Aragorn climbed the narrow stone steps that led from the jail, silent as only a Ranger could be in the darkness. He felt the presence of the Nazgûl and knew Saruman would be near. Where he found one, he was sure to find the other.

Sword in hand once more, he felt as if he were emerging from quicksand. The cold steel of his sword had been like a gasp of fresh air, and he grasped it as if it were drawing him out of the muck. Rather than question the fortune of finding Andúril in Edoras, Aragorn determined to use his weapon at once.

After returning the Dúnadan's sword, Hama had announced that at first light he would request an audience with the king to decide the fate of Merry and Gimli, for their imprisonment was in dispute. For the remaining dark hours before dawn, they were to remain in Hama's custody. Hama felt they were safer by his side than in a cell with no avenue of escape.

Pippin had followed Merry and Gimli, and the three had tried to convince Aragorn to do the same. But Aragorn would hear nothing of safety. His will and reason had begun to return to him, more so since laying hands upon his sword. While his strength had not fully returned, his determination had.

His greatest desire was to face Saruman with a clear if reckless mind and deny him obeisance, even if it were his last act. He knew his mood was dangerous, and that he cared little was perhaps the greatest testimony of such. Thus had Aragorn resolved to face an Enemy he could not kill and the wizard who had arranged to deliver him to that Enemy.

He slowed as the stairwell brightened with light from above and listened for a break in the silence. At first, only the guttering of a distant torch came back to him. Then there was a new sound, faint, whispering. Then again: footsteps. Light steps, neither of man nor woman. He pressed himself against the curved inner wall. The one approaching carried no torch, yet advanced rapidly. Before he could think more on it, the person rounded the corner.

Aragorn drew his sword on Saruman. "You!" he said hoarsely, accusation heavy in his voice.

Saruman narrowed his eyes from a few steps above, in one sweep taking in Aragorn's weapon and his disposition. A sweep of his staff countered the sword.

Aragorn had lost much, but to his relief, not all. He swung at the staff with all he had. Saruman's staff jumped from his hands, clattering down the steps behind Aragorn. Saruman's eyes widened momentarily. Saruman clearly had underestimated him, unless Aragorn looked far worse than he felt. "You waste your strength, Dúnadan."

"You waste your words. I hear them no more." Though the compulsion to answer had greatly diminished, it had not entirely left Aragorn. As Saruman had spoken, the muddy waters had begun to gather round his ankles and draw him down once more. If he listened further, he feared he would feel the tug of coercion once more.

"How came you by that sword?" Saruman said.

"Silence!" Aragorn cried, reveling in the reversal of position. He pushed the tip of the blade to Saruman's neck. The wizard leaned back, but did not take his eyes off of the man. Aragorn was sorely tempted to follow through with his sword's threat. "I should slay you where you stand," he muttered. And he could...

Saruman chuckled. "Yes, you should. You have the right, truth be told—"

"I said silence!" Aragorn shouted, pressing the blade into Saruman's throat. The ground had begun to soften, the stone beneath him turning to quicksand once more. He was not free. What must he do? His fey mood intensified. He watched as blood trickled down the wizard's throat. What to do with him? Where had he been headed? "From where have you come?"

Saruman was silent for a long minute, unreadable as ever. "The Golden Hall. A rather dangerous place for you right now, I dare say."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. Did Saruman not want him in the king's Hall? Or was this a lure to bait him there? "Then why did you leave? Is not the Nazgûl there? I know you treat with the Nazgûl. I know your bargain with him. Did your negotiations go poorly?" The words were bitter on his tongue.

Saruman offered a small, private smile that worried Aragorn. He still sensed the wraith's presence, so could not explain Saruman's exit. Had Saruman come for him? Had he known where Aragorn was all along? The anger that had simmered near the surface boiled over.

He pressed his blade into Saruman enough to back him into the wall. "You thought to hand me over to Sauron—and I would have done as you bid!" The latter was the truth that burned in him and that he could not alter. He had been as Saruman's vassal. And so close to being turned over to Sauron, it chilled him. Oh, to strike down this wizard.

