In Shadow Realm

Hello again!

Like some (certainly not all!) first loves, For the Love of the Lord of the White Tree will probably remain closest and dearest to me for a long while. But I cherish the characters so much that I will keep them alive for as long as I can through more stories. This one is being written for that purpose.

In Shadow Realm takes place after the events in For the Love of the Lord of the White Tree.  Several references will be made to persons or events in the previous story, so if you’ve never read that one, you may wish to.

Disclaimer: All characters, events and places in my stories that can be found in Tolkien's books are his; I am merely borrowing them. Everything else has sprung from my own imagination, or has been inspired by other writers’ stories. To all these writers, I express my thanks.

This disclaimer applies to every chapter in this story.

Summary:  

As Aragorn walks the shadowed road of incomplete redemption to an unknown end, he finds light in the devotion of an elven friend who has promised to tread all his paths with him, and hope in the steadfastness of all who love him. 

Note: This story contains elements that some may consider AU.

CHAPTER 1: LIGHT AND SHADOW

Deep in the Shadow Land

Hear the bitter cry:

Return, return, O King of Men,

Where the dead do not die.

Lay sword, bow and helm

Before the Holding Gate.

Beyond, in Shadow Realm,

The Twice Forgotten wait.

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Never before had the Fields of the Pelennor outside the White City seen so much merriment and joyful celebration as they did the day and night they celebrated the tenth year of the reign of King Elessar.

A blue sky and happy sun smiled upon the scene from the morn of that day, and when the sun grew too eager to share its warmth, the residents of Minas Tirith and farming families around the City mingled and made merry under the cover of blue and white tents, or in the shade of long, spreading branches of the tall trees planted and nurtured by Prince Legolas and the elves of Ithilien. Jesters, jugglers, vendors, singers, musicians, storytellers, puppeteers – young and old – had gathered to eat, drink, talk, and be entertained, and even trade a little. All day long, drink and food, much of which was supplied by the kitchens of Minas Tirith, or sold by the finest bakers and cooks from around, flowed as abundantly and as freely as the music and mirth, for Queen Arwen Undomiel made certain that the King’s subjects who had come from afar would not go hungry or thirsty.

Seated under a low tree with long branches that hung over them like a roof was a collection of merry hobbits, grown ones and little ones, their heads of curly hair hardly ever still, their mouths no less busily engaged in chatter or the consumption of all things tasty. A little distance away stood a sturdy dwarf, who was animatedly recounting one of his endless tales to a small group of tall elves with amused expressions on their fair faces. Two of them looked so alike it was most difficult to tell one from the other. Beside them, with a patient look on his face and his arms across his impeccably attired chest, was a stately figure with shining golden hair, and next to him, smiling quietly at the dwarf, was a much younger elf graced with the same radiant hair and countenance. Behind them, several other elves in green and brown studied the festive surroundings with relaxed interest.

The air rang with the light notes of lutes and harps and flutes as they blended with lilting voices, and even robust tunes usually heard within the confines of inns and bars found release in the festive air. The wind was alive with melodies to uplift and cheer; it teased the joyful strains into the cracks of the City’s stone walls and blended them with the gentle flutters of the King’s Standard on the turrets of the Citadel. To the birds that flew and glided over the fields that day, it seemed that the whole kingdom had burst into song.

Indeed, on the day they remembered the crowning of King Elessar, his realm was vibrant with sweet harmonies and exquisite trills and joyous refrains.

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And the Shadow Realm shook with the mournful wails of the Twice Forgotten.

Aaaiiiieeeeeaaaaa… the lament of unearthly voices, rising and falling in eerie cadences, now angry, now despairing, whispered tortuously in dark recesses, to swell and push against their unyielding confines – till even the rock walls of their prison quivered and trembled in torment.

And once more, the hills whispered the presence of the living dead.

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When the evening sun began to close out the brightness of day, draping curtains of gold and red over the sky and fields and white stone walls of the City, King Elessar had met and talked to some two thousand of his contented subjects who had come to show their support and appreciation of their ruler. Everywhere he stopped to speak to his people, they bowed before his regal bearing and basked in his quiet humility, and when he had passed, men followed his figure with respect in their eyes, and women gazed with veiled or open admiration at his tall frame and remembered the sincerity in the grey eyes – at once youthful and wizened, reflective and piercing. 

No less in awe of him were those who looked upon him at the royal banquet that night, and the hearts of many in the Great Hall of the Citadel were filled with love and loyalty. Splendid was his form in dark blue and silver as he sat between his queen, the Evenstar, for whom no match in beauty could be found, and the commanding and resplendent figure of Thranduil Oropherion, elven king of Greenwood.

Elessar’s speech about the future of Gondor reflected his manner: of few words, filled with sincerity, and laced with wisdom. 

His faithful Steward, Faramir, led all in raising a glass of the King’s finest wine to the future of the Realm: “Blessed be Gondor and the Realm of King Elessar!”

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Curse you and your kingdom, heir of Isildur, for what you have done, and for what you did not do! Curse you if you should fail to return.

And the loud whispers grew into garbled murmurs with the swearing of the discontent. 

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“…and for the gift of Gondor’s first ship that now stands proudly at Harlond, our gateway to the Anduin, I extend gratitude that no words can fully capture, to my cherished friend and companion, Legolas, prince of Greenwood, and the elves of Ithilien.”

As the huge group of guests cheered and applauded, Elessar ignored decorum to warmly embrace his most beloved friend, whispering into the elven ear: “Hannon le, mellon nin, hannon le for the gift.”  

“It is but a small thing, Estel,” the elf returned softly.

The king drew back and shook his head, looking squarely into the startling blue eyes with deep meaning in his own grey ones. “I meant the gift of yourself, Legolas, and that is no more small thing.”

The words took the elf by surprise for a moment; then his grip on the king’s shoulders tightened, and his smile was as heartfelt as his reply: “Likewise then, Aragorn, for you give me a similar gift, and greater in value.”

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Cursed be they who went to water! Heartless betrayers! Naught of our kin are you!  

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“Poppa, poppa, look! Fireworks, Poppa!” cried little Elanor, her round eyes wide with fascination as she, like her parents, their close friends and a thousand other pairs of eyes, watched the bright display in the night sky above the Fields. “Poppa Gimli made fireworks!”

“Aye, Elanor,” Samwise Gamgee agreed with a smile. “Big, beautiful bursts of radiant flame,” he observed, before his face took on a reflective expression. “And bright, golden showers that fall from the sky… to vanish just before they touch our upturned faces…” he added softly, “just like Gandalf used to make them.”

Merry and Pippin looked at him and each other, nodding and smiling at the fond memory.

From the fields came cheers and laughter of many children. And amidst the merriment were heard glad shouts from the mouths of their parents:

“Long live King Elessar! Elessar! Elessar!”  

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Elessaaaaar… Elessaaaaar…

And from the lipless mouths of the Twice Forgotten, oozing forth like vile vapor, came their wish for the king:  

Your end draws nigh.  

Note: I don’t know if I can update this new story as frequently as I did the last one, but to the ‘friends of old’ who have come to walk with me again anyway: Thank you.  :–)   I look forward to meeting new ones as well.   

CHAPTER 2: A MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS

The day after the banquet found the hobbits once again gathered under a tree, sitting on a large blanket and relishing a hearty second breakfast. In the few days they had been in the White City, they had surprised and baffled the cooks of Arwen’s royal kitchen, who simply could not understand how hobbits who were hardly bigger than their young children could consume two breakfasts, elevenses, an enormous lunch, tea, supper and various in-between-meal snacks. The Queen’s chief cook had to shake his head over the amount of food this particular group of guests was able to polish off in a remarkably short amount of time, and there had also been a sudden great demand for mushrooms, which kept the kitchen staff and their errand boys busy outdoors.

In addition, there was a sudden large order for the City’s finest ales, and there was no doubt among the City’s barkeepers whom the supply was for; after all, the reputation of the Shire’s Green Dragon had spread south to Rohan and the White City, and a number of the folk from both those areas – including the Dwarf Lord of the Glittering Caves – were now here for the celebrations honoring King Elessar. Indeed, one of those folk was now enjoying a mug of the City’s finest.  

“It’s almost as good as the beer in the Green Dragon, eh, Pip?” Merry declared, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his cousin Pippin and causing the latter to splutter on the ale he was drinking.

“Hoy, steady on, Merry! Can’t a hobbit drink in peace?” the latter protested, wiping the froth that had dribbled on to his chin.

“You should have slapped him harder,” said Samwise Gamgee to Merry, before cocking an eyebrow at Pippin. “It’s much too early in the day to be drinking that stuff.”

“Never you mind how early or late it is,” the younger one retorted. “This is good brew, and I can hold it.”

Merry gave a loud snort and chuckle, clearly debating the claim. “Oh, really, Pip?” he challenged. “I bet you’ll be walking a jagged path before – ”

“Now, leave him be, you two,” cooed Rosie, smiling at Merry and her husband. “As long as he doesn’t start making a fool of us.”

“Now there is a smart woman, Sam,” Pippin said smugly. “She still knows how to have fun even though she’s the wife of a Mayor!” 

“That’s right, Sam,” Rosie said, maintaining her sweet smile. “As long as the only fool he makes is of himself – why harass him?”

Pippin began to nod smugly before he realized how cleverly Rosie had created a false sense of support, and Merry guffawed at the glare the younger hobbit then gave the wife of Mayor Gamgee. Pippin’s wife of one year giggled shyly, amused at what was going on but not wishing to appear partial to those who had embarrassed her husband.

“Oh, why can’t you just learn to put your legs up and unwind from being parents?” Pippin groaned. “The little ones are being taken care of, we’re in a peaceful place – ” 

“When you and Diamond have a little one, Pip, you’ll understand,” Sam said with a long-suffering look on his face, missing the blush that colored the cheeks of the young wife. “You have to set an example – ”

“Noooo, not one of your ‘talks’ now, Sam,” the younger hobbit protested. “Let’s have a good time. All our friends are here – ”

“And here comes one now!” Merry announced, looking in the direction of a stout dwarven figure striding towards them. Beside him, radiant as the sun and light as the late spring breeze, walked Legolas, and not far behind them came the King of Rohan with his yellow hair, flanked by the tall, dark-haired sons of Elrond. Merry sprang to his feet at the approach of the Horse Lord, remembering his allegiance to Rohan, but Éomer immediately motioned for him to be at ease.

“We are friends here, Master Merry,” the Rohirric king assured him, and the hobbit’s head of brown curls bobbed in compliance before they both lowered themselves on to the grass with the others.

“Well, is there any left for me?” Gimli’s gruff voice demanded jovially and expectantly, and broad grins appeared on the faces of the hobbits. Soon the old friends and acquaintances from Rohan, Rivendell, the Greenwood and the Shire were once again exchanging news and stories amidst much teasing, mirth, and mugs of ale. Elladan and Elrohir found in Merry and Pippin the same effervescence and zest they had seen in their father’s old friend Bilbo, who had always been a welcome guest at Imladris, and the twin elves honored that memory by indulging the young hobbits’ passion, listening diligently to their ardent declarations about the wholesome taste of ale.

It was a heartwarming scene, this reunion of several races from different parts of Middle-earth: a blend of various colors on a single canvas, complementing each other to paint a picture of peace against the green of spring and clear blue skies above a free Gondor.

But Sam, sitting a little away from the noisy group, watched it with a mixture of gladness and a little sadness. He quickly wiped away a small tear that had somehow gathered at the corner of his eye, just moments before a soft, fair voice reached his ears:

“They will always be with us, Sam,” it said, and the hobbit turned around to see the golden elf seat himself gracefully at his side, with a comforting look in his eyes.

“Aye, Legolas, that they are,” the hobbit replied gratefully, “though I miss them proper.”

The elf looked at him and smiled in understanding. “So do we all, my friend,” he said, “and it helps to remember that they are at peace.” He turned his eyes back to the group, studying them fondly. “We still have each other.”

Elf and hobbit sat in silence for a while, both recalling the quiet gathering of the remaining members of the Fellowship in Aragorn’s private chambers the night before, when the festivity of the banquet had subsided, and what remained was the serenity of easy companionship:

“My friends,” the King of Gondor said, his grey eyes looking at the three hobbits, dwarf and elf in turn as they sat in comfortable chairs in a rough circle. “Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to have you here at this tenth-year celebration of Sauron’s end and Gondor’s rebirth, which we helped to bring about through much sacrifice.” Aragorn received reflective smiles in response. “It has also been ten years since we were all gathered like this, and the years seem to have treated you well.”

“As they have you, Strider,” Sam replied, lapsing into the use of the familiar name by which they had first known Aragorn. “Gondor looks in fine shape.”

“And you look as if you had never lived in the wilds!” Pippin chimed in, drawing chuckles from the others.

Merry, however, threw his cousin an exasperated glance. “What he means to say – when he is not tripping over his tongue – is that the years sit kindly on you, Aragorn. You look fine.”

No one saw the slight frown that flitted across Legolas’ face at those words, least of all Aragorn, who merely grinned at them.

“Thank you, Masters Meriadoc and Peregrin,” the King said graciously, “and may I say the same of you.”

“Of course, Legolas does not look a day older,” Pippin continued in his easy manner, “and the Cave air must be agreeing with Gimli as well – look at his generous middle!”

Leaping out of his chair, the owner of the generous middle issued a roar and an observation about a “pipsqueak no taller than one’s chest” that heralded a debate between dwarf and hobbit about the former’s girth and the latter’s height, or lack thereof. The debate provided much amusement for everyone else, who happily fueled it with well-timed remarks.

But long minutes after, when the laughter had subsided into soft chuckling, and the banter had tapered off, Aragorn turned pensive again, a quiet smile gracing his lips.

“I have missed your companionship,” he said, fingering his glass of wine. “I drink to your good health, and no less do my thoughts dwell on the others… on those who are not with us tonight.”

“Aye, and may they remember us too,” Gimli added, raising his glass of wine as the others did theirs, and receiving nods in return.

All speech halted, and for some minutes after, they remained in bittersweet reminiscence as noiseless as the gentle flicker of flames from torches standing as silent witnesses upon the walls. There was not a hint of chatter even from the talkative Pippin as their memories retraced paths they had trod on together and separately on the Quest, their thoughts often straying to Frodo and Gandalf – and even to Boromir, for he too, had been part of them for a while, and had died as one of the Fellowship. The memories left them with soft smiles and not a dry eye among them

“Aye…I hope they remember us,” Gimli repeated, “wherever they may be.”

“They are in a better place,” Aragorn said almost under his breath, keeping his eyes on the lush carpet beneath their feet and missing the knitting of fine eyebrows in response to his words. 

“Perhaps,” came the soft elvish voice to his right, “but only at some point.”

Aragorn looked up to see a pair of blue eyes trained on him, startling in their intensity, but before he could seek clarification, Merry piped up.

