cried through her sobs. "You sent him to get herbs. If he returns in time…"

"Arwen." Elrond turned a sad gaze toward his whimpering daughter. His eyes flicked to his twin sons, who had just rushed loudly through the door.

"Oh no." Elladan's eyes fell to the blood stained bed-covers and to his father's hands, covered in their brother's blood.

"No. No." Elrohir's words echoed those of his brother's as he stepped beside his sister and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. He shook his head in denial of the scene spread so graphically before his eyes. Arwen barely acknowledged his touch.

"What can we do?" Elladan began to move toward his father but was pinned in place by the hopelessly sad look in Elrond's eyes.

"I have done all I can. You could do no better."

"No, there must be - "Elladan continued, eyes narrowing and fists clenching in anger.

Imrahil and Legolas returned with basins filled with water and set them down on a nearby table. Arwen immediately took a cloth and dipped it into the liquid. Squeezing the excess water from the cloth, she carefully placed it across Aragorn's forehead, in a desperate attempt to bring down his fever.

"It is not so simple." Elrond's said sadly. "There are shards embedded in his skin. They must be removed." Arwen's eyes shot toward her father. "They are buried deep. If I try to remove them, I may kill him in the process."

"He will die if you do not try." She whispered, sliding a hand along Aragorn's face to cup a whiskered cheek.

Celeborn arrived with Galadriel, their faces etched with worry and concern. Celeborn removed a myriad of herbs from the pouch he carried and set them onto a nearby table, within Elrond’s reach.

Elrond worked carefully, using his skill as a Master healer to remove the shards embedded too close to Aragorn’s heart for comfort. Aragorn whimpered at each slight movement, too tired and weak to cry out in pain.

Elrond crumbled athelas into a boiling basin of water in an attempt to draw the lingering stench of death from the room. The fresh fragrant smell of the plant did much to lift the spirits of those who stood in silence, watching the Elven Lord of Rivendell work frantically to save the life of his foster-son. But, it did little to help the man for whom it was crushed and swirled into the basin of steaming water.

Gandalf stood beside Galadriel, his face an unreadable mask. Inside, his heart was tearing, breaking in two as the elves struggled to save the life of a dear friend. His spells were of no use for he had tried every one he knew.

Legolas and Gimli stood to the back of the room, out of the way, watching silently, their faces a mask of concern and fear. Imrahil had dismissed the guards who had carried Aragorn into the chamber, positioning them outside the doors to turn away all who came to see the fallen King. The three knew there was nothing they could do that was not already being done, so instead simply stood in silence, praying to whatever goddess they knew, to save the injured man lying near death on the bed before them.

Arwen’s brothers exchanged a silent look with their father before they both stepped closer to their sister. They had never seen their father look so grim, Galadriel and Celeborn stare so blankly, Gandalf appear so speechless. They had never seen their sister reduced to such violent tears.

They knew their father’s work was folly. They knew, that even with Elrond's great knowledge, this doom that had fallen had already taken its planned course. Arwen would need them in the hours and days to come. She would need their strength. Even as that strength waned with the dying breath of their friend and brother.

Arwen absently brushed at Aragorn’s face, delicate hand cupping his cheek. His eyes were clouded and he stared blankly at her. Once in a while he would wince as the pain from her father’s ministrations registered in his numbed body. He was pale, his skin sallow and clammy. Death had come to take him away, but would not grant him a peaceful exit from this world.

"I won’t let you go without a fight, Estel," Arwen cried, her voice a mere whisper.

The tortured sound broke the hearts of her brothers, and they each rubbed her back in a gesture that had once comforted her as a child. It gave her no respite now. They could not bear to look at the man they considered a brother, could not look at the tremendous pain reflected in his eyes as he looked, with love and adoration, on their sister.

"What can I do!" She looked at everyone in the room, one by one, her fiery tear-filled gaze pinning each person where they stood. "I won’t stand by and do nothing. I won’t stand by and watch him die before my eyes."

"There is little else that we can do," Elrond said softly, looking up at his daughter from across the bed. His hands were covered in blood and for the first time, Arwen noticed that they were shaking. Her lip trembled as shock at seeing her father so helpless slowly registered in her mind.

Arwen turned tear-filled eyes on Galadriel, who stood behind her father, watching silently. Galadriel was not looking at her, was not looking at Elrond, or Aragorn. Her eyes were open and unmoving, unseeing, unfocused. When Arwen moved to speak, a strangled cry came from Aragorn’s parched lips, drawing her attention.

In fevered delirium, he shook his head, eyes crossing as they lost their focus. Every breath was drawn with great effort, each one more hoarse than the last. His face was drenched with sweat, his hair plastered to his head and neck. Arwen could see the suffering in his eyes, could see the pain that he, in his stubbornness, would never admit to feeling.

Arwen shook her head furiously, "Don’t give up! Don’t give in. Please! Estel, be strong!"

He couldn’t speak. Words hurt too much to voice. He could hear her cries but could not answer them. The pain was deep, biting, eating away at his body and his spirit. Chills wracked his body as his fever worsened. He fought to stay conscious but with each passing minute could feel his life slipping away. He knew what Arwen refused to admit. He was dying. He could choose to let his life slip away or fight through the painful haze only to be stopped short as the poison from the Morgul blade made him into one of Sauron’s slaves. He couldn’t, wouldn’t allow that to happen.

