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Barbossa didn't answer immediately, too intent on slashing anything that came his way to respond to pointless questions. Unlike Jack, he was very involved in the fighting. He may not have been able to die, but all the more reason to get some practice in. It was rare enough as it was that he faced a remotely challenging opponent. No sense in letting an opportunity go to waste. "Aye, an' you should be," he finally replied pointedly. "There's more'n enough t' go around; p'raps you should try doin' yer share for once."

The leering orc standing before Elizabeth was cleanly removed of its head by a single swipe of Aragorn's sword. The ranger briefly nodded in her direction, then turned his attention to one of the greater wargs.

Meanwhile, Gandalf wielded his staff in a deadly combination with Glamdring, easily holding his own despite appearances. His primary focus remained defending the halflings, but he was nonetheless cutting a sizeable chunk out of the opposition.

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"Mr. Frodo!" bellowed Sam, flailing wildly with his blade and rushing to his master's defense. He inflicted several ineffectual wounds, before Merry came in like an undecided whirlwind and, if nothing else, occupied the warg's attention for a respectable span of time. In that space Sam managed to grope for something to grab Frodo by and hauled him closer to the fire.

Elizabeth stood still for a moment, staring at the decapitated corpse, and with an effort tore her gaze away. The flaming brand flickered in her grasp, making the advancing orcs look like creatures of nightmare. You just fought undead pirates, she told herself in disgust, and the flame steadied. Turning, she was confronted by a leering face - if it was a leer, how did one tell with these mutilated creatures? - and surprising even herself, thrust the torch in its blackened teeth, causing a resounding howl of pain.

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Gandalf, being somewhat occupied with the warg before him, merely nodded in the Gondorian's direction. If he could just get a moment between attackers...

Barbossa lunged and impaled another opponent, then whirled around to decapitate yet another. As much as he hated to admit it, the younger man was right. It seemed that for every one foe he struck down, another two emerged from the surrounding darkness. He supposed he should be grateful that it was, indeed, darkness surrounding them and that the moon had not yet decided to illuminate the hills, but he found it difficult to be grateful at all when every ounce of energy was being expended on simply deflecting blows. He became faintly aware of a burning sensation on the left side of his chest, but as he was a bit too preoccupied to do much about it, he simply rid himself of the nuissance and resumed fighting.

In the wavering firelight Gandalf seemed suddenly to grow: he rose up, a great menacing shape like the momument of some ancient king of stone set upon a hill. Stooping, he lifted a burning branch from the fire and strode to meet the wolves. They gave back before him. High in the air he tossed the blazing brand. It flared with a sudden white radiance like lightning, and his voice rolled out like thunder. "Naur an edraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth!"

With a roar and a crackle, the tree above him burst into a leaf and bloom of blinding flame. The fire leapt from tree-top to tree-top until the whole hill was crowned with dazzling light. The blades of the defenders shone, and their enemies immediately turned and fled. They did not return.

As the fire died down into falling ash and sparks and smouldering tree stumps, Barbossa became aware of Aragorn's gaze fixed steadily on him. Looking down, he realized that he had only removed enough of the nuissance to keep it from impeding his movement, and that there was, in fact, still part of an arrow protruding from his chest. Without warning, the ranger strode over, placed a hand on Barbossa's chest, grasped the arrow by the remaining bit of the shaft, and extracted it.

Barbossa laughed uneasily. "A bit too close for comfort, that one."

"I have seen many wounds in my years, some graver than others," Aragorn said slowly, his gaze never moving from the man before him. "And you, by all accounts, should be dead."

"Aye, I must have truly uncanny luck..."

"Who are you really?" Aragorn interrupted, his tone quiet but leaving no room for argument. "What are you really?"

Barbossa opened his mouth to offer an explanation, but he was cut off by Gandalf.

"I think you would do best telling us the truth this time, Captain Barbossa."