“Well, I know Frodo would have liked to be at Pip’s wedding,” he said brightly, returning cheer to the little gathering, “especially if he were to know what happened after, in the bedroo – ow! That hurt, Pip!”

“What? What happened after? What did I miss?” the dwarf sat up eagerly as Merry evaded a second punch in the arm from his cousin and Sam chuckled. “I knew I should have stayed a few more days, but this dratted elf here was in a hurry to return,” he grumbled, throwing Legolas a glance.

Legolas raised his eyebrows as Aragorn grinned. “As I recall,” the elf said patiently, “it was a certain dwarf who insisted on making the journey back with me. I had no fetters on you, nor a leash around your neck.”

The dwarf muttered something about trusting an elf to have an answer to everything, before turning his attention back to the hobbits and demanding a recount of what he had missed. Soon, the room was filled with chatter again, and the exchange of much news, and the guards standing alert outside the closed doors of the King’s chambers heard the laughing tones of various voices: gruff, fair, bubbly, deep… but all filled with warmth for a fellowship long missed.

The same kind of warm laughter from the company under the trees floated across to the elf and hobbit now, and not for the first time, Legolas wished that the King of Gondor could be here with them, instead of being closeted behind stone walls with his Councilors. Perhaps today’s meeting would be shorter, he thought, and perhaps he would soon hear the man stride over and call to them.

“Legolas…”

The voice broke into the elf’s thoughts, and he turned to see not Aragorn, but Sam studying him. The hobbit was fidgeting, his stubby but nimble fingers plucking at blades of grass, as if he had something to say but did not quite know how to start. Legolas waited, but the Mayor of Hobbiton seemed no closer to giving voice to his thoughts.  

“Yes, Sam?” Legolas prompted when the hobbit cleared his throat for the fourth time. “There is something you wish to say…?”

Looking uncomfortable, the hobbit shifted his position on the grass and rubbed a finger across the bottom of his nose, but before he could resume speech, a fair voice reached their ears.

“Bridhon nin?”

Sam swung around to see the tall elf brown-haired Hamille standing a respectful distance away.

“Bridhon nin,” he addressed his prince again. “We are ready to leave. Prince Imrahil awaits you.”

Legolas nodded and rose to his feet in one smooth, swift movement, but he threw Sam a questioning look, the unvoiced query on his lips.

Sam hesitated a second before he waved his hand and smiled reassuringly. “Aah, it can wait,” he said nonchalantly.

The elf prince did not appear too convinced by Sam’s light tone, but replied: “Anytime, Sam.” As he turned to go, he was stopped by Sam’s question.

“Where are you off to, Master Elf, if I may ask?”

Legolas gave the hobbit a cryptic smile, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “Of course you may ask,” he replied, “but there is another who should be giving you the news.” He gave Sam a quick nod and waved to the rest of the group before leaving with Hamille.  

Sam’s round eyes followed the two figures and their graceful strides for a while before returning to the cheerful group under the trees, hoping that Elladan and Elrohir might be able to tell him what Legolas would not, but they were either truly ignorant of the elf prince’s plans, or were just as tight-lipped. Frustrated by his efforts, Sam shook his head and mumbled: “Elves! It would be easier to squeeze juice out of stone.”

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Long evening shadows stretched across the grass later that day, much as the long legs of the King of Gondor extended from the seat of a wooden bench near the stables, on which he sat awaiting his friend’s return. It was not often that he had a quiet hour to himself, but Arwen was resting before dinner, Faramir was with his own family, and as far as he knew, Gimli and the hobbits were again attempting to teach his foster brothers about the incomparable pleasures to be derived from a mug of finely brewed ale. He felt a little sorry for the twins, and he would rescue them later, but at the moment, he was more than content to sit in solitude till Legolas returned from his errand. Guards hovered at a discreet distance, knowing how much their king needed this respite.

Aragorn’s thoughts strayed for a while to the City folk in the lower levels, who he knew would be concluding their businesses and preparing for the close of another day. Eventually, his thoughts strayed even further, and then the only sounds that played on the borders of his consciousness were the easy chatter of the stable lads, an occasional snort of a horse, the faint clip of shears, the thump of a distant hammer, and the sweet chirping of starlings.

All of a sudden, a feeling of restiveness welled in him, coming from nowhere to flood through him, making him strangely nervous. Aragorn shifted on his seat, and he rested one elbow on an arm of the bench and rubbed his right temple with two fingers. For a moment, he wondered what had brought on this disturbing sensation… and his mind wandered back to the conversation he had had with Legolas the night before, after the rest of the Fellowship had left his chambers: 

As the group filed out the door to rejoin their families, and Gimli and the hobbits talked about lighting up some pipeweed in the mild night air before bed, Legolas held Aragorn back with a light touch on his elbow. The King gave his friend a questioning look as they walked a little way back into the room. 

Turning to face the man, Legolas asked quietly so that the guards would not hear them: “Does something ail you, Aragorn?”

The King started, and an immediate denial hung on the edge of his tongue, but when he saw the elven eyes holding his own, studying the slight shadows that he knew were under his eyes, he sighed and smiled wryly; the elf knew him too well. “Is it obvious?” he asked, turning away.

Legolas stopped him again with a hand on his shoulder. “Nay,” he said, “but where the eye fails to see, the heart can perceive much.” He gripped his friend’s shoulder before releasing it. “I have noticed these shadows for a few days now. What is wrong, mellon nin?”

Aragorn brushed a hand through his hair: a habit that always brought a smile to those closest to him, as it did to Legolas now, despite his concern.

“I don’t rightly know, Legolas,” the King replied. “My sleep has been restless of late. But beyond that, nothing is amiss.”

Legolas’ brows narrowed. “Restless? How so?”

“Just… my sleep is fitful.” A pause followed before Aragorn added: “I wake up feeling… disturbed.”

The elf hesitated before asking. “Dreams, Aragorn? Nightmares?”

“Not exactly… merely a vague feeling of uneasiness.” 

“How long?”

“A week before the celebrations began.”

“Arwen knows, of course.”

Aragorn grinned. “How could she not notice? But I would not have her worry; the little one she carries already tires her.” His eyes softened at the thought. “I have cited exhaustion as the reason for my own…um…discomfort.”

“But it is not?” 

The King shook his head. “As I said, I do not know the cause, but exhaustion would be the easiest thing to blame, would it not?” He laughed lightly and looked at the elf, not liking the anxiety he saw on the fair face. “There is no need for undue worry, Legolas. It is most likely a passing ailment.”

The elf was hardly convinced, but there did not seem anything he could do at the moment. “You will tell us if it worsens, Aragorn?” he demanded gently.

The King nodded and promised: “I will.”

Aragorn smiled wryly at the memory of the conversation.

Little escaped Legolas’ scrutiny, and the man knew that the elf did not for an instant accept exhaustion as the reason for his strange malady. Still – there was truly nothing he could tell his elven friend that he had not already revealed last night. And this was, he hoped, but a passing disorder.

Thinking back to the conversations of the previous night reminded Aragorn of a question he himself had for the elf, but the sound of horses brought Aragorn back to the present, and he looked up to see the golden-haired elf and Hamille riding into the stable grounds. The elf looked pleasantly surprised to see Aragorn, presumably awaiting his return. After dismounting and whispering to his fiery stallion, the elf handed the animal over to Hamille and walked towards the King.

“How did it go, Legolas?” the man asked, smiling, as his friend approached him, his face a little flushed and his long hair lifting in the evening breeze.

“It is ready and waiting for you, my lord,” the elf quipped, returning the smile and not expecting the frown that immediately formed on Aragorn’s face. 

“Not even in jest, Elf,” the man chastised gently, remembering the last time the elf had used the term in less than pleasant circumstances.

The elf drew in a breath and grimaced. “Forgive me, Estel,” he said apologetically. “That was thoughtless.”

Easy, Aragorn, the man told himself immediately, as he smiled reassuringly. “Nay, Legolas, it was not. It is merely my own quirky mood at work,” he said dismissively, then changed the subject quickly. “Imrahil – he has ridden ahead?”

“Aye,” came the reply from the elf, who moved to sit on the bench next to his friend. “All will be ready when we arrive.”

Aragorn nodded in approval and looked at the flushed face of his friend, remembering the question he wished to ask him. He glanced briefly at his guards and decided to speak in Sindarin so that they would not understand the conversation.

“Legolas… what did you mean last night?” the King queried suddenly, fixing his steely grey eyes on the elf and catching him unawares. When Legolas showed incomprehension, the man added: “Last night, when I mentioned the Undying Lands, and you said that… that…” Aragorn waved his hand absently.

“That it may be a better place, but only at some point?” the elf finished, understanding Aragorn’s question now.

“Yes,” said the man. “What did you mean?”

Legolas smiled and shook his head. “It was nothing important,” he replied.

“Elf, you know me better than to think I will not keep hounding you till you tell me…”

The man kept his eyes on his companion so unyieldingly that the elf snorted lightly and gave him a teasing glare. “I would have thought you would know.”

Aragorn cocked an eyebrow and leaned back without looking away. “Enlighten me then. Do the Firstborn view Valinor differently? Why would it a better place only at some point?”

The elf sighed and cast his eyes downward to the green grass around their feet. “What I meant, Estel, was that… some day… some day…the Lands would be a better place to go to,” he said quietly. “But till that day… my own place is here with you.”  Lifting his head to face the man squarely, he finished: “And till that day, Estel – there is no better place to be.”

Aragorn swallowed, feeling foolish. He saw the open sincerity in the blue eyes that accompanied the simple, heartfelt words, and he thought that indeed, he should have understood what the elf meant. He should not have had to ask.

But this he did know now, without a doubt: here, with this elf, with this friend, was a fellowship that would last far, far longer than ten years.

He smiled gratefully at his companion, speechless, and before he could say anything else, Legolas stood abruptly, grinning.  “Now, if you do not mind, Aragorn, I would welcome a hot bath before dinner!” the elf declared.

As the King rose to accompany him back to the Citadel, the elf’s eyes glittered and he added: “And you will have the honor of breaking the news to the others then. Rest well tonight, my friend, for tomorrow, a ship will greet her Captain on her maiden voyage to Dol Amroth.”

That night – perhaps because of the exciting prospect of sailing his own ship, or perhaps he was comforted by the warm presence of old friends – Aragorn’s sleep was more pleasant than it had been in a week.

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But for the Twice Forgotten awaiting the coming of the King – there would be no rest at all.

Note: Anyone who's not familiar with the other time Legolas called Aragorn "my lord" and is interested in finding out, please refer to Chapters 10 and 24 of my other story.

CHAPTER 3: JOURNEY

The morning dawned fair and bright, but more exuberant still was the mood of the hobbit and human children who could not sit still in the carriages that would bear them to the landings at Harlond.  They had hardly been able to contain their excitement since the previous night when King Elessar had proudly announced after dinner that the Star of Eärendil would be making its first journey down the Anduin to the Bay of Belfalas, and that all his friends were invited to be on board with him and his family. As the room erupted in cheers and a hundred questions, Aragorn’s grey eyes had sought and found the blue ones of the elven friend who had made all this possible, and even from across the room, the King’s delight had been enough to draw a smile of satisfaction from the elf prince.

More smiles of unquenchable joy were what filled the carriages this morning.

“Are we really, truly going to stay in the sea, Momma?” Elanor asked her mother for the fifth time as the carriages began to move, eliciting a laugh from the ladies.

“Well, we won’t be in the sea, sweetheart, but we will be on the shores of it,” Rosie replied with a bright smile. “Prince Imrahil has kindly agreed to host us for two days when we arrive in Dol Amroth.”

“What time will we get there? Will the ship be fast? Can I steer it? Will the horses go on board? Will my Bear be afraid?”

Queen Arwen, the Lady Éowyn, and the wives of Sam Gamgee and Peregrin Took suddenly found themselves overwhelmed with questions from a group of impatient little ones on their hands. They did their best to keep the children occupied and breathed sighs of relief when the carriages finally departed from the City and the passing scenery kept the youngsters enraptured.   

Merry, Sam and Pippin waved to Gimli as they rode off with the first escort of guards, at whose head rode Faramir. The dwarf waved back, then turned to Elladan and Elrohir, who were already on their horses. Gimli and the twin elves, as well as the second small group of guards who would ride with them, were waiting for Aragorn and Legolas to say their farewells to Thranduil, for the elf king would be making his own journey on land back to the Greenwood as soon as the ship-bound travelers left. Éomer had already departed early for Rohan, being unable to put off previously arranged commitments.

“May your return home be swift and pleasant, my lord,” Aragorn said with a parting gesture to Thranduil and moved aside to a discreet distance from him and his son.

The tall elf king beamed a smile at Legolas, and grasped his shoulders affectionately. Remembering how he had very nearly lost this son to a mad man bent on revenge not so many months ago, Thranduil could not help the tinge of concern in his voice as he told the prince – in full hearing of the elves of Ithilien – not to look for trouble.

Legolas groaned a little as he rejoined with a disclaimer. “I do not seek it, Adar,” he insisted, and everyone could almost hear a hint of pertness in his tone when he added: “I flee from it, but it pursues me of its own accord.”

The elf king cocked an eyebrow at his son’s remark. “Well then, ion nin, I have only one piece of advice for you,” he said wryly. “Learn to run faster.”  

Amidst the suppressed sniggers from the other elves at this rare quip from their king, Thranduil quickly planted a kiss on each of his son’s reddening cheeks. Despite the lighthearted words he had just uttered, he now whispered quietly, unable to keep the slight unease out of his voice: “Take care on this journey, Greenleaf.”

Already needled by his father’s earlier ribbing, Legolas now wondered when his father would stop worrying about him, but he suppressed his chagrin and smiled reassuringly. “It will be safe, Adar. Prince Imrahil’s shipbuilders are the best –”

“I refer not to the ship, Legolas, and you know it,” the elf king interrupted. “Take care of this,” he added, placing a strong hand on his son’s chest, over his heart. 

For a few moments, the two fair figures stood stock still, and the only movement on their forms was the rippling of their long golden hair in the morning breeze rivaling the radiance of shifting sun beams. They looked at each other with a depth of love in their eyes, silently sending and receiving an unspoken concern. From where he stood, Aragorn’s sharp ears caught Thranduil’s warning, and he tensed a little as well, for he shared the elf king’s sentiments.

Legolas broke the silence. “I will, Adar,” he replied. “Saes, do not be troubled; I will be well. Ride safely yourself.”

Not wishing to dwell on his misgivings or to dispel the pleasant mood of the ship-bound company, Thranduil released a deep breath and nodded. He threw his son and Aragorn a final smile and walked over to where Hamille and his kin were waiting with the escort of Greenwood elves. On a sudden thought, the King turned abruptly to Hamille and surprised the elf with a broad grin.

“By the way, Hamille,” he said lightly, “you might wish to make another visit home soon. I hear that there will be a particularly good fall of chestnuts this year.”

