Immortalitui // Faramir 🥀

Chapter Sixteen - Weathertop

Word Count: 3,091 words. 

Warnings: None. 

Arathiel jumped before she could think, rushing towards Aragorn, blade in hand as she attempted to slice along the Ringwraiths arm. It screamed on impact, shying away from the elf as she brought her back up against Aragorn's. They circled each other, watching as the enemy surrounded them.

A torch in hand, Aragorn swiped it back and forth, attempting to keep them away. It would not banish them, but it might give the company the time to flee and to flee far.

Her eyes scanned the faceless hoods of the remnants of man, sword held up threateningly, blade level with their faces, tip at the darkness that replaced their expression.

A single Nazgul screamed and Arathiel's grip falter, free hand clutching her side in pain. It was the one that had given her the wound. It watched her with a tilt of its head, as though they knew the pain that she suffered through.

"Are you well?" Aragorn asked her, swishing the flame again.

"An old wound causing trouble. We must drive them away!" she replied, pushing through the ache and straightening the sword.

"You take half, I take half?" he suggested.

"I suppose that could work."

With nothing left to say, Arathiel sliced her blade through the air, causing a single Nazgul to falter backwards and giving her the opening she needed to escape through a gap that it had created. She brought up her boot, kicking the Nazgul in the chest and guiding him towards the edge of the tower.

Without letting its blade meet hers, she spotted the nearest stone column, jumping slightly to run along its surface and propel herself into the air to launch an attack at the Ringwraith.

Coming around its other side, her sword clashed with theirs harshly, causing the hooded figure to stumble backwards at the unexpected attack. It tripped over discarded rocks and stones, falling off the edge of the tower with a scream.

A louder shriek caught her attention, and only then did she notice that Aragorn had managed to light one of their cloaks with the torch. She wasn't aware that the Nazgul could panic, but that was exactly what it did, rushing away from Strider and tumbling off of the tower.

"You're fighting is in vain," he told Arathiel, her head aching in a way that it hadn't before. "You cannot win against death."

"Arathiel!" Aragorn's screams echoed across Weathertop. Two of the remaining Ringwraiths had surrounded him, threatening to push him from the tower as they stalked closer, Aragorn taking small steps backwards. The torch he had held had fallen from his grip, now resting in the centre of the floor. Between it and her was a single hooded skeleton.

As she ran towards it, the Nazgul rose his sword to strike, but she ducked, sliding underneath his attack and returning to her feet behind him, slashing at his cloak. She knew that she had hit his shrivelling form when it let out a shout, stumbling forward. Not wasting the opportunity, Arathiel jumped, spinning to strengthen her attack before bringing her sword down on the undead again.

It continued to stumble forward, rushing for the edge that she was attempting to lead it towards. That was when she realised that they were fleeing. Death was leaving.

Turning quickly, the elf could see that the King's of Old that had cornered Aragorn were retreating. She questioned why they were leaving. She, Aragorn and they knew that given the chance, they would be able to easily overpower the elf and the descendent of Númenor. They never rest, never tire and they never stop, and yet... they had.