The Cost of a Friend's Life

In combat once again, Aragorn thrust his sword numerous times into the innumerable flocks of the enemy that came screaming and running frantically towards him. He stabbed, he sliced, he cut, he decapitated, he gouged and performed all number of lethal moves to destroy the enemy and try and lower the number that seemed to grow rather than decrease. In the looming shadow of the Black Gate of Mordor, he fought alongside some of his greatest friends and some of the loyalist soldiers he'd ever met in his life.

Many died around him, Orcs and Men alike. Aragorn fought viciously, his strength – both of his leadership and physically – was obvious to all those who saw him, whether they were gazing at him in awe or if it was only a fleeting glimpse.

He rammed his sword into a rampaging Orc and blood spread everywhere as he heard the bones inside the Orc crumble and crunch beneath him. To his surprise, he heard a sudden roar behind him. A cold dread ran through his veins and made his blood freeze. He turned around to see a huge 10ft Troll growling ferociously at him, clashing its two swords together in a very threatening manner.

It stretched itself to its full height and moved forward to strike. The Troll lifted its mighty arm and thrust its sword down sharply towards Aragorn. Aragorn defended himself well, but it was only then that Aragorn truly realised the incredible strength of this Troll. Aragorn continued to defend himself but could not bring himself to attack – the creature was just too strong.

Unfortunately for Aragorn, the immense strength of the Troll began to pay off, and not in Aragorn's favour: the Troll made numerous swift strokes that Aragorn only just managed to deflect, but suddenly, the Troll thrust its huge fist into Aragorn. Aragorn was a strong man, but he was by no means invincible – he flew – literally, flew - backwards easily 6ft, perhaps more, straight onto his front. He skidded on the dusty ground and coughed as the dust began to coat the inside of his throat.

Whatever was happening around no longer seemed to matter – in fact, it didn't really seem to exist. All the screams and shouts of battle, the gurgling of lost blood, all the mad, frantic running of soldiers -- he could barely hear them anymore. It was like in that brief moment as he hit the floor, the whole world went into slow motion.

Aragorn's eyes were wide with fear and confusion. He was slightly bedazzled by the sudden shock of being knocked to the floor, but his fear came from the only sounds he could hear clearly: thud … thud … thud …

He rolled over, swiftly moving his large, rather unpractical cloak out of the way and saw legs like tree-trunks stomping towards him …

… Thud … thud … thud …

… stomp … stomp … stomp

Aragorn knew he wouldn't have time to stand up and fight; the Troll would strike him before he even got to his feet. He wasn't sure what to do; he had never been in this situation before whilst in combat – he was an exceedingly skilled swordsman and had a move to pull no matter what was happening around him.

The Troll stomped ever closer. He didn't have much time to think – he had to act or he could lose his life. There was nothing for it: Aragorn, as quickly as he could, tried to launch himself to his feet. But he was wearing so much armour, he was too heavy to get up swiftly and his cloak did nothing but get in the way, no matter how good it made him look. He placed his feet on the ground and was just about to push himself up when he got the shock of his life – the Troll raised a giant foot and slammed it into his chest. The pure force of its foot threw Aragorn back down to the earth again and Aragorn exclaimed loudly as his back hit the ground hard. For a moment, everything went black and Aragorn wandered whether he was beginning to fall into unconsciousness.

In a final attempt for freedom, he managed to draw out the dagger that had been given to him by Celeborn in LothLorien and thrust it sharp and deep into the foot of the Troll that was now crushing his chest. Blood splurted out of the gash in its foot and the Troll roared horribly in pain. Unfortunately for Aragorn, the roar of pain soon turned into a roar of unspeakable fury. The Troll pressed its foot harder into Aragorn, making breathing for the eighty-seven year old mortal very difficult and extremely painful. It raised its crude yet huge, thick metal sword and raised it high above its head.

Aragorn was almost certain as he rode to the Black Gates that he had come here to die. He had not come here for glory or victory; he hadn't even come here for himself. He had come here to give Frodo a chance, one more chance at destroying the Ring, once and for all. That was the only reason he'd come here, the only reason why he'd brought everyone here to die …

He heard his name being screamed behind him. Even though the shout was loud, it sounded faint in his ears. Maybe this is what death feels like, he thought. He prepared himself for either death by a final strike of the Troll or unconsciousness when suddenly, a figure launched over him. It lunged itself towards the Troll and somehow managed to battle the Troll backwards with many slashes of the long, thin blades it was holding.

Aragorn shook his head slightly as he forced his eyes to focus. A tall, slender, familiar figure was fighting the troll at a magnificent speed. As his blond hair swirled round him, the Elf cut the Troll in several places, and every swipe the Troll made at him, the Elf managed to dodge and strike again. Aragorn watched this confrontation and an unbelievable gratitude rose inside him for his best friend who had just saved his life. But Aragorn began to notice that as he watched, the swarms of Orcs began to come between him and his heroic friend, so as the battle waged on around him, the Elf and the Troll disappeared from sight.

Aragorn tried to squint through the crowds of fighting Men and Orcs, but to no avail. The Elf and the Troll had vanished in their own battle of loyalty. Aragorn considered going after them when suddenly, too many Orcs charged towards him, so he had to deal with them first. The fighting continued, Aragorn didn't know how long for.

Suddenly, a terrible shriek filled the sky. The Nazgûl that had been circling around the battlefield had screamed a scream of terror and began to fly back towards Mordor frantically. All went silent, all fighting stopped. Aragorn, now freed from the terrible Troll, pushed himself slowly to his feet. All eyes gazed towards Mount Doom.

All were stunned as the looming tower of Barad-Dûr collapsed and crumbled into dust before their eyes. Sauron and the Dark Tower were destroyed, along with all the cursed land it was built on and all those evil creatures who had taken part in the terrible tragedies that had torn Middle-Earth apart. The 10,000 Orcs and other horribly mutilated creatures attempted to flee, but they too collapsed and crumbled as the dreaded land of Mordor became dreaded no more and imploded at their very feet.

Cries of joy and shouts of victory erupted from the mens' mouths. As Gandalf proclaimed how Sauron was destroyed and that the reign of evil was finally over forever, Aragorn smiled. However, all of the Fellowship there present knew that Frodo may not still be alive as they watched huge volumes of lava explode from the summit of Mount Doom. Fear clutched their hearts and Gandalf swiftly departed the scene with Gwaihir to aid the Hobbits now stranded on the burning mountain.

Aragorn looked around. Most of the men were walking home, some laughing, some crying, some still stunned about what had just happened. He had a gruff voice call his name behind him. He turned around, still with a grin on his face. But the grin soon left his face. As he turned to where the voice had come from, he truly felt as if an icy clutch had seized his heart. Any fear or grief he had felt throughout this Fellowship quest was nothing compared to the horror that met his gaze.