Startled silence seized the elves for a moment before the whole group of Firstborns – save Hamille – burst into silvery laughter. Aragorn, Gimli and the sons of Elrond looked on in puzzlement, till a chuckling Legolas swiftly explained that Hamille had a particular fondness for roasted chestnuts, which had earned him the nickname of ‘Chestnut’ as an elfling.

Hamille, with cheeks as red as Legolas’ had been, bowed his head and cleared his throat. “Aye, Aran nin,” he replied softly to his king.

A smile remained on Thranduil’s face as he patted the elf’s shoulder, but his tone turned more serious when he whispered to him, hiding the words behind the noise of the group’s talk and laughter: “Look after him, Hamille. His pain will not be light.”

The elf’s head jerked up and saw the depth of concern in Thranduil’s eyes, and he realized how cleverly the sage King had used the laughter to prevent his son from hearing what he was now charging the younger elf with.

“Aye, Aran nin,” Hamille repeated quietly, though it was for a different reason now. “And I am glad that my... ahem… attachment… to chestnuts… is of some use after all.”

Now the King laughed aloud as well, with no one else the wiser about his little exchange with Hamille. He nodded gratefully to his son’s loyal friend and walked over to his waiting steed.

After Thranduil’s departure, Aragorn and his company prepared to leave for Harlond, directing their horses towards the exit from the seventh level of the City. But they had advanced only a short distance before Aragorn halted them. Puzzled, they turned back to witness an unexpected scene.

Legolas had dismounted and was engaged in what seemed to be a debate between himself and the little group of elves from Ithilien. Some were on their horses, some were just getting off, and Hamille appeared to be speaking for all of them. Their speech was in Sindarin, so only Aragorn and the twins from Imladris could understand them.

“What in blazing peat flames are those blasted elves quarrelling about now?” Gimli grumbled.

No one responded immediately to the Dwarf, but Aragorn frowned and exchanged a knowing look with Elladan and Elrohir before asking: “I thought it had been settled?”

“Apparently not,” Elladan remarked, shrugging his slim shoulders, and watched the King and his twin trot their horses back to the group of elves. Turning to Gimli, he quickly briefed the Dwarf on the subject of the elves’ contention, while the listening Dwarf nodded in uneasy understanding.

“It cannot be pleasant for Legolas either way,” the elf finished before he moved off to join his brothers.  

Elladan’s explanation kindled in the dwarf a spark of concern for his elven friend, but with his limited knowledge of Sindarin, he could not tell which way the debate was going. He tried to obtain some clue from what he could see, which, unfortunately, was of little use: none of the voices were raised, nor were there any angry gestures; only the expressions of displeasure on the fair faces of the Firstborn told the watching company that they were indeed in disagreement over something. This observation only served to annoy Gimli, who could not fathom how elves – even in an argument – still managed to look composed.

“Well, if they’re bickering – at least throw some emotion into it to keep the rest of us entertained!” the Dwarf muttered gruffly, masking his concern. “It’s so… so… disgustingly bland!”

Gimli’s remarks elicited laughter from the Gondorian escort, but the dwarf did not share their mirth despite being the source of it. He did not like the tenseness he saw on his friend’s face as the prince spoke with the elves in his service. And neither did Aragorn and the sons of Elrond as they witnessed the little argument from a discreet distance.

“You will all remain,” Legolas instructed firmly. “You know my wishes.”

“And you know we would do anything you asked of us, Bridhon nin, but the King commands otherwise,” Hamille rejoined calmly. “You cannot expect us to let you go alone.” The other elves nodded in consensus, murmuring their agreement.

The elf prince was incredulous. “I need no surveillance,” he protested, “and I never heard him give the command.”

Hamille sighed. “It was whispered only to me,” he stated patiently, bowing his head when he saw Legolas’ eyes harden.

Aragorn could see the firm set of the prince’s mouth and knew that this argument was upsetting him a great deal. The man recalled Thranduil’s earlier words and knew they had somehow contributed to this contention between Legolas and the other elves now. Feeling a little disturbed, he dismounted and approached the elves slowly.

“Your loyalty to my Adar  is beyond reproach, Hamille, but you… all of you… also made me a vow when we built the ship,” Legolas reminded the elves evenly, sweeping his eyes over the group. “No one goes to the Bay except me.”

Aragorn saw the elves turn to one another with some distress in their faces, not knowing how to extricate themselves from a vow they had made earlier. Silence reigned over them for a few moments, and Legolas turned his attention back to Hamille, who stood with bowed head.

“And you, Hamille?” the prince demanded a little sadly. “Would you break your vow, too?”

Hamille remained silent and unmoving, and Aragorn could feel the uncharacteristic tension in the aura from the elven beings as they struggled with their emotions. He understood why Legolas was so resolutely rejecting the company of his kin on the journey, and he knew how unhappy his friend must be, but he was not used to seeing Legolas this irate, and certainly not with his kin. He remained at a distance, waiting to see what would unfold.

Hamille raised his head at last, and Aragorn could see the distress in the faithful elf’s features.

“I would never break a vow to you, Legolas,” he said softly, disarming the prince with the use of his name. “But I also wish to keep my promise to your Adar and my liege lord, so I beg of you – if you will not allow anyone else to accompany you, at least let me do it. The others can disembark at Pelargir.”

Legolas shook his head and sighed. “You know I am ever grateful for your companionship, mellon nin, but you know not what you will – ”

“If you still refuse, I will ride all the way to the Bay and find you there,” Hamille interjected, looking unblinkingly at his prince, “so what you try to avoid will still come to pass. But I would much rather go on the ship with you.” His tone softened then as he pleaded again. “Saes, Legolas, we have been friends a long, long time. Please… release me from that vow.”

Aragorn felt the sharp intake of breath by the elf prince, heard the hiss from his lips, and felt him struggling painfully with the alternatives presented before him. The glittering eyes of his elves were trained on him, awaiting his decision. Then Legolas’ shoulders sagged, and there was a mixture of sadness and frustration in his voice when he spoke.

“If there is no way to dissuade you from it, Hamille… so be it. I will release you from that vow – this one time,” he said resignedly. “But there is no need for anyone else to come.” 

The brown-haired elf lost some of the tenseness that had been on his face. “I will accept that for now,” he conceded, relieving the whole group of the tension that had gripped them. Even Aragorn felt easier in his heart.

The elf prince himself was clearly glad that the debate had been resolved. “Well, I could not have stopped you forcibly, in any case,” he said to Hamille in mock exasperation. “Even as an elfling, you were bigger and stronger, and that has not changed.”

And you would do well to remember it, my prince, Aragorn could almost hear Hamille say in his mind, though nothing passed the lips of the amused elf.

Amidst the light laughter that followed the elf prince’s jest, Legolas turned and saw Aragorn and the sons of Elrond studying him. They said nothing, but the elf prince saw the unuttered question in their eyes and heard it on the tips of their tongues.

“Aye, I am sure,” he said quietly in answer, giving them a reassuring nod, before they all returned to their horses and the waiting company, and departed for Harlond.

--------------<<>>---------------

The Star of Eärendil could not have asked for better conditions under which to make its maiden voyage. It did indeed seem as if the Valar were blessing the journey that day and the next, for the strong grey ship sailed steadily with the swift current and favorable wind from the East. The Standard of the King waved proudly from the mast, and the people who dwelt in small pockets of farmland along the shores of the Anduin watched in wonder and reverence as the billowing sails proclaimed: Behold the Vessel of King Elessar!

On the evening of the second day, Legolas stood by himself on the deck, comfortable with leaving the ship in the capable hands of the experienced men Prince Imrahil had assigned to the task. The elf noted with quiet satisfaction the utter happiness on the face of the King as he stood at the helm like a sea god, his cloak billowing in the wind and his dark hair streaming behind him. When he turned his face to the setting sun and stretched his hand out as if to touch it, and the flame of the West fell upon his countenance and set it on fire, Legolas saw in the features of his friend the joy of a Captain, the pride of a noble lineage, and the fulfillment of a dream the Man did not even know he had till an elf who loved him gave it form.

Legolas then noted the disbelieving awe that had not left the shining faces of the hobbits – younger and older alike – as they waved happily to the tiny figures on land. He watched Faramir and Eowyn laughing over some humorous matter, and even the Gondorian guards seemed at ease. All day long, the pleasant gusts had tempered the heat of mighty Anor in a clear sky, and even now, they fanned light, dark and brown tresses about flushed, smiling faces as they swept away – for a while at least – the cares and concerns of running a kingdom, or a county, or a family.

The elf prince took in a deep breath of the river air and let it out. This scene of joyful respite before him was exactly what had hoped to see when he first planned the building of this ship; this was what made all the months of hard work worthwhile. And they have not even reached the Royal Bath yet, he thought contentedly.

The only sight that brought a slight frown to his fair countenance was that of Hamille. Although the tall elf was presently enjoying a conversation with Gimli, Legolas knew that the smile would depart from that elven face in a day or two, and then… who knew what would happen afterward? But the decision had been made, and Hamille would have to accept the consequences.

Legolas turned his eyes back to the deep waters of the Anduin as the ship sailed smoothly down its length. He heard footsteps behind him and smiled, knowing who it would be even without looking.

“How do you fare, my friend?” he asked without turning around. “Is the journey pleasant enough for you?”

A grunt was heard in reply as heavy boots clomped to a stop beside the elf. “Well, it’s much easier to keep steady on my feet this time around,” a gruff voice stated, thinking back to his first journey on the Anduin over ten years ago. “Plenty of wind, and there’s no thought of war or a Ring or the Quest hanging over our heads now. So, I have no complaints on any score, but one.”

“Oh?” Legolas queried, turning his head to look at a frowning Gimli. “What can I do for you then? Food and drink a-plenty have been long stored below, and we do not want for visions of beauty – just look around us. The galleys can offer you anything you might need, Master Dwarf, save pipe weed, for which I am afraid there is no such stock on board.”

“In case you have not noticed, Master Elf,” came the wry reply, “we – by some fortuitous happenstance – are in the company of three hobbits and one former Ranger who would never leave home or dwelling without the Leaf. There is therefore very little chance that they would not have it in stock. You do not need to fear that I will trouble you with that.”

The elf grinned. “Food it is then!” he declared teasingly.

“Blast you, Elf,” the Dwarf said gruffly from beside Legolas. “You act all smart and brave, jesting each league between Harlond and the Bay, when you hide your coming torment?”

The elf quickly hid the twinge of perturbation he felt at the reminder and lifted his eyebrows at the Dwarf next to him. “And pray tell me, my good Gimli, what brought this subject up of a sudden, on a glorious day –”

“Don’t you hope to squirm out of this conversation by pronouncing my goodness,” the Dwarf interrupted, wagging a finger at the elf. “And sudden it is not, elfling, for you have apparently been struggling with this for some time and – according to a very reliable source – have been obstinately refusing advice from several quarters as well.”

“I am no elfling and have not been for nigh a thousand years, stalwart Dwarf,” Legolas rejoined immediately, feigning a look of hurt. “And I take advice gladly when it is needed, thank you.”

“So you refuse it now?” Gimli challenged, staring at the elf.

“Aye, my friend, though it is well meant,” Legolas replied easily, “for there are none here who can offer me advice based on experience, and indeed I am glad of that, for I would wish it upon no one – including your…’source’… who, I might add, has had no experience of it either, although that will soon change.” His eyes returned to Hamille at those words, his features immediately reflecting his dismay.

The Dwarf lord grunted and stroked his beard, considering his friend’s words. “Hrrrmphh, you have a point, I must concede,” he agreed grudgingly. “You speak truly: no one here can offer you any wisdom on the… um… the affliction.” He lapsed into silence and fingered the wood on the walls of the ship, not quite knowing how to phrase the question he longed to ask. After a few moments, he cleared his throat and voiced the query: “Is it… will it be very painful, Legolas, for you?” He looked up at the tall elf and puffed out his chest. “Not that it’s going to worry me or anything, mind you, but I don’t care to have a moaning, groaning elf on our hands!”

Meeting the dwarf’s gaze steadily, Legolas saw through the gruff front to the tender heart beneath, and smiled. “The ‘affliction’, my dear friend, has a name,” he said kindly. “It is called the Sea-longing; you need not skip around it for my sake, though I thank you for your gentle thoughtfulness.” He laughed lightly at the look of horror that came over the Dwarf’s features upon hearing the word ‘gentle’ being used to describe him. “And yes, it can be… distressing,” the elf prince continued, “but I certainly hope I shall not be moaning or groaning to cause you or anyone else undue unease.” The sparkle disappeared from Legolas’ eyes then when he added: “I cannot tell, however, what Hamille will feel, but I fear that he will be affected by the call of the gulls as I was, which is why I was anxious for my kin to avoid the journey to the Bay. Hamille was too stubborn to listen; he could not have imagined what it is like, and now I wonder… I wonder if he will wish to resist it as I have…” his voice was almost a whisper as he finished his sentence, “…or sail.”

Not knowing what else to say for the moment, elf and dwarf turned back to studying the scenery again, watching Time flow with the current. The laughter and shrill voices of children wafted over to them, light and buoyant as the white foam on the crests of waves in the wake of the ship; yet, little weights tugged at the minds of the two companions, sending them to quieter depths, till the laughter was a distant murmur on the surface of their thoughts and the brightness of mirth was, for the present, diffused.  

“What about Elrohir and Elladan?” Gimli spoke at last. “And… and Arwen…what about her?”

“They will not be going beyond Pelargir,” the elf replied immediately. “It has been decided. We will all visit the Royal Bath and spend a night in the town, after which we will be continuing the journey to the Bay, but the twins will accompany Arwen back to the City from there. They decided that it would be in their best interests to… avoid the Sea… for now, at least.”

Gimli grunted his agreement. “It would be harder for her,” he noted.

Legolas nodded. “I will be able to leave… eventually,” he affirmed, his voice soft and sad. “But if she is afflicted, there will be no such release for her... not ever. And her brothers… they stay for her, so they wish to avoid it as well, at least for the remainder of her… her time, lest they too give in to the call.”

Dwarf and Elf lapsed into silence again, pondering the bittersweet consequences of this trip for themselves and those dear to them. Legolas rested his forearms on the side railing of the ship, while Gimli clutched at it, still not entirely trustful of a vessel that was not on solid ground.

“This hadn’t occurred to me before, Elf, or I might have tried to stop you from making this journey,” the dwarf said at last, “I didn’t notice the conflict within you.”

Legolas shook his head at those words, laughing lightly. “Nay, you did not fail in taking any action, Gimli, nor did you lack in observation,” he stated firmly, “for there was no struggle, no conflict within me; there never was.” The elf kept his eyes on the speckles of gold reflected off the river below, and dropped his voice lower as he added: “And even if there had been, I would not have missed this journey for anything, for I know how much this means to Aragorn.”