Elizabeth's sharp hiss of breath as she stifled a gasp of unpleasant surprise was loud in the suddenly uncomfortable silence. Before the seemingly cornered Barbossa could reply she stepped forward, still holding the makeshift torch. Her expression was set, and clearly not sympathetic towards the undead captain nor worried on his behalf. "Cursed Aztec gold," she said flatly, gaze flickering from face to face - some wary, some angry, some almost curious. "It makes them as ghosts...pirate by day, yet as living dead in the moonlight." When she continued it was with an utter lack of concern for either pirate. "They are neither our friends nor our allies. Their curse is not ours." She spoke for herself and Will, as was apparent, and did not look at him for confirmation.

Sam had fallen back as the trees burst into flame, eyes wide and staring, and now looked with no less an expression of wonder on the pirate before him - though it was now mixed with startled fear. "'E's a wight, Mr. Frodo!" the astonished gardener muttered in an undertone.

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"Shut up, Jack," Barbossa snapped irritably.

'Trapped,' was very rarely a word that applied to Hector Barbossa. Even rarer was it that he did not have a few well-placed words to easily regain control of the situation when he did become 'trapped.' At the moment, however, he had a feeling that this situation was turning into one of those rare exceptions. "I never lied," he finally said, steadily meeting Aragorn's gaze. "I just may have failed t' include a few key aspects of th' truth."

"Then it would be in your best interest to include them now," Aragorn pressed. "We are wasting time as it is."

"What we said 'bout our origins was true. I be Captain Hector Barbossa, a pirate who hails from the Caribbean. I neglected to mention that I be cursed as well, but Miss Swann has already graciously explained this."

"In a loose sense of the word," Gandalf replied, breaking out of his silent observation of the discussion. "These 'Aztecs,' then, are a race in your world? What do they have to do with a curse?"

Realizing that he was not going to get away with a casual explanation, Barbossa sighed and leaned against one of the taller boulders surrounding the group. "Were," he corrected. "They were a great empire conquered by the Spanish explorer Hernán Cortés nearly two hundred years ago. To end the slaughter of their people, the Aztecs presented Cortés with a stone chest filled with eight-hundred-eighty-two identical gold coins. But the vengeful gods of the Aztecs cursed the gold as punishment for Cortés's greed. Any mortal what removes but a single piece brings upon himself that same curse. Literally consumed by his own greed, ever to crave, but ne'er to have. No amount o' food can end my hunger, nor drink quench my thirst. An' yet I cannot simply die an' be done with it. That would be too easy. I assure ye that any immortality I possess is not by my own design or desire. If I could, I would die an' end it now." Looking pointedly at Boromir, he added, "An' If I had any desire to kill ye, ye'd be dead."

"You speak only of death," said Legolas, stepping forward with his bow still in hand. His quiver had been halfway emptied and many orcs and wargs lay with arrows nearly embedded up to the fletching in their still carcasses. A light of battle still burned in the elf's eyes, and his expression was far from being trusting as he surveyed the pirate captain. "There are many things worse than death. That you have not harmed us yet says nothing to prove you will not." Hostility was almost tangible in the air between the two. Legolas' memory was far-reaching as one of the immortal Children of Iluvatar, and the torture and maiming of his people ages ago was, if not a memory, a well-known fact by all Elvenkind. That fate, if any, was worse than death by far.

Sam and Merry stood gaping, this history not alike in any way to any they had ever heard. "I still say they're wights," muttered Sam distrustfully, hefting his pack. "How do we know..." and here he went off into unintelligible mutterings, though what could be gleaned was in no way complimentary.

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Barbossa's gaze quickly shifted over to where Jack stood. "Aye, a truly unfortunate series of circumstances," he sneered, glaring sharply at the pirate. For all his shortcomings, Sparrow did possess one uncanny skill: making bad situations even worse. "P'raps if ye weren't a perpetual fool an' exercised some modicum of common sense from time to time, bad luck wouldn't follow ye like a plague."

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