Elrond secured what bandages he could to the wound and rolled the man onto his back. With eyes that bespoke the grief in his heart, Elrond took Aragorn's free hand and sat beside him on the bed. He knew what Aragorn wanted him to do, could see it in the dying man's eyes. Elrond looked at his daughter with eyes wet with unshed tears. "Arwen. His wounds are too severe for even my hand. We must take comfort that the poison of the Nazgul will not reach his heart before his life ends."

Arwen shook her head violently. She refused to hear any more of her father's words, refused to accept that this was how their tortured love story would end. They had waited too long, endured too much loneliness and separation, to be parted now. Fate could not take him from her. It could not be so cruel.

"Arwen, I will follow him to the grave if my blade is needed to end his life." Elrond's voice faltered and for the first time, a single, solitary tear slipped down his cheek. "I will not let the Nazgul poison take him. You must let him go. The longer you delay, the stronger the chance the poison will reach his heart and pull him into the shadow world."

Suddenly, the ground rocked the foundations of the White Tower, throwing everyone off their feet. Imrahil hit the floor with an annoyed grunt and Gimli was thrown into the wall with a loud crash. Gandalf steadied himself with a few whispered spells and the elves, always light on their feet, were rendered off balance but remained standing.

"Mordor," Gandalf moved quickly to the window and stared at the fiery mountain as it exploded into tiny fragments of hardened magma and rock. For the first time in years, light penetrated the shadow lands and illuminated them with a freedom that had been long forgotten. "They’ve done it. They’ve destroyed the ring."

Excited cheers erupted from the battlefield below as every eye in the city and outside of it turned to watch the spectacular display before their very eyes. Within the White Tower, eyes closed in relief as one weight was lifted off very tired shoulders.

When Arwen looked down at her love, she could see a small smile of recognition register on his features. With great effort, he raised his hand and cupped her cheek. She burrowed into the simple gesture, memorizing the feel of his touch, the trembling of his hand as his strength wavered. She covered his fingers with her own and squeezed tightly.

With a deep, struggled breath, he whispered, "It is over."

It took a few seconds for her to register that the meaning of his words had been two-fold. The War of the Ring was over and with that valiant struggle went his life.

His hand went limp in her grasp and his eyes slowly closed. From parched lips fell his last words, whispered for her ears only, "Amin mela lle."

"No!" Arwen cried. Tears fell from her eyes in huge drops and she threw herself across his chest, sobbing into his neck.

Elrond took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes wet with tears that slipped unhindered now down his cheeks. Galadriel bowed her head in an effort to keep sadness from overtaking her normally strong and stoic form. If she looked at the elven tears that fell so painfully for her fallen kin, she would be unable to contain her own. When Celeborn draped a comforting arm across her shoulders, she turned and slowly leaned her forehead against his chest, sobbing quietly, a lone tear escaping from tightly closed eyelids.

Gandalf pursed his lips angrily, unwilling to believe all they had fought for was over, everything that had been won, had truly been lost. They’d nurtured and protected the last of Isildur’s heirs and now, in the hour of Sauron’s unforeseen defeat, so died such a noble and honorable line.

Arwen’s brothers stood unmoving behind their sobbing sister, unable to believe their eyes. This couldn't have happened. He couldn't be dead. Aragorn had grown up with the twins, and they loved him as much as their sister. He’d had fallen in love with Arwen before their very eyes. He’d grown into a noble and honorable man, fit for leadership among his people. They had never cried in all of their long years, save when their mother crossed over the Sea, until now. They fell to their knees and bowed their heads, tears dripping freely from their eyes.

Legolas clutched Gimli’s shoulder and the Dwarf knew better than to utter a word to his friend. He dared not look at the elf's face, for surely he would see the tears marring a bright path down pale cheeks.

In all the histories, Gimli had never heard of the passing of one life bringing tears to the eyes of so many elves.

Imrahil leaned against the nearest wall, sighing heavily. He hadn't known Aragorn for long, but the man knew he must have been great, to bring so many of the Wise One's to tears.

Arwen pressed trembling lips to Aragorn’s cheek. Her heartbreaking plea's sent tremors of grief through all that bore witness to the words. Arwen laced her fingers through the lifeless ones of her betrothed and clung to them as if they were her lifeline. She didn't see her father slide to his knees beside the bed, the grief too much for the Elven Lord to bear.

Silence hung in the air for minutes uncounted. The only sound came from Arwen as she wept into Aragorn’s chest, shoulders trembling with the powerful sobs that wracked her body.

When she finally spoke, the determination, fear, and heartbreak in her voice sent chills down the spines of everyone present. "I will not live in this world, or another, without

him by my side."

Legolas gasped sharply, drawing the concerned gaze of Imrahil and Gimli. They stared at him in confusion before turning their attention to the horrified look on Galadriel’s face. She stepped forward quickly before Celeborn’s shaking hand on her shoulder prevented any further movement.

Gandalf simply stood in silence, his head bowed in understanding and despair. The twins remained unmoving also, knowing that this choice their sister made could not be reversed. The grief and despair was almost more than they could bear.

Elrond gained his feet in an instant, his eyes widened in a horror the twins had never before seen.

Arwen drew her legs onto the bed and lay down next to her betrothed, her head resting heavily on his chest. She laced her fingers even tighter through Aragorn’s and squeezed the cold fingers. When she closed her eyes, she exhaled a deep and final breath, her shoulders melting into the cushions and her body into the lifeless embrace of the only man she ever truly loved. With a final, whispered goodbye, she made the last decision of her long life.

Elrond's horrified, gut-wrenching scream echoed off the marble walls, sending chills of fear down the spines of every man, dwarf and elf.



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END PART 3
So this has turned into a longer story than I thought. There will be at least one more chapter.