Legolas closed his eyes and sighed, hearing no sound from the dwarf beside him, save a slight shuffle of feet. Bowing his head, the elf smiled and almost whispered the rest of his words: “I hated to see him on the Black Ships, Gimli – I hated to see him captain of the wretched fleet of the enemy. This voyage on his ship… this is the journey he should be making. Words cannot describe the joy I feel at seeing him at the helm of his own vessel, Gimli, and the satisfaction of seeing him happy… aaah, it numbs all pain. Aye, it is overwhelmed… and I gladly bear it.”

Silence reigned for a few moments as the elf kept his eyes closed and heard the sighing of the wind in his ears. “Gimli,” he spoke again. “I would that you not speak to Aragorn about this; he is aware of everything, of course, but he does not need to be reminded of it, or to hear more about the claim that the Sea will have upon my heart.”

“And yet he comes to know,” a voice said quietly behind him at the same time that Gimli coughed, and Legolas whipped around to see the grey eyes of the King fixed upon him. The elf threw the dwarf a hard look, but the latter merely shrugged his shoulders.

“I thought you would have heard him approaching,” Gimli muttered  in explanation.

Legolas’ features softened, and he laughed uneasily. “He has learnt too well from the elves,” he quipped, sweeping aside the strands of golden hair being blown into his eyes as he turned back to the King. “Aragorn –”

“I do not ask it of you, mellon nin,” the man said softly. “You have no need to go the whole way, for the thought of you already marks each league of this journey for me. Stay –”

“I wish to go, Aragorn, and we will speak no more of this, as we agreed,” the elf insisted, straightening his shoulders and looking unblinkingly at the man. “This is my choice, Estel; from beginning to end, it is my choice.”

“Hrrmphh, and not necessarily the best one,” Gimli mumbled, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “But try telling this rock-headed elf –”

“Let us leave this subject,” the elf said quickly, clapping a hand on each of his friends’ shoulders and ignoring the King’s expression of discontent. The elf turned to look at the western sky and his eyes brightened. “Lo, Pelargir approaches,” he announced, and smiled at his friends. “Come, it is time to tell the others!”

The three friends did not know it then, but they and their companions would not be the only visitors to Pelargir that night.

 -------------<<>>--------------

Silent and unseen, they approached, and a rage was in them.

They remembered, though they had been forgotten. Twice.

Note:

I’m sorry I may not be able to write as regularly as before, but the next chapter will be up much sooner than this one; that’s a promise. Hope you don’t give up on me.  :–)

Further information on Thranduil’s remark about chestnuts to Hamille may be found in Chapters 6 and 7 of my other story Once Upon a Strongbow.

CHAPTER 4: STIRRINGS

Night descended like a thin, dark blanket on the riverside town of Pelargir where King Elessar’s company was settled in the largest inn the town had to offer. Excited at the presence of their King and Queen, and fascinated by the presence of hobbits whom they had never met before, the innkeeper and many of the locals had bustled about since their arrival to make certain that all their needs were met.

The visitors could not be more pleased at the gracious welcome they had received, and were treated to hot baths and delicious local fare. But now the evening meal was over, and the children and womenfolk were all ready to turn in as they looked forward to an early departure for the Royal Bath.

Aragorn decided to retire rather early himself, claiming tiredness, for, immediately upon their arrival, the Mayor had taken him and Faramir to visit the new homesteads that had been erected with Treasury funds. Bidding his friends a good night, he began to walk towards the room set aside for the Royal couple, but was halted in his tracks by a light touch on his elbow, and he turned to see Legolas standing before him with a questioning look on his face. The elf immediately focused his blue eyes on the area underneath Aragorn’s own grey ones, and the man knew his friend had noted the slight shadows that had been less pronounced two days ago, but that had appeared once more.

“Are you not sleeping well again, Estel?” Legolas queried.

The King gave him a crooked smile. “Nothing a good night’s rest will not take care of,” he answered, patting the elf’s arm before he left for his room. He did not notice how the elf stared at his back, unconvinced, and determined to keep an eye on his friend.

The other men folk of the company were facing no such qualms at the moment. For the better part of the evening, the hobbits, Faramir and his men entertained themselves – as well as the barkeeper and his patrons – with various songs, boosted by numerous mugs of ale, which, though it did not quite meet the expectations of those who knew the Green Dragon, was good enough to put them in high spirits and the right mood for merrymaking. Music, raucous laughter and chatter, and the clink of clay mugs soon filled the room, as did the smoke of pipeweed, and once again Merry and Pippin found themselves the focus of delighted attention as they danced a jig on a large wooden table, fascinating their audience of local folk with the nimbleness of their large, furry feet. Even the twin sons of Elrond, engaged in pleasant conversation with Faramir, found themselves enjoying the cheer of the place.

But as the evening wore on, Elladan and Elrohir grew quieter, and each twin fidgeted on his wooden chair, whispering in Sindarin to the other. Discomfort brushed over their features from time to time, and it did not escape the keen eyes of the Steward of Gondor.

“Is something the matter?” Faramir asked quietly, looking into the two sets of identical eyes in their handsome faces.

The dark-haired elves glanced at each other, an unspoken understanding exchanged between them.

“Perhaps we need fresh air,” Elrohir answered, and his twin nodded, rising from his seat. “It must be all the… the…”

“Smoke from the pipeweed,” Elladan finished, waving his hand in the air. “Besides, Legolas must be outside somewhere – ”

“And we must consult him about tomorrow,” his twin chimed in, straightening his tunic.

Faramir was amused at how the brothers often finished each other’s sentences naturally and without conscious thought, but nodded politely.

“Yes, we will be retiring soon,” Elladan added, “so if you would be so kind as to bid the others a good night for us…” He inclined his head in the direction of the hobbits and Gimli seated at another table, who were – not surprisingly – engaged in a contest to see who could blow the most unusual smoke rings.

“If Gandalf were here, he’d have ships and eagles floating around before anyone else could even light his pipe!” Merry’s voice floated over to them, and all three laughed lightly.

“Well, have a pleasant rest,” Faramir said to the elves as they turned to walk towards the entrance of the inn. “I hope it will not take you long to find Legolas.”

  -------------<<>>-------------

The elf prince would have been hard to locate if he had chosen not to be found, for he and Hamille were perched high on the branches of the tallest oak on the grounds. They had come here to look at the stars and to speak quietly about a matter that was troubling them somewhat.

From their vantage point, they saw Elladan and Elrohir looking for them long before the twins even guessed where they were. And after the invitation to join them had been issued, the elf prince noted how the Imladris elves seemed to be discussing some matter of import themselves.

Soon, the newcomers had climbed the oak and were also settled on nearby branches, so that anyone passing by below who cared to peer carefully into the foliage high above would see a faint glow surrounding four graceful figures, their slender limbs stretched out and at ease on the long arms of the oak. Indeed, the tree itself seemed most pleased to have four of the Firstborn in its embrace.

Elladan took a deep breath and released it. “Aaah, it is good to be outside,” he declared.

“Aye, we should have left sooner,” his twin remarked.

Legolas grinned. “The smoke?” he guessed.

Twin nods came immediately. “Being with Estel when he grew up to enjoy it may have increased our tolerance for it, but it will never be our choice of respite,” Elladan stated flatly, drawing a chuckle from the elf prince. “But we… er... we actually came to ask you a question, Legolas,” he added. Suddenly turning serious, he looked at his brother, who nodded but said nothing. 

Legolas looked from one twin to the other. “Yes?” he prompted when neither spoke. Hamille was also looking curiously at them.

“We wish to find out from you,” Elrohir began, “was it not here – at Pelargir – that you first felt the call of the Sea?”

Legolas drew in a breath, and exchanged a quick look with Hamille, whose smile had quickly left his face.  

“Aye, it was here,” the elf prince replied.

“And it happened when you encountered the gulls?”

“Yes,” said Legolas, wondering where the twins were heading with their questions. “The Lady had warned me –”

“Were we visited by any gulls today?”

This query was completely unexpected, and there was a startled silence from Legolas before he asked: “What?”

“Did we encounter any gulls today?” Elrohir persisted.

Legolas narrowed his brows. “Nay, we did not,” he answered. “And indeed, even when I first encountered them here, they were flying much farther inland than they usually do – it was strange. I have not heard of that happening again since.” He watched the twin elves exchange another look before he queried: “Why do you ask?”

Elladan looked directly at the elf prince when he answered: “Because a feeling of unease has been upon us since we arrived here…”

“But it has grown stronger this evening,” Elrohir chimed in. “And we wonder – ”

“Is this the Sea-longing we feel?” Elladan finished, holding his breath. 

Legolas studied their faces for a while before he spoke again. “I cannot be certain, my friends,” he said quietly. “But I highly doubt it.”

Both the twins exhaled. “Why? How can you tell?” they asked.

Legolas glanced at Hamille again before he responded. “Because, you see, I too have felt some disquiet this evening,” he said, and the twins saw a shadow flit across his clear blue eyes. “There is… a sense of… of great unhappiness, it is unsettling – but it is quite different from the call of the Sea. We were in fact talking about it when you arrived –” 

“I, however, have no such sensation,” Hamille chipped in. “Were it the Sea-longing, I too would – or should – feel a disturbance, a deep yearning for something, as my prince describes it. But I do not sense that; I feel no different at this moment – save a change of air.”

A hush came over the other elves at Hamille’s words, each reflecting upon what the ailment was like for him.

“It surges through my veins like waves of cold dread, though I am not truly fearful,” Elrohir said unhappily.

“And it wraps me with icy fingers… though there is nothing material to touch,” his twin added. “Is that what you feel as well, Legolas?”

The elf prince thought over their descriptions and studied their baffled expressions for a few moments before he replied. “I sense a little of all you said, but it is for me more unpleasant than anything else. No fear touches me, but it feels grievous, like a reminder of something that was once horrible… that is what troubles me.”  

Silence took rein again over the elves. The same question was going through each of their minds, but it was Elladan who gave voice to it: “But if it is not the call of the Elvenhome… what is this unease we are feeling?”

Before anyone could venture a guess, they heard the crusty voice of Gimli calling out. “Legolas!” he cried. “Legolas! Where are you, Elf? If you are in some tree, come down, don’t make me attempt to climb it, or you’ll be picking up my bones!”

The robust voice of the dwarf disrupted the somber mood in which they had been wrapped, and the four elves grinned despite their anxiety. Glancing at each other, they reached a silent accord in deciding to give Gimli a surprise, and waited till the dwarf was close enough to the tree before they moved.

“Legolas!” the dwarf cried again, but was struck dumb by the sudden and startling appearance of four glowing forms around him, with nothing but soft swishing sounds and light footfalls to announce their presence. A dwarvish axe was removed from a belt faster than the elves expected, and they lithely stepped back just as swiftly.

“You called, Master Gimli?” Legolas enquired cheekily, and received a fierce glare in return as Master Gimli planted his stout legs firmly apart.

“Drat you, ninnyheads!” the dwarf cursed, shaking his axe at the elves and muttering dwarvish phrases they did not wish to have translated. “I could have mistaken you for foul attackers and hacked you to pieces!”

The elf prince laughed and clasped his hands together in a pleading gesture. “Peace, my friend,” he said, smiling. “Forgive our jest. We are in need of it this night.”

Muttering more dubious expressions, the dwarf returned his axe to this belt and fixed his friend with another stare of disapproval. “You are in need of jest?” he grunted. “You can have all the fun you want after you explain something to me.”

“Oh?” Legolas asked, curious. “What can I help you with?”  

The dwarf opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again. “Hrrmmph, well…,” he mumbled, looking around a little sheepishly at the other three elves and coughing. “Er… perhaps…”

“I was about to leave,” Hamille offered politely, smiling at Gimli and turning to the Imladris elves. “Perhaps my lords would care to join me –?”

“No, no, please stay,” Gimli said suddenly, waving his hand for them to remain. “It is I who interrupted your company, and what I have to ask isn’t anything you don’t already know about.”

The elves looked at each other and waited for the dwarf to continue speaking.

“Well, Elf,” the dwarf began again, hitching up his belt and looking at Legolas. “You know how earlier today – on the ship – we were talking about… about the… er… the Sea-longing…”

Gimli did not notice how his companions tensed immediately at the mention of that subject, and continued, shifting from one foot to the other. “Errm… I just wondered… well, if perhaps all that talk got me thinking about it too much, and… errmm… what I really mean to ask is, um, if… that thing, the call of the Sea, does it… can it…affect dwarves?”

It was one of the few times Gimli witnessed the Firstborn at a loss for words, but that was exactly what was taking place here. It was a while before Legolas spoke again.  

“What do you mean, Gimli?” the elf asked, furrowing his brows. “What makes you ask –” 

“Well, there’s this strange feeling, if you know what I mean… or maybe you don’t, since you are strange all the time,” the dwarf replied, missing the look of disbelief on the faces of the Imladris twins and the sudden grin on Hamille’s, “but I… phhbt… well, I thought at first it was because of the movement of the ship – you know, the rocking and all that. But I felt nothing yesterday, not till we got here. And then… tonight… well, I thought… psshhh… perhaps the ale had gone bad, but it’s not, it’s… it’s… I can’t sit still, there’s this disturbing tumble in the pit of my stomach. It’s this feeling of nervousness, well, closer to… dread, really… not that there’s anything to fear, you understand! But something stirs in me like I’ve never felt before.”

“And you wonder if it may be the Sea-longing?” Legolas suggested patiently.

“Huummphh,” the dwarf grunted, nodding. “It… it makes me shudder… like nothing I’ve ever come across… or perhaps I have, but I can’t remember when...”

Legolas drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “Gimli, that is not what the Sea-longing is like for me,” he said, measuring his words, “and though I cannot say for certain, I think no one other than Elves has been susceptible to it, so – again – I highly doubt you hear or feel its call.”

As the elf’s words sank in, Gimli narrowed his bushy eyebrows and questioned: “Again? You doubt it – again? Someone else –”

“It appears that you are not alone in your experience this night,” Legolas said, looking at Elladan and Elrohir, whose eyes had gone wide. “Come, Gimli, let us all sit and discuss this.”

In the darkness of the inn grounds, with only the light of Ithil and the Lamps of Varya in the night sky for illumination, and with the black shapes of trees and buildings and undefined objects for company, the five companions sat and talked, and tried to fathom what was ailing four of them. They wondered who else in the King’s party might have been assailed by strange sensations that night, and as they talked and came to no conclusion, none was more disturbed than the elf prince Legolas, for though he felt not the dread of the others – he felt what they did not: a threat.

Something was going to happen, but he could not yet tell when, what it would be, and whom it would strike. Yet, for some strange reason, his thoughts veered towards the dark circles he had seen under the eyes of the friend – supposedly asleep – in the largest room in the inn, and he was suddenly afraid for him.

And as the night grew deeper, so did his sense of foreboding.