A thought came to him, as clear as his own, yet plainly from another. Not this way. Aragorn closed his eyes, his sword pressed to Saruman. The voice was appealing, comforting, and not wholly unfamiliar. It was strangely unimportant that he knew not whose voice it was.

He breathed deeply and opened his eyes to find Saruman smiling once more. The anger threatened again, but he took another breath to rein it in. "We shall return to the negotiation table you have deserted. I shall see the parties who bargain for me."

Saruman raised his eyebrows. "You are so foolish as to think to kill the wraith yourself?"

Aragorn's eyes smoldered. "I know I cannot kill the wraith. Perhaps it is not he who shall die tonight."

Saruman's lips puckered, then he smiled again. But he said nothing.

His anger burning, Aragorn ordered the wizard, "Up!"

Slowly, Saruman turned on the tip of the sword, with a glance to his staff, and began up the stairs.

Reminded of the staff, Aragorn commanded Saruman to stop while he descended the few steps to retrieve it. His leg burned with the strain, and he could not suppress a limp.

He wondered, as he picked up the staff, if he violated any rules of the Valar. He had never held a wizard's staff before. But he could not bring himself to care overmuch as he turned to his former captor. "Now, go." Not one to mistake the wizard for an old man, he trained his sword on him with every step.

The stairs they climbed were in the rear of the building. Perhaps Saruman had been trying to slip out. But how would he have accomplished that before a wraith? Had the wraith allowed his departure? Had there been some distraction? Unlikely.

After a short time, a high-pitched screech reached Aragorn's ears, and his grasp on his sword tightened. He knew that sound. Did someone attempt to battle the Nazgûl? Suddenly, Aragorn felt the fetters of the Enemy's hold fall away. His mind was clearer, and his surroundings brighter. He felt stronger, more capable in facing Saruman or whatever foe lay ahead of him.

Would a Nazgûl simply leave? Saruman's step had faltered when the shadow lifted. So he had not expected the departure of the Nazgûl. What did this mean for Saruman's plans?

When they reached the main level, he ordered Saruman to open the door that led to rear of the Hall of Meduseld. Looking into the dim room, he saw the most unexpected: a vision of a dead friend.

Aragorn's feet were rooted to the spot by the sight of his lost friend, as Saruman continued indifferently into the hall. He had thought he was nearly free of Saruman's spell. Yet the morass still clouded his eyes.

The impossible sight of his dear friend seized his heart, but the vision merely looked back at him. His grief for the wizard awoke anew, and he recalled all that had gone ill for the Company since the loss. All of Aragorn's decisions made in the wizard's stead had gone awry. How disappointed Gandalf would be. He must turn from this creation of his mind. Perhaps then it would haunt him no more.

Beyond the image of the wizard, a mass of black cloth lay on the floor. It took Aragorn a moment to recognize it as the remnants of the Nazgûl. The Nazgûl had been destroyed. Was this why Saruman had left? But he had left before this had occurred, Aragorn was certain—

"Lord Théoden, I am surprised to see you at this hour." Saruman said smoothly, breaking the silence. He threw a glance to the shadows.

Aragorn only then saw the king. Frailer than Aragorn would have expected, the man leaned heavily on a cane. "I was awoken by a queer sensation. I believed it to be the sudden absence of the Enemy. I came to investigate—against the wisdom of my guards." He scowled at the guards who now stood at attention in the wings, awaiting the call of their king.

Was the king the one who had dispensed with the Nazgûl? It did not seem possible. More questions crowded Aragorn's mind, a mind still regaining itself, and yet the sight of his friend stayed his feet. He knew the wizard could not be there in truth. But Aragorn had never seen Gandalf in any of his nightmares. Why would he see him now, when he had begun to reclaim his mind?

"Your guards only wish the best for you, my Lord. Their duty is your safety."

"I need no wet nurse to look after me! I feel better than I can remember." Saruman scowled. Théoden shook his head as if waking from an unpleasant dream. "I dare say my mind is clearer than it has been of late."

The king's words roused Aragorn, and the man decided to wake from his own nightmare. He stepped into the Golden Hall, limping and starved, but with weapon in hand and determination in his stride. "And not only for the Lord of the Mark."