Thanks to everyone reading this! People are finally voting on this story and I appreciate it so much! A shout out to dobblewolf PackWolfLegolas Jaya-Avendel and Cynarr for voting so far!

Cold, sharply gloved fingers grasped Aragorn's chin and the other hand slid coldly down his cheek, causing him to shiver violently and pull away. A hiss of laughter floated from inside the dark hood as the entity in front of Aragorn let him fall back to the floor, and turned to Gulgrin. He seemed to be questioning the orc-captain, although no words were spoken aloud, so Aragorn couldn't be sure. After a few seconds of awkward silence, the orc grunted in compliance and began to drag his prisoner through the arch. As they entered the fortress, the Morgul wound in his shoulder flared with intense pain, and then consciousness suddenly, and unexpectedly, fled.

Aragorn awoke. It was dark, even when he opened his eyes, but that hurt, so he shut them again. For a long time he lay there in the dark, dazed and nauseous from his last round of unconscious. Damn, he thought, where in Arda am I? Of course, the last thing he remembered was being dragged roughly off through that archway. That archway... he shuddered.

As he had been dragged through the cold, gaping stone mouth of the fortress, it had been as if he was caught in a violent storm at sea, being enveloped over and over again with icy water. Then, suddenly, his injured shoulder had flared with agony. It had been like tendrils of hot molten iron had been poured through the wound and had gotten into his bloodstream. The pain had coursed through him for several unbearable seconds until he had finally fainted.

Wherever he was, it was cold, and the air smelt dank and old, sort of as if it had been hanging here for centuries. This told Aragorn that he must be underground, although that hardly helped him to locate the fortress, as nearly all dungeons were underground. In fact, the knowledge only dampened his already grief-stricken spirits further: the huge tower-like structure extended not only upwards, but underground as well. There was no way of knowing how deep in the earth he was or how long he lay there in the pitch-black, but eventually, he heard the shuffling footsteps and low, gutters speech of orcs heading his way.

Though he kept his eyes tightly shut, he could clearly hear the sound of a badly-oiled bolt being slid, or rather jerked and heaved at with some effort, out of place on the other side of the door. Silence. More footsteps. More guttural speech. A hideous, low laugh: obviously orcish. Then he was hauled upright by many rough hands. He tried to resist, and was more surprised than ever when his limbs did not move. Not one inch. Unfortunately for him, his nerves had not yet been damaged by the poisons and illness that had weakened him so drastically, and they screamed in pain at the careless handling of his already thoroughly bruised and wounded body. He would of screamed too, but all he could manage was a low moan of discomfort.

His eyed flickered open, and he was shocked to find that all was still black. The orcs could see well enough in the dark, he supposed. They must not have brought a light with them when they had come here. Nor any light on the way out. Aragorn thought miserably. The dark was doing nothing to slow his descent into the pit of despair he had found himself falling deeper and deeper into lately.

Of course, the orcs had brought a lantern with them, and unbeknownst to Aragorn, had carried it right into the small cell with them and all the way back along the many twisting corridors through which they had dragged his unresponsive form until they reached the chamber they had been headed for all along.

For the proud, stubborn human, it was torture to be dragged through the many corridors in what he thought to be complete and utter darkness, his mind trapped inside his failing body, unable to fight off the despicable touch of the foul creatures who carried him. The darkness pressed in around him, swirling like mist to ensnare him, whispering softly to him. Murderer. The darkness whispered. She will die, and you will be at fault for it. You. Murderer. Murderer... Aragorn tried to block out the noise, tried to cry out against it, to deny it, but he could do nothing but listen as it continued to confirm what his father had told him so many times, real or dream. Murderer, the darkness whispered. Murderer...

Eventually the orcs halted. The soft whispering of the darkness was cut off by the orcs' growling voices. And then Aragorn was thrown forward onto a cold, hard floor, and the door slammed behind him. As he hit the rock ground, his shoulder sparked in agony once more. His back felt as if it was on fire where he had been whipped and then hurled into trees uncountable times. All the bruises covering him seemed to light up in intense pain. Another moan escaped his lips as pain covered his consciousness. And then he was lying, crumpled in a heap on the floor, staring into the pitch black nothing that was his vision. From out of the eternal dark, he heard a voice. It was a soft, hissing voice, more like an exhale of breath than speech. But the words were there all the same. "Who are you?"

It was him. "I am a murderer." Was all Aragorn could think of to reply. His voice sounded dead and was no more than a barely audible whisper, but the Nazgûl heard.
"Good" it hissed. "Murderer. Murderer..."

And then there was a blinding flash of pain in the shoulder wound as gloved fingers pressed down on it hard. The pain was so bad that Aragorn felt as though somebody had just thrown him into Orodruin. The pain shot through him like a dart; every nerve burned and every muscle ached to the bone. The last thing he remembered was the icy cold that washed over him, radiating form the Nazgûl's gloved fingers still pressing down on the Morgul wound.

Aragorn came back to consciousness a few seconds later, shaking all over. The wraith must had removed his hand, for the pain had lessened, if only slightly. But for Aragorn, the drenching cold had not abated. It clung to him as frost clings to a blade of grass. He was shivering all over, although that was just about the only movement he could make. "Now. Let us begin." The wraith whispered menacingly in his ear.

"Who- What- Where are you?" He stammered.

"Open your eyes and you'll see." The wraith replied. Grudgingly, Aragorn complied and was confused when he found only black once more. It must have shown on his face because the wraith laughed, a high, cruel sound that chilled him to the bone.

"It is light enough for even a half-blind human to see in here." Another laugh. "How amusing. Well I suppose that would mean that you have no way of knowing when or where I shall hurt you next. Shall have no way of knowing when I am going to do this."

And with that, the Nazgûl reapplied the pressure the Aragorn's wound, and this time, consciousness slipped away for good.

A bit of an abrupt ending I know! Please comment and VOTE if you enjoyed! Thank you!

Also I read another FanFic where morgul poisoning caused you to lose your sight so all credit goes to Cassia and Siobhan who wrote the Mellon chronicles for that idea!