  -------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------

Hours passed in Pelargir, and a thin mist rolled in from the north, from the western arm of the White Mountains, over the Fields of Lebennin and across the River Sirith, to alight quietly on the river and on the Star of Eärendil anchored at the landings. Somewhere in the distant woods, an owl hooted its presence to the moon. The lights of Pelargir twinkled out one by one, and like its residents, the town bid the day farewell.

In the most comfortable room the inn could offer, Aragorn lay in bed next to his sleeping Queen. But he was far from comfortable, nor was he asleep. The King tossed and turned as he had several nights before this, wavering between the delicious bliss of reverie and a dull wakefulness, till – afraid of waking the tired mother-to-be – he got up to stand at the window, looking out into the dark night in misery.

In his heart there awoke again the strange stirrings he had felt for more than a week now, but never more strongly than he had earlier this evening, leaving him ill at ease and on edge. He watched the shadows of thin twigs, like long, gnarled fingers, silently scratch the glass planes, and wondered for a fleeting moment what they were seeking… as he himself was seeking.

He dreaded something, but he knew not what. He seemed to hear whispers, but he knew not who spoke. He felt an urge, but he knew not what pulled at him.

So he stood in the clutches of gloom, not knowing why, and told himself that perhaps it was time to talk to someone. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a day or two, if his strange malady remained. He would speak with Arwen and with his brothers, and with Legolas as he had promised.

But tonight, he would wait. Wait for the moment when he could finally return to the dreamscape again, perchance to find what seemed more and more elusive each night: peaceful rest.

Yet, even as he stood and waited, he knew it would be a vain hope.

  -----------------------------------<<>>-----------------------------------

No one in Pelargir – not the locals who had lived there all their lives, nor the visiting King and his company residing for the night – noticed the red eyes that shone in the light of torches upon the outer walls of the town. 

They had come with the mists, and they, too, were seeking.

CHAPTER 5: THE CALL

The business of the next day all but drove out the feelings of apprehension from the hearts of the four companions who had been inexplicably assailed by them the night they arrived in Pelargir.

The visit to the Royal Bath put some distance between them and the town, and the little ones, who had boundless energy and needed constant supervision, kept them occupied.

Even Aragorn, who had not yet spoken to anyone about his restless night, found himself relishing the soothing warmth of the hot pool and peace of the sanctuary as much as Arwen did, and he exchanged pleasant stories with his brothers and friends.

Legolas and Hamille took quiet pride in having created this refuge for their friends. As they basked in the sunshine and color that blessed the haven, the misgivings of the night before were, for a while, suspended in the backs of their minds like a grey haze above a waiting land.

It was only upon their return to Pelargir later that evening that a sense of unease was once again kindled in the dwarf and the three elves, but only barely, for they were well rested by then, and the inn’s service of hot food and comforting drink made them only too willing to put off for a time their concern over a trouble that as yet had no definite base or form. It was not long before delicious reverie stole over all of them, and Gimli, in particular, slept as contentedly as a bear in winter.

The bliss of slumber, however, was not as easily accorded to Aragorn that night.

For a time, he struggled with the same restiveness that had assailed him the night before. He sensed or heard once again, like a whisper in his mind, something seeking him, reaching for him – and it was not kind.  But whether it was because the waters of the Royal Bath had truly contained some healing power, or because the haven was blessed with the spirit of the Firstborn that had created it, just as the land of Hollin had been, Aragorn felt a stream of tranquility flow through his being, so that he felt more at peace than he had the previous night. And as the stars wheeled slowly overhead with the passing of the hours, he found himself pleasantly exhausted enough to succumb to a light, but much-needed, slumber.

For tonight, he would heed no nightly murmurs. This night at least, he was not visited by dark dreams filled with muddled images he could not discern – dreams that had assailed his sleep for the past three weeks in the White City.

 -------------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------------

They were in the shadows and mists – the Sleepless Ones – and they did not rest. They were the Twice Forgotten, and they had come for the sake of the Twice Forgotten.

They moved without form, they felt without hearts, they spoke without voice.

Aaaaeeeaaaiii… Elessaaaaaar… He fights…

His spirit is too strong. He knows not what he fights, but he resists.

How then will he know? How do we call to him?

We wait. We have waited long enough.

Too long… too long…the others wait.

He will weaken. We will take him then.

  -------------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------------

The grey mist of the following dawn lifted with the warmth of the rising sun, and as the King’s company left Pelargir for the remainder of their journey to the Bay, it did much to revive the spirits of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. It seemed like the further removed from the town they were, the easier they felt, and Legolas hoped that the same would hold true for Elladan and Elrohir who would be accompanying Arwen back to the White City.

Sailing down the final leagues of the Anduin, Aragorn felt somewhat refreshed from sleep he had been robbed of for too long. He would have liked nothing more than to forget all about the strangely unsettling nights he had had for the past weeks, and he debated over whether he should leave the matter alone and hope nothing worse would come of it. Yet, his heart urged, perhaps it was in this cheerful atmosphere that he should speak about it, when he was away from the misery of an unnatural wakefulness in dismal darkness.

It did not take him long to find and pull Legolas aside so that he could speak quietly with the elf about his troubles. The two friends sat a distance from the rest of the company and spoke in low tones hardly louder than the lazy lap of waves against the sides of the Star.

Legolas was, as Aragorn had expected, immediately concerned. “Someone calls to you?” he asked, scrutinizing the man’s face with a frown on his own.

“Someone… or something,” Aragorn replied. “I feel it reaching for me… Part of me says I should yield… yet another part of me senses a need for caution.”

Legolas was quiet for a moment before he asked again: “Is there a voice?”

“Yes… several… they sound unhappy and… well, urgent,” Aragorn struggled to describe what he heard in the few hours of sleep he was granted each night.  “But they are garbled and… muted. I cannot discern what they say.”

“What do you see?”

Aragorn exhaled a long breath. “Vague images through a mist… no shape, no form… it is hard to know,” replied the man. “There is sadness… and anger… and need… yet, I know not what they want of me.” He sighed. “And perhaps it is because I do not feel a readiness to listen.”

Legolas fell silent again, deep in thought, before he spoke again in a hushed whisper. “Do you feel their presence now?”

Aragorn lifted his face to the wind, feeling its caress and listening to the squeals of children and pieces of lazy conversation drifting over to them. “Nay, not here, not now… at least, not as strongly, though I must admit I do not feel completely at ease.”

Legolas nodded. “I could dismiss this as a physical ailment to be treated, Estel, but for the fact that you were not the only to be disturbed,” he said. “We did not hear the same call, but we too felt something amiss in Pelargir. It appears, however, to have lessened with each league from the town, as it seems to have for you as well.”

Aragorn’s brow furrowed instantly. “We?’

With some reluctance, the elf prince informed him about what he, Gimli and the twins from Imladris had experienced in Pelargir. “It has affected elves, our dwarf friend, and you. Yet, Hamille did not perceive what we did – and neither did Arwen…?” He looked at Aragorn inquiringly.

When Aragorn nodded confirmation, Legolas continued, “We have heard no complaints from the Hobbits, either, nor from Faramir or the rest of the company.”  The elf shook his head slightly. “This matter has baffled me since that night, Aragorn, and at this moment, I am no closer to an understanding of it.”

With a sigh, Aragorn rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. “Neither am I, Legolas, neither am I,” he said, exasperation clear in his voice. “And I know not why… they… whatever their nature… pursue some of you as well. If I am not alone in this, perhaps this is a bigger menace than I first thought.”

“Nay, Aragorn, I do not feel that they seek us… not as you describe them, for we are not troubled by dreams,” Legolas said. “We merely sense some… dread, perhaps of something foul. His voice filled with distress as he continued. “Since that night, my fear has not been for us, Aragorn; it has been for you. Ask me not why – it was my heart that spoke. I prayed it would not have foundation, but what you say has only strengthened my suspicion. Something pursues you, mellon nin, and I wish we knew what it was.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I only know that this disorder cannot continue. Last night offered a brief respite from it, but who can tell if sleeplessness and disturbing dreams in turn may be my nightly companions again soon. I have a country to rule, and I cannot allow this… this… as yet nameless nuisance… to trouble me!” He ran his hands through his hair and bowed his head even lower. “How do I battle a foe that I cannot identify? What path would it have me tread?”

Laden with the frustration of helplessness, the king felt a wave of wretchedness hit him and he released another sigh. After a moment, he felt a hand rest lightly on his back before it moved up, and then he felt the comforting arm of his friend around his shoulders.

“Whatever it is, Estel, we will face it together,” an elven voice said calmly in his ear. “You are not alone. Whatever path it would take you on – you will never be alone. I will walk it with you; all of us will. Be assured of that.”

The man said nothing, but a hand reached up to grasp the elven one, and Legolas felt some of the tenseness leave his friend. “If it assails you again on our return to Pelargir, we will look further into it,” he said reassuringly. “But meanwhile… perhaps it would be best to use this time away from your Court wisely: to ease your mind, body and spirit. The Bay is not far off, the Sun smiles on us, and already our hearts are lightened, are they not?”

Releasing another small sigh, Aragorn lifted his head and nodded to his friend, bringing a smile of relief to the elven face. They pondered the matter a little longer, but since neither could identify the source of the odd disturbances, they decided to set aside those concerns for the moment, for the winds were fair and the company good; these were blessings that did not come often enough, and they wished to savor them while they could. 

Shelving the disconcerting thoughts proved even easier during the two days in Dol Amroth that were filled with mirth and frolic. Prince Imrahil and his lovely wife of two years were good hosts, and the King’s company did not lack for entertainment.

No less happy was Eldarion, who, although he missed his mother and could not quite fathom why she and his uncles had to return to the City instead of sailing to the Bay with him, was happy enough to have the attention of his father now that he was away from the demands of the Court, and of Legolas, whom the child loved almost as much. And then there were the merry moments with the Dwarf Lord, whom he had come to address as Poppa Gimli after the fashion of Master Samwise’s children.

All in all, it was a very happy party that spent hours on the pristine beaches of the Bay.

On the second day, Aragorn left the children and their mothers – who were content to spend another day enjoying the soft, clean sand and sea water, which were seldom enough encountered – under the watchful eye of Faramir and his guards, while he and the other menfolk sailed a little way north along the shores of Middle Earth, drawn by the realisation that there was much more to see.

Elves, men and hobbits were equally fascinated, for most of them had never dreamt of even coming close to the Sea throughout their lives. At times, their breaths hitched in their throats and their shining eyes misted over at the beauty of all they saw and heard and smelt. The salt tang of the Sea teased their noses, awakening in them senses they had never thought existed. The cry of gulls and other sea-birds wove melodies into the wind, both soothing and invigorating, till the sea-farers felt they were gliding on wings of song. Sunbeams, brilliant white and yellow, reflected off ripples like millions of pieces of broken glass, dazzling their eyes as they watched the miles of shingled shores and sandy beaches pass slowly by. Little cottages and farms dotted some patches of land, and men in small fishing boats waved in return, even if they did not recognize the Standard of the King.

“Someday, Son, these lands will be under your protection as they are mine now,” Aragorn said to Eldarion – the only child to come with them on this trip – as they stood on the deck, the wind whipping through the dark hair of father and son. “You will need to make sure they continue to have the peace they have now.”

The young prince’s eyes widened as he turned to the King. “Protect them, Father?” the young prince asked in dismay. “How? I can’t even hold a long sword yet, and Legolas says I have to wait a few years to use the big bow –”

“Your father said some day, young one, not tomorrow,” Gimli said consolingly, walking up to them and glaring at Aragorn. “Really, Aragorn, don’t frighten the lad – it’s a long, long way yet!”

The King laughed at the fierce look on the face of the dwarf. “You are right, my friend,” he conceded, placing his arm around the young shoulders of his son. “It is a long, long way yet,” he said to the child, “I merely want you to note the beauty of the land in our realm and to grow up loving it as your own. And remember, Eldarion – might does not lie only in the sword and bow. It resides more so in wisdom and in the purity of intentions.”

The prince’s lips puckered as he folded his forearms on the edge of the ship’s wooden railing and rested his chin on them. “That’s what Legolas says too, at almost every archery lesson! Do you and he plan together what to say to me, Father?”

Aragorn and Gimli burst out laughing at that question.

“No, Son, we do not,” the King replied with a smile, “but we value many of the same things, and have no need to tell each other of them. What you hear from him, you may trust to be my thoughts, as well as those of your Naneth. And your Poppa Gimli here will have one or two lessons of his own as well.”

Eldarion sighed. “Too many lessons, Father,” he groaned. “I have to learn so many things growing up.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to do that, lad,” the Dwarf lord said, clapping the child’s shoulder. “No one is rushing you,” he added, glancing briefly at the King before returning reassuring eyes to Eldarion. “You’re still a child –”

“A young man!” Eldarion protested suddenly, raising his head. “Legolas said I was a young man when I showed him my new tooth!”

“Yes, Eldarion,” Aragorn agreed quickly. “You are a young man, and a fine one at that.”

“Of course, of course,” Gimli affirmed, spluttering. “I had forgotten you are now… ten?”

“Yes, almost,” the prince nodded proudly. “Not yet, but almost.”

“A whole ten years!” the dwarf exclaimed in feigned awe, stroking his beard. “My, my – you are a young man. Now, I’m sure this young man has as good an appetite as his Poppa Gimli. Shall we look for some food, Sir?”

Eldarion giggled at the term of address Gimli had used for him, well aware it was in jest, but his face did brighten at the mention of food. He jumped off the bench he had been kneeling on and straightened his shoulders, grinning the whole time. “That sounds like a fine idea, Master Poppa Gimli. Lead the way!”

Aragorn shook his head at the antics of dwarf and man child, and waved them off, smiling and feeling much more at ease than he had since Pelargir.

Pelargir. His face clouded a little at the reminder of what he and Legolas had spoken about.

But, no, he shook his head. There would be time enough to discuss it further on their return voyage to the City. They would have to spend a night in the town again… what would happen then? Well, they would soon find out, he thought.

In the meantime, he wished to speak with Legolas and Hamille about building another ship for trading purposes. He looked around the deck, but frowned when he saw no sign of either elf. His thoughts flew immediately to the turmoil that the two of them must be facing now.

He had felt the Sea-longing seize Legolas as soon as they reached the Bay, and Hamille, too, had soon – and inevitably – become enamored with the Deep. Indeed, that had been the only cloud in the whole sunlit atmosphere of their visit. Though the two Firstborn had said nothing and bravely tried to hide anything that might be amiss, everyone knew they were battling some emotion, but everyone had been powerless to do anything for them. There were moments when they departed from the party, and quietly spent time on their own. All knew why, and all discreetly avoided mentioning their disappearance when they rejoined the group. Gimli, concealing his love for his friend beneath his gruff exterior, did his best to ease their discomfort with his endless tales of mirth.

Aragorn felt a wave of compassion and warmth rush through him as he thought of Legolas.

I feel your struggle, mellon nin, as we each resist that which beckons to us, he said silently to his absent friend. Yet, I understand but a little of your plight, for we each face a different Call. On my part, I defy what I feel will bring me to an unpleasant circumstance, but you resist that which will bring you the fulfillment of a great desire – and thus is your tribulation the harder to bear.

Though his heart ached for the two elves, he knew that coming here was what Legolas wished. The more he watched his friend, the more he understood that the journey gave the elf prince satisfaction despite the toll it would take on his heart for a few days. He recalled an earlier conversation he had overheard between the elf prince and Hamille:

“I have no regrets over this journey, Hamille,” Legolas stated quietly to his kinsman, “I wish to taste and relish my life here on Arda – even with its bitterness – and that cannot be done by hiding behind closed doors and protective barriers.”

“Yet you disallowed us from coming with you,” Hamille pointed out in a gentle challenge.

The elf prince smiled wryly then. “I was speaking for myself; I have heard the Call and withstood its strong pull. Many others have not, and they sailed long before they were ready to leave Arda,” he explained. “You have not yet felt the Longing, and I would keep you from it if I could. Then you would not need to face the torment of making a choice.”

“Was it a hard choice for you, Bridhon nin?”

Legolas nodded. “Aye… but only briefly, and only in the beginning. And then there was no longer any conflict.”

“Tell me the source of your strength, then,” Hamille said, “and perhaps I can draw from it, too.”

Legolas turned to his friend and smiled. “Think of those in Arda you would not wish to part from yet. That will sustain you.”

“As it does you?”

The elf prince nodded firmly. “Always. When you next look upon Gimli, you will see one reason,” he said. “And when you next cast your eyes on the Lord Aragorn – behold not the Adan, but one whom I love beyond being, or life. When you next see him bowed with care, know that I am yoked to that same load. When next his smile greets you with ease, hear the laughter in my own heart. Throughout the remaining days of his life in Arda, his joy shall be my bliss. Feel our bond, Hamille, and you will know why the Sea – and Elvenhome – must wait, and why their Call is but a hushed whisper in my ears. If my company on this journey brings Aragorn the sweetness of contentment, it is a cup of bitterness I gladly drink.”

Aragorn inhaled a long breath at the recollection. Legolas had told him so much without even knowing it, and the King did not think he could find words to tell his elven friend how he loved him for it.  

Blinking away some moisture that had somehow found its way to the corner of his eye, he waved to the man who was steering the ship and told his guards he was going to seek the elves below deck, but the voices of the hobbits from the stern of the ship attracted him, and he walked over slowly to where they were.

The hobbits were enjoying this journey as much as he was, for their brief visit to the Havens at Frodo’s departure more than ten years ago had been too filled with melancholy to register much in their memories. This trip, therefore, was also the fulfillment of a dream for them.

“Just think, Merry, we are actually on the sea!” Pippin exclaimed, a grin splitting his face as he watched the water below. “Not just the Brandywine River or even the Anduin – but the Sea!” 

“Aye, and what a tale we will have to tell Fatty Bolger when we get back,” Merry agreed. “We will demand a basket of mushrooms for the tale of each day of our journey!” 

“Now, there’s a thought, eh, Sam?” Pippin asked, turning around to look at the hobbit sitting on one of the wooden benches behind him. Sam did not look quite as cheerful as the other two, not having quite overcome his distrust of boats, and still trying to get used to the slight rocking motion on the Star.

“The mushrooms are a welcome thought, yes, but being on the Sea is a different matter,” he lamented, “though I must say it is a novel experience, and I did choose to come on this trip myself. I couldn’t stand listening to you two brag about it otherwise.”

His two companions could not help laughing though they sympathized with his fear of water-bound vessels. “Cheer up, Sam,” Merry said comfortingly. “When Legolas built this ship, I’m sure he made it safe and steady as Hobbit feet on dry land; he would not let anything happen to Aragorn or to us.”

“Aye, and we must thank them both for this treat,” Pippin chimed in, looking around. “Speaking of them, where are they?” There was no sign of either Legolas or Hamille on the deck, but he caught sight of Aragorn strolling over. “Strider!” he called brightly. “Isn’t this grand?”

Aragorn beamed at them as he approached. “If you mean this voyage, my dear Pippin – then yes, it is grand,” he replied. “I’m glad you are enjoying it. Legolas knew you would.”

“We were just saying we should thank him for building this ship and you for inviting us,” Merry chimed in, “but he does not seem to be here. Is he below, do you think?”

Aragorn nodded. “I think he and Hamille may be feeling… uncomfortable,” he replied judiciously. “I was about to go below myself to see how they are.”

“Well, I shall join you in a while, Strider, if you don’t mind,” Sam announced, rubbing his nose and placing his hand on the small pack he always seemed to be carrying around. “I need to… well, I need to talk to Legolas myself.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows in curiosity as he watched the hobbit hold the pack protectively. “By all means, Sam. We will await you below.”

With a small wave to the hobbits, he walked over to some steps and descended into the belly of the ship, throwing to the prevailing winds his thoughts of trading, of Pelargir, of sleepless nights and whatever was trying to reach him. Here was a friend confronting a different Call, who made no demands on him. And for that reason, no one more greatly deserved his time and company.

Whatever, whoever, was seeking him in Pelargir would have to wait.

  -----------------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------------

Aaaiiiieeeeeaaaaa...

We cannot find him… we cannot reach him…He is not here… he has gone with the waters.

But he has to know! He has to hear! The others wait…

He will know.

But he is not here, the waters have borne him away…

We will reach another…we will take another! Then he will still come to know. He will still hear our call.

Aye… and in the end, he will return. It will not be long now.

Aaaiiiieeeeeaaaaa… He will return.

  -----------------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------------ 

My deepest thanks to the faithful reviewers who keep me going. 

CHAPTER 6: THE LADY’S MESSAGE

Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling?

The voices of my people who have gone before me?

I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me…

Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling,

In Eressëa, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,

Where the leaves fall not: land of my people for ever!

Legolas, in The Return of the King

---------------------------------------------<<>>---------------------------------------------

All the years of my life, I longed to hear a sound.

I sought it, yet knew not what I sought. I reached for it without knowing where to turn.

Yet…I heard it even before it had sound. I knew it, though it had no name. It touched me, though it was as yet distant.

The music of the Sea played in my heart, though I could not imagine it.

And now that I have heard it…I cannot forget it.

It sings to me. It sings of a land beyond the Sky, of visions too wondrous to be told. It stirs in me a longing for a place I have not yet seen, but already it is the place where I will finally belong.

It haunts me. It haunts me.

Achingly, painfully… it clutches at my being and will not let go. Its power is as strong as the tides.

See it surge! See it sweep me up and toss me on Westerly waves – till I no longer have a hold on all that was firm and familiar to me! Feel it pull at my wandering spirit, hear it beckon to me: Come home.

Come home, ye Wayfaring Eldar. Come home.

Leave the weariness of Arda, and turn your fair face West.

Glide over water, sail over Sea. Stray no longer. Seek the Straight Road… and follow it. For there is a place prepared for you, and it lies in the bowers of Elvenhome, at the end of your Final Journey.

Come home.

Ceaseless are the notes of the Music of the Sea. On and on they play…now fast, now slow… so calm, but so persistent. I can close my ears, but I cannot shut out the Voice of the Sea; it swells to become the Voice of my being. As blood, it flows through my body – and there is nothing, no place, that it does not reach.

It draws me into its powerful grasp. It drowns me. And because I resist - it torments me. It sears through me as a cool fire through veins, as the cut of a keen blade in my heart – and its pain is exquisite.

My arrested breath, my anguished gasps, my pitiful cries… are all mocked.

And for a long, torturous moment…where Time has no passage…I can no longer remember the Land of my birth or my home in the woods of Arda.

-------------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

Down below, Aragorn found Legolas and Hamille seated on the mattresses of wooden bunks, talking quietly. The elf prince was holding the hands of his friend in a firm grasp, and both elves looked a little pale. They looked up as the man descended the narrow, winding steps.

“How do you fare, Legolas? Hamille?” Aragorn asked, moving quickly to sit beside his friend.

“He will tell you he is fine, my lord, but that is not to be entirely believed,” Hamille stated before Legolas could speak, earning a disapproving look from the prince. “I felt it very keenly when we first reached the Bay, but now it seems worse for him – perhaps because the Longing has resided longer in him –”

“It comes and goes,” Legolas interjected quickly. “There is nothing to be particularly upset about.”

Hamille shook his head. In his eyes was a faraway look as he spoke softly to his prince. “It is no wonder that the Lady warned you, Bridhon nin, and you spoke truly yourself when you said it was perilous to stir the desire in elves,” he whispered. “I… I did not think it would be this intense. This desire in me… it… it is overwhelming.”

“This is why I did not wish for you to join me, Hamille,” Legolas said, sighing. “Now you know… and I can keep you from it no longer.”

“The more I wish to ignore it, the more I… I ache,” Hamille continued in a distant voice. “And it cannot be easily assuaged.’

Aragorn grimaced at Hamille’s words, for it reminded him of the distress Legolas must bear, and he placed a hand on the elf prince’s shoulder.

“It is only the beginning, mellon nin,” the elf prince said.“You will never be free of it after this.”  

Both elves were silent for a while as they pondered the implications of Legolas’ words. When the elf prince spoke again, there was a clear note of sadness in his tone. “Yours is now the choice, Hamille: to heed the Call, or to stay and resist it, but for how long a time is not for me to know,” he said quietly, and looked up at his friend of old. “I do not know what you will decide to do.”

The other elf shook his head again and gripped Legolas’ hands more firmly. For the first time, he questioned his prince and friend. “What of yourself, Legolas? Never could I have imagined what you were going through, but now that I feel it – I have to ask: what of yourself?”

Well aware that Aragorn was listening to every word, and feeling the man’s hand tense on his shoulder, Legolas looked at the other elf with determination in his blue eyes.

“I can resist it,” he said with calm resolution. “I am certain it will get better with time; at least, that is my belief… else, how could the elves at Mithlond and the Grey Havens have withstood it? Many years did they dwell by the Sea.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “It may not grow less, Hamille, but we… we can grow stronger.”

Legolas looked at his kinsman sadly, and with fondness: this was a friend who had grown up with him, who had been his playmate as an elfling, and who had readily come South to Ithilien with him.

“This is my choice, Hamille, but I would never bind you to it,” he stated firmly. “You must do… what you desire.” His voice shook a little as he continued. “Should you decide to sail… should you leave… I will bid you farewell for now, and seek you again in Elvenhome.”

Hamille pursed his lips and looked hard at his prince for some time, aware that the King of Men was also waiting to hear what he would say. “Baw, no,” he said, shaking his head at last. “If you can resist the Call, Bridhon nin, so will I,” he declared. “I will not think about it, and perhaps in time it will leave me.” Despite his brave words, he seemed lost. “Perhaps…”

Legolas drew a deep breath and smiled despite his unease. “It will get better, Hamille, when we leave the Sea,” he said consolingly. “And perhaps then, you can think about it again. You need not commit to anything yet.”

“We will be on our way home tomorrow, Hamille,” Aragorn said quickly, not knowing how else to offer comfort. “I will ask the men to turn the ship around now. It is time to head back to the Bay, if the winds are favorable –”

“Let me do that, Sire, if you please,” Hamille volunteered, standing up. “It will take my mind off the… matter. Please… stay with my prince.”

Aragorn nodded, smiling crookedly. “Please tell them to return with all speed. It has been a good day, and we have seen more than we ever hoped to.”

As Hamille left, Legolas grimaced again, folding his arms across his chest and bending over, his sheet of unbraided gold hair hiding his face from view. Aragorn gripped a slender hand with one of his own, and placed his forehead against the elven shoulder.

“My good Legolas,” he said against the elven material. “I know you will not leave, but you must avoid coming to the Sea again, at least for the next few years, or so help me, Elf, I will tie you –”

“I would like to see you try, Ranger,” Legolas mumbled from behind his curtain of gold, and the two friends chuckled. “I feel adrift on uncertain waters, Estel, though I do not wish to be, but this anchors me,” he said, returning the grasp of Aragorn’s hand. “Ceru u fuio nia anim; do not worry about me. Please, let us talk about something else.”

Before either of them could say anything further, they heard a cough and turned to see Sam at the foot of the winding stairs. The hobbit started to walk slowly toward them, wearing a strangely guilty look on his round face, his little pack clutched tightly to his chest. They had been so preoccupied with the trial of the Sea-longing that they had not heard him descending the steps, and hobbits could move silently when they wished to.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Legolas, Strider,” the hobbit said hesitantly when he reached them. “I… I could not help overhearing a little of your conversation – not the part in Elvish, of course. And not that I was eavesdropping, you understand!” he added quickly, “and Hamille told me up there that you’re feeling rather poorly, Legolas. I got to thinking – seein’ as you are confronted with this… this trouble… I felt… it is time, well, that is, I think I should have done this earlier… and I am sorry I did not, but you know, it means a lot to me, and there did not seem to be any proper reason –”

“Whoa, Sam!” Aragorn interrupted him gently with a raised hand. He exchanged a quick look with Legolas before they both turned back to Sam in curiosity and incomprehension. “What are you talking about, my friend? What is it time for?”

The hobbit turned red and coughed as he shuffled about on his hairy feet. A smile came to Legolas’ lips at their friend’s discomfiture, and he said: “Do have a seat, Sam. Perhaps that will help.” 

The idea seemed to appeal to Sam, but even after the hobbit had seated himself, he still cleared his throat and sniffed and pursed his lips in turn, without any apparent intention to clarify his earlier speech.

Legolas narrowed his eyes and cast Aragorn another quick glance before speaking to Sam. “Sam… when we were still in the City, the day before we set off… it seemed that you wished to speak to me about something, did you not?” he asked. “Is that what you wish to bring up now?”

“Yes,” the hobbit responded immediately, as if glad for the opening Legolas had provided to get a load off his chest. “Aye, Legolas, I did. I do. And now that I have seen this… this affliction on you…”

But then Sam paused again, a reluctant look on his face, and his hands went to his pack, rubbing the fabric as if he was lovingly caressing its contents. After studying him for a moment, Aragorn cleared his throat and began to rise from his seat.

“Perhaps I should leave –” he began.

“No, no, Strider, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t hear this as well,” Sam said quickly, and Aragorn sat down again.

Still, the hobbit fidgeted, and Man and Elf waited patiently for him to continue.

“The Lady sent a message,” the hobbit said at last, releasing a long breath.

Of all the statements Sam could have made, this declaration ranked among the most unexpected, and the most startling, to Aragorn and Legolas.

When Legolas had found his tongue, he asked as evenly as he could: “I beg your pardon, Sam? Did you just say ‘the Lady sent a message’?”

“That’s what I said,” Sam replied, “leastways, that’s what it seemed to me.”

“Do you mean – Lady Galadriel?” Aragorn asked, incredulous.

Brown curls bobbed in a nod. “I would have told you earlier, Legolas,” the hobbit said apologetically, “except… I wasn’t sure, but now… you have this yearning for the Sea and you’re all unwell and –”

“Sam,” Legolas halted him, “if you are referring to the message she sent me in warning about hearing the gulls – that was a long time ago, my friend. Why do you raise the matter now?”

“No, no, Legolas,” the hobbit protested, shaking his head and patting his pack. “Not that message! This is a different one.”

Man and Elf drew in deep breaths and exchanged a quick glance again.

“Then you have sufficiently baffled us, my dear Master Gamgee,” Aragorn declared, “The Lady sailed over a decade ago, and unless she returned, or you paid her a visit, neither of which are, to my knowledge, the least bit likely, we are now properly mystified as to how a message from her is possible. And unless we learn your full tale soon, I’m afraid we shall continue to sit here and grow more befuddled by the minute.”

A smile tugged at Legolas’ lips at Aragorn’s words, but he was more curious and bewildered than amused by now, and he pressed Sam to tell them what he truly meant.

The hobbit sighed. “The beginning is a good place to start,” he murmured, nodding as if to himself. “Well, the beginning was a month ago – before we came to Minas Tirith, after your invitation was delivered, Strider.”

Aragorn nodded. “What happened then?”

“Well…” Sam said, scratching his nose. “I – er – I had a dream. About the Lady.”

Two pairs of eyes went wide.

“The Lady came to you in a dream?” Legolas asked. 

Sam nodded, noting the looks of surprise on the faces of his companions.

“She was, you know, as beautiful as ever, all white and shining-like, just glowing, and there was this… this smile on her face, kind of sad, but wise, like always,” the hobbit said, his features softening and his eyes glazing over in wistful recollection. “I… I don’t think I’ve seen her beautifuler,” he added for emphasis. “All dream-like…” he continued thoughtfully before he started and said more pertly, “well, ‘cept it was a dream, if you know what I mean.”

Aragorn and Legolas nodded to show the hobbit they did know what he meant, but they were silently anxious for him to say more about the message the Lady had sent.

“She hailed me and spoke to me,” Sam said as if he had read their minds. “It seemed like she was at some distance and couldn’t get any closer – like there was a… a barrier or somethin’. But still – I could see her and hear her – and feel her.” The hobbit shuddered a little as he added: “She looked straight into me with those keen eyes of hers – even from where she stood – just like in the Golden Woods that time, she did – and then she gave me the strangest instruction.”

Man and Elf sat on the edge of their seats in anticipation while Sam’s eyes widened and said:  “Now this is the part I find oddest of all, because I didn’t see any reason for it at the time…”  As he spoke, he undid the flap of his canvas pack and reached in. “She told me, Legolas… she told me to make sure you got this…”

Aragorn and Legolas watched the hobbit’s plump brown hand reach into his pack and retrieve something slowly.

When the hand re-emerged, Man and Elf received their second huge surprise of the afternoon, and they were stunned into silence.

Many thanks to those who left reviews.

If there are errors in the Elvish used here, please feel free to point them out to me. Thank you.

CHAPTER 7: THE LADY’S GIFT

Sam carefully cradled in his hands the object he had retrieved from his pack, and looked at it lovingly. After a moment’s hesitation, he held it out to the elf prince, swallowing as he did so.

Legolas stared at it but made no move to take it.

“The Phial?” the elf asked in disbelief when he could speak again. “The Phial of the Lady? With the Light of Eärendil?”

Aragorn was no less taken aback, and his brows furrowed as he looked in disbelief at the beautiful glass phial that held a glow of its own. “But that was gifted to Frodo,” he said.

Sam nodded. “Aye, but he left it to me before he… he sailed, along with most of his other stuff,” the hobbit explained. “I’ve kept it safe, like all his things,” he said quietly, a note of sadness creeping into his voice as he wrapped his hands around the phial again. “They’re all I have left to keep me close to my master.”

“Of course,” Legolas murmured. “And I cannot imagine why the Lady –”

“She didn’t say anything much about it, if that’s what you’re wondering,” the hobbit said quickly, “except that you will need it.”

Legolas’ astonishment was almost palpable. “I will need it? What – ?”

“To keep your hopes up… so you can keep going… or something akin to that,” Sam said, anticipating the elf’s question. “That’s what she said, well… close to it, at least, and then – and then I woke up – all sudden-like – before there was anything else.”

Aragorn and Legolas sat in mystified silence, each wondering why the Lady would have thought it important enough to reach out to Sam across the Sea and bid him deliver the Phial to the elf. Did she mean he might succumb –   

“Now I can’t claim to know more than what I was told,” Sam broke into their thoughts, “but… seein’ as you’re all shook up, Legolas, I’m thinking maybe… she wanted to help you with the Sea-feeling… so you won’t give up… if that makes sense.”

Man and Elf exchanged another look. Was the desire to sail more perilous than either of them realized? Would Legolas now need the Phial to resist it? No answer came readily, but they soon found out that Sam had been pondering a different question.

“I talked to myself, I did,” the hobbit confessed, “‘Sam’, I said, ‘why would such a Great Lady ask you to carry a message?’” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess it’s ’cause I’m the one holding the Phial.”

Aragorn gave him a small smile. “Do not think so little of your worth, my friend,” he countered, and Legolas nodded in agreement. “Few can rival the value of your deeds during the Quest.” He smiled again as Sam turned red with embarrassment.

“To be honest… I’d been a wee bit afraid to come to you with this,” the hobbit confessed sheepishly. “You might think I’d fallen off a tree and hit my head, cookin’ up this daft story –”

“Far from it, my friend,” Legolas interrupted, “we would never think that of you.”

“Certainly not, Sam,” Aragorn concurred. “We do not doubt that you saw the Lady in a dream, but you, too, are likely to have wondered if perhaps that was all it was – just a dream?” he suggested.

The brown curls jiggled as Sam shook his head, his embarrassment forgotten. “That was what I told myself at first, ’cause I thought I’d heard wrong or something; she was standing a-ways from me, see?” he said, “but no more after the second time.”

Incredulity gripped Legolas again as he asked: “Another dream?”

“Aye, a second time,” the hobbit answered. “No mistakin’ it now, I said to myself. I can’t say as I haven’t cracked my head as well, trying to figure it out. I did, till it hurt somethin’ awful.” Sam sighed and held the phial out again. “All I can think of is the Sea-feeling… I don’t know any more than what my head can cook up, but I do know what she told me to do, so – here, take it anyway. I hope it will do you some good – and I hope you’re not too vexed that it’s come this late.”

Legolas shook his head, and there was clear reluctance in his eyes. “Sam –” he began.

“Much as I hate to part with this, Legolas, even more do I fear not minding what the Lady ordered,” Sam insisted. “But – if you don’t mind – would you just borrow it, and maybe… return it… when you’re done with it?”

Aragorn looked at the wide eyes and hopeful expression on Sam’s face, then at Legolas, whose own gaze was unwaveringly focused on the hobbit before him. Conflicting emotions – wonder, doubt, gratitude – flitted across the fair face before the elf reached out to gently take the Phial from Sam.

“I thank you, dear Sam, for this consolation,” Legolas said with sincerity in his voice. “The only reason I am accepting this – borrowing this – is the same as yours: it would be wise to heed the words of the Lady, even if the purpose is still unclear. If the Phial is indeed meant to help me, rest assured – I will take the utmost care of it, and will return it to its rightful owner as soon as we are back in Minas Tirith.”

The hobbit nodded, took in a deep breath and released it, as if he was relieved to have carried out some difficult task. Then he looked carefully at Legolas. “Seeing as you have it in your hands now… do you feel any better?”

Aragorn turned to study the face of the elf prince as well, and he noted an unreadable expression there. Then a small smile lit the elven features.

“Anyone blessed with a gift of the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn is certain to benefit from it,” he said carefully, “and once again, you have my thanks.”

Aragorn knew from Legolas’ tone – and from close acquaintance with his manner – that the elf had phrased his answer to please Sam, and the hobbit seemed glad enough, for his round face brightened a little.

“Well then, I’d best make my way back to the deck,” he said, standing up and picking up his pack. “If the ship can’t be on solid ground, I’d feel a lot better if I could see what it is on – if you know what I mean.”

Aragorn chuckled lightly and Legolas smiled as the hobbit made to move off, and after a last lingering look at the Phial – now resting reverently in elven hands – he retraced his steps to the winding stairs.

When Sam had disappeared from view, Man and Elf turned to each other. Neither spoke for a while, but each knew the question in the other’s mind.

“You know as much or as little as I do, Estel,” Legolas said, “but this I will say, though I did not want to voice it in front of our friend: I do not think it is what he guessed.”

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked.

“I do not believe this is to help diminish my… yearning.”

“No?” Aragorn asked, raising one eyebrow.

Legolas shook his head. “Nay, I do not think so,” he asserted. “If anything, Estel, this Phial – with the Light of the Mariner captured in it – would only, if I allowed it to, intensify the desire in me to sail, would it not?”

Aragorn took a moment to answer. “That does sound reasonable,” he said thoughtfully, “I sensed something amiss when you assured Sam it would help you; now I know you were merely putting his kind heart at ease.”

When Legolas smiled and nodded his confirmation, Aragorn spoke again. “But now we are back to the question: why would the Lady charge Sam with handing it to you, and – more importantly – what would you need it for?”

Legolas did not reply at once, but sat cradling the Phial in his hands. He then raised it slowly to hold it before his face, to study it with undisguised wonder, and as he did so, Aragorn gave a small gasp.

They were sitting in front of a round port hole, and whether by chance or design, there now poured through it a ray of sunshine that fell on the elven countenance, and then – just as quickly – a dark cloud passed over and cut off the brightness of day, throwing them both in deep shadow.

But here, where but a single ray of the Light of Eärendil had been captured by one of the most powerful Eldar of all the Ages, even that single drop of starlight dispelled the gloom with its unrivalled radiance. And when the Phial – held delicately between the slender fingers of a Firstborn – cast its clear gleam on a wondrously fair face framed by a halo of gold, Aragorn felt he was watching, all at once, the magnificent rising of Anor, and the soft glow of Ithil, and the subtle glitter of all the stars in the night sky. Their beams were silken threads of pure light, woven into a fabric of soft brilliance. Here, before his eyes, was a vision of splendor revealed to him alone – a vision he was sure he would witness but few times in his life. 

The breath of the Adan caught in his throat, and speech was a forgotten skill. Every question surrounding the meaning of the Lady’s message to Sam was – at that instant – a distant memory. At that moment, all Aragorn could think of was how glad he was that he would not live to see the day when all the beauty of the Fair Folk, and all the magical charm that exuded from their very presence, would be forever gone from Middle-earth, for there was at least one of them – the same ethereal being in the vision before him – who had given his promise to stay until his own mortal end.

 “Estel?” The voice of the elf prince jolted him from his thoughts, and his eyes focused on the elven face with slight concern written in the features. “Are you all right? You looked… robbed of breath.”

At that reminder, Aragorn drew in a deep lungful of air and released it before he smiled shakily. I very nearly was, mellon nin, he replied silently so as not to alarm his friend. And when he spoke, it was in a voice full of hushed reverence.

“If all moments in Middle-earth could be like the one that just passed, Legolas,” he said, “I – and all Men – would find light and enchantment enough to counter all the foulness that threatens to taint and blacken our lives.” And he finished that cryptic message with a soft smile that reflected his awe, leaving the elf to wonder at what he meant.

Then – suddenly – Legolas tensed.

“‘A light in dark places when all other lights go out’,” he breathed, catching Aragorn unawares.

The man knitted his brows. “What –?”

“That is what the Lady said of this Gift: a light in dark places when all other lights go out,” the elf repeated. “And that is why she gave it to Frodo during the Quest: to light his way when all around was dark.”

Man and Elf sat in the shadow of the cloud and looked at the Phial again, silent thoughts racing through their minds once more.

“I feel it holds a purpose beyond today, Estel,” Legolas said slowly. “Beyond this Sea-longing, beyond our present knowledge. I think the Lady knows…” The elf turned to look at Aragorn, “there may be darker days ahead. And she sent this as a warning – and an aid.”

A little color left Aragorn’s face at those words, and his mouth felt dry again. “For you, Legolas?” he croaked, the very notion of something befalling his friend distressing him.

“I know not, Estel, we will have to wait and see,” the elf replied calmly. “And be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” Aragorn asked, consternation in his voice. “How do we prepare for something we don’t know –”

At that moment, the same thought struck both Man and Elf as they recalled a similar remark Aragorn had made in frustration only two days ago, when they had been discussing his restless nights and strange dreams:

How do I battle a foe that I cannot identify? What path would it have me tread?

The two friends looked at each other, sharing a recollection about the muffled voices and vague images that had visited Aragorn – all the more darkly disturbing because they were as yet without shape or name. And like a flame that suddenly flares in the dark to reveal something vaguely sinister, a suspicion entered both their minds as they questioned whether the Phial had truly been meant to help Legolas face the Sea-longing – or for some other purpose.

“A light to keep me going? So I will not give up…?” Legolas said softly as he recalled Sam’s words. His brows knitted in puzzlement and his elven eyes searched the grey ones of the King as if he could find insight there. “So I won’t lose –”

The blue eyes suddenly lit up and widened, and the elf stood abruptly, his hands gripping the Phial. Before Aragorn could even wonder what was happening, Legolas had turned and, in a flash, crossed the chamber to run up the winding steps to the deck above, leaving the man to dash after him in bewilderment.

When Aragorn emerged onto the deck, the elf was already – and rather hastily – leading Sam away from the rest of the party gathered there. An astonished Gimli looked at Aragorn and pointed a stubby finger at Legolas and Sam, spluttering: “What in peat blazes –?”

The King noted the looks of surprise on the faces of the other hobbits and his son, and signaled to them to be patient while he strode over to where Legolas – bent over so that he could look Sam in the eye – was asking the hobbit a question. The wind was blowing golden and brown hair into the faces of Elf and Hobbit as they talked, but it could not mask the concern in Legolas’ eyes or the bafflement in Sam’s as he faced the uncharacteristically taut elven features.

“What exactly did she say, Sam? Was there anything else?” Legolas prompted, his whole stance bespeaking a tense anxiety.

“Nothin’,” Sam replied earnestly, a little shaken by the sense of urgency in the elf’s tone. “She said you would need it – nothing more than what I’ve told you!”

“To help keep my hopes up? That is all? Sam, are you certain?”

“As certain as I can be about something in a dream,” Sam insisted in exasperation. “Well… it sounded like you would need it awful bad… I got the feeling that you would need it so you wouldn’t get drowneded… or become despaired… or something like that. Isn’t that about this Sea-feeling you have – so you can keep going?”

Aragorn keenly observed the doubt that still lay in Legolas’ eyes as the elf pressed further: “What were her exact words, Sam? Please – try to recall them clearly!” 

“It was a dream – nothin’s that clear in dreams! I didn’t set great store by the exact words!” the hobbit said desperately. He was clearly perturbed at the elf’s persistence, and Aragorn stepped closer to him and placed a comforting hand on his plump shoulder.

“Did she mention Aragorn?” Legolas queried, his tone still crisp with apprehension. “Did she say anything at all about him?”

“No, no, that I remember clear as a bell,” Sam replied firmly. “Only you – ”

“But what were her exact words?” Legolas pressed on, clearly not convinced.

Aragorn squeezed the disconcerted hobbit’s shoulder. “Try to remember, Sam, it’s important,” he said quietly as the round eyes looked up at him. The man did not know if this questioning would yield anything, but he trusted that Legolas knew what he was doing.

“Forgive me, Sam,” the elf prince said in both an apology and a plea, “but – please – we really need to know.”

Sam furrowed his brows and looked away, clearly trying to recollect details, while Man and Elf waited expectantly. Gimli and the others approached them slowly, but stopped a little distance away, not wishing to intrude into something they knew nothing about as yet.

Then Sam took a deep breath and turned back to Legolas. “Well, if it’s really that important to remember…” he began hesitantly, “Her meaning was for you to carry on, Legolas, not give up… but I think… I think she said: ‘He will need it… um… he will need it to keep his spirits up’… No, that’s not it…”

Legolas was no longer breathing by now, as his senses screamed that Sam was close to recollecting what exactly he had heard.

The hobbit’s eyes widened suddenly. “She said: ‘He will need it so he won’t lose hope,” he said triumphantly. “No – wait… wait! Samwise, was your head all fogged up? What were you thinking?” he berated himself.

Legolas felt he would snap from the tension.

“What she said,” Sam began again, “What she said was… you’ll need to keep your hopes up… no, alive, alive! – that’s it! You’ll need it to keep hope alive! That’s what she said: ‘He will need it to keep hope alive!’”

Happy that he had been able to provide the answer Legolas wanted, Sam grinned and turned his head first to Aragorn and then the elf, expecting to see satisfaction on their faces – for whatever reason they wanted the information.

But when he looked up, all he saw were two friends looking at each other in an uneasy silence. Aragorn’s hand had fallen weakly off his shoulder, and Legolas had straightened up, a grim expression on his fair features.

He will need it to keep hope alive.

The warning raced through the minds of Man and Elf as their eyes locked.

Hope was Estel.

Estel was Aragorn.

Legolas would need the Phial – but not for himself as the King had thought. If the Lady’s warning held true, then – for whatever reason, at some yet unforeseen time and place, in some yet unknown circumstance – he would need the Light of Eärendil to keep his friend from… death.

Ai, Elbereth…

The elf felt as if his legs would buckle beneath him, and a chill surged through him as he paled with fear for Aragorn.

Note:  I declared at the beginning of this story that some parts of this story may be AU. The Phial being left to Sam is one of them. In the books, (sadly enough) Frodo took the Glass of Galadriel with him when he sailed. I wish that Light had been left in Middle-earth, but I guess it is in a far better place.

CHAPTER 8:  RETURN TO PELARGIR

(I dedicate particular parts of this chapter to a certain *wet puddle* and *bushy-tailed rodent*.   :-) )

It was a large, airy room, simply and elegantly furnished, with only a small fire in a stone hearth to ward off the light chill of a late spring night in Pelargir. The only other illumination came from a single torch in one corner, and thus was it arranged so that the absence of harsh light might induce rest and sleep for the occupant, who needed it after two days of ship-bound travel from the Bay.

But the King of Gondor – once again housed in the otherwise comfortable room on his Company’s return journey to Minas Tirith – found neither sound sleep nor soothing relief.

It was certainly not for want of trying. He had excused himself early again because he had hoped to obtain more than a mere couple of hours’ sleep, for he was a ruler, and his duties awaited him back at the Seat of his realm. But the incident with Sam – and the startling realization about the Lady’s true message – had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

Immense relief had flooded him upon learning that the warning had apparently not been meant for Legolas – for he would rather have danger point its finger at him than at his elven friend – but it was still highly disconcerting to hear about some impending doom for himself. His noble sprit was such that he was not afraid for himself, but for Arwen and Eldarion and their unborn child. He did not want to imagine how they would fare should death befall him. His elven brothers, too, would be overcome with sorrow beyond words.

And what distressed him as much was the knowledge that Legolas seemed to have been handed, along with the Lady’s Light, the responsibility of keeping him from harm; but if the elf prince should fail… if he should fail… Aragorn knew that his friend would never recover from a misplaced sense of guilt, and the elf would surely fade from grief and follow him in death.

The King of Men shuddered. The thought of those he loved being hurt on his account drove him towards a path of miserable contemplation on which he did not wish to walk, but which seemed as inevitable as the start of yet another restless night. Thus troubled, he found himself missing the soothing presence of Arwen and longed to be with her again in the White City. Sighing, he hoped that his dreams tonight would be filled with lovely images of her instead of disturbing sensations that had become his nocturnal companions.

Aaaah, let me sleep in peace for tonight, he wished, though no ears would hear his lament.

The man assured himself that all was as secure as it could be: his guards were outside his door, Eldarion was safely in Eowyn and Faramir’s care, and he was certain that Legolas would be nearby, though the elf had made no show of it. Keeping his eyes closed in the dark, he likewise tried to shut his mind to all that could disturb him, till all he could hear was the light scuffle of feet outside his door as his guards moved about, and the hiss and crackle of flames in the hearth. From outside his window came the careless rustle of leaves and the sad sigh of a night breeze, drifting in with the faint sounds of activity from the bar downstairs.

The familiar sounds reassured him a little, and he lay still, waiting for sleep to steal over him if it would.

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One floor below the room in which the King of Gondor was retiring, several members of his Company were trying to put their minds at ease as well, by partaking of the inn’s cold brew and warm joviality. Gimli, Sam and Faramir watched Merry and Pippin perform their second jig of the night in front of an appreciative audience of Pelargir’s locals, who were grateful for the presence of this seldom-encountered – and thoroughly entertaining – race from the distant North. 

“May they never grow old, those two!” Gimli pronounced, patting his generous stomach and stretching his legs where he sat next to Sam. “When we are old and decrepit, and are unable to enjoy a good roast for want of good teeth to sink into the meat, and we are hobbling about on only one good leg – those hobbits will still be dancing into the next Age!”

“Aye,” Sam agreed amidst the chuckles that followed Gimli’s statement, “I wouldn’t be surprised if their legs kicked about even in their sleep.”

Faramir laughed. “What rousing dreams they must have then!” he said. “Promise to wake me if that ever happens.”

“Well, speaking of dreams, Master Hobbit,” the dwarf muttered, glaring at Sam from beneath knitted bushy eyebrows. “To think that the Lady came to you instead of me – it continues to prick me like a thorn in my flesh, even if you bear no blame in the matter.” As Sam’s eyes widened at that unexpected confession, Gimli sighed and continued. “I would have given anything – anything – to have been blessed with that glimpse of her! Ai, how fortunate you were, Sam!”

The love-struck dwarf looked so forlorn that Faramir could not stop the chuckle from his throat, while Sam blushed and shrugged his plump shoulders.

“It was not of my asking or choosing, Gimli,” the hobbit insisted. “But if she ever comes to me again, I’ll do my best to ask her if she can maybe visit you instead, if there’s another message for Legolas.”

And now it was Sam who made Faramir smile, for the hobbit looked so earnest and apologetic that his round eyes seemed ready to pop out of his head. The dwarf grunted, mumbled a barely audible phrase that sounded like “wouldn’t mind it” and took another swig of his beer.

“Truth be told, Gimli, if it’s a warning about some awful happening or other, I’d just as soon not be the bearer of such tidings,” Sam declared, fingering his mug. “Proper shook up, the elf was over this last news, though we can’t say for sure it means what he thinks it means. Leastways, I hope not. By the way, where is he? And Hamille?” the hobbit queried, looking around. 

“Sitting in some dangerously tall tree and exchanging stories with the stars, I wager,” Gimli muttered. “They will never learn to appreciate the pleasures of a good smoke and a pint of stout ale, Sam, not to mention the solid feel of feet planted firmly on hard earth.”

Faramir grinned again, imagining the two elves talking to the twinkling fires in the night sky, certain that they would derive much greater pleasure from that conversation than the sometimes empty – albeit entertaining – chatter in this inn.

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Legolas and Hamille were indeed sitting in a tree, as Gimli had guessed: the same tall oak whose branches they had rested on before, outside the windows of Aragorn’s bedchamber. And the dwarf had not been far off the mark either when he quipped about them conversing with the stars, for the elves were singing to them, taking delight in the Lamps that had greeted the awakening of the Firstborn upon Arda.

The elf prince sought solace in the calm communion as well, for he had not ceased feeling deeply troubled for Aragorn since his talk with Sam, and had stayed as close as possible to the man even though no allusion to this move had been uttered between the friends.

“Keep the Phial with you, Estel,” he had said to Aragorn earlier that evening, holding out the Glass of Galadriel and urging the King to take it. “I know not what it is for, but I would feel more comforted if it kept you company.”

Aragorn had looked first at the worried features of the elf and then the Phial for some time, struggling in some inner debate. Then he closed two firm hands around the Phial and the elven fingers holding it – and pushed it back gently towards his friend.

“Nay, Legolas,” he had said quietly. “If the Lady had meant for me to in possession of it, she would have commanded so. She spoke naught of the purpose the Phial may serve, nor the design of events she may foresee, but she clearly charged Sam with delivering it to you, not me. Since we cannot see beyond that instruction, I hold that it would be best to observe it.”

The elf had begun to protest. “It may help ward off –” 

“Perhaps it – whatever ‘it’ may be – is not meant to be warded off,” the King had argued, knowing that the elf would have readily agreed with him on that score if the elven mind were not so clouded with concern for his own well-being. “You worry for me, my friend, that I know,” he said soothingly, “but I have thought long and hard on this: perhaps the Lady means for things to follow their course, and that may include her Glass remaining with you rather than with me.”

The elf had been crestfallen, but he had finally accepted Aragorn’s firm refusal, reluctantly recommitting the Phial to the safety of his own keeping. But when Aragorn had excused himself from the Company and headed to his bedroom, Legolas had immediately invited Hamille to join him in the arms of the friendly tree outside the King’s window, where he could keep a watchful but discreet vigil beneath the stars.

Reclining now against long, sturdy branches at the top of the tree, and hidden from curious human eyes, the two elves became one with the oak and embraced the refuge it provided. Legolas ached to give similar comfort and shelter to the King of Gondor, for though Aragorn was one of the most stoic people he knew, the man was now vulnerable to harm from an unknown threat. But the elf had as yet no knowledge of how to protect the adan, or how to do it without hurting his pride.

Sighing, the elf prince decided to do the only thing he could for his friend tonight.

As midnight blue spread over the expanse above, Legolas leaned even further into the arms of the tree, turned his fair face skyward, and began to sing. Taking his cue, Hamille joined him readily, and the two elves wove their melodious voices into the sweetest of harmonies, gracing the night with a soft, rhapsodic offering to Elbereth.

When that ended, Legolas sang on, and his song was full of light and hope and peace, for in the haunting strains were captured the unmarred beauty of Eä before it tasted evil, and the purity of an Age when Eru had made all that was good and whole, and the sparkling clarity of waters that Ulmo had melted from pristine snow. Legolas sang from his heart, and his tone was laced with love, for he was singing for a cherished friend bowed with care.

And when the people passing below heard silvery notes floating around them like flecks of tinsel, they stopped to listen, spellbound. In wonder did they look around, and seeing nothing, they were content to stand and lose themselves in the enchantment of the slow, mysterious melody. They wept at the beauty of it – but they knew not from whence the magic came.

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Lulled by the night sounds, Aragorn felt himself becoming light… and then the sweetest of lyrical voices played upon the air outside, in a mesmerizing musical script of Sindarin exaltation. Even on the edge of consciousness, the elegance of the voices was known to him. They floated in through the open windows and came gently to him, now singing together… now alone.

And then the light notes of a single voice alighted upon his heavy heart; they whispered the smiling presence of the golden elf prince, bidding him rest, and like the softest of lullabies, the touch comforted him.

Aragorn felt himself drifting… drifting on the slow, swirling ripples of approaching sleep, and for a while, he could smile in the hopes of restful oblivion.

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“Those elves will never savor the robust flavor of a good, hearty song straight from the stomach!” Gimli declared, beaming with glee as the crowd called gaily for another performance from Pippin and Merry. “A fat pity it is, for I am more fond of that exasperating elf princeling than is good for me – mind you never tell him that, though, on pain of death! – and I wish we could knock some sense into that flighty head of his.”

For a few moments, Sam watched the two tireless hobbits as they began another jig, and then shook his head in amusement. “Methinks the ent draught Treebeard gave them did more than enhance their height,” he said. “It seems to have stretched their youth as well.”

“As for me, I cannot tell if thanks are due to a draught for the body or the mind, for it seems to me that Merry and Pippin simply do not pay any attention to the passage of Time,” said a smiling Faramir as he watched the brown curls bob agitatedly. “And a good thing, too: a perpetually young heart is a rare blessing.”

“Well, as long as it is in the natural flow of things,” Gimli muttered. “It was not so long ago that we saw how the Ring prolonged the lives of two we knew – one we were glad to be rid of, but the other was one we were fond of.” The dwarf twitched at the memory of Gollum and Bilbo, and the group was hushed for a few moments. The slamming of clay mugs on wooden tables, appreciative slurps, cheerful hoots and the sharp sound of clapping hands from surrounding tables grew louder, while flitting shadows on wooden walls rivaled the movements of the two performers.

Sam cleared his throat after a while. “Now, now, Master Dwarf,” he said consolingly, “let us not speak of such matters on this merry evening. That time is past, and we are far from those desolate places where the Ring wielded its power.”

Gimli shifted a little noisily in his seat, fingering his mug. “Not so far, really,” he muttered through his thick beard. “This was not such a pleasant place to be at the time.”

At Sam’s confusion, Faramir spoke up. “This was where your friends boarded the Black Fleet of the Corsairs, Sam,” he reminded him, and the Hobbit’s eyes lit in understanding. “And…” the Steward of Gondor coughed a little, “if you recall, they were followed by a whole host of… um…”

“Dead people,” Gimli supplied, grimacing. “Ghosts from the Paths of the Dead – ” 

“Aye, the Dwimorberg. Beggin’ your pardon, Gimli, I had forgotten,” the Mayor of Hobbiton said apologetically. “Now there’s a bunch I would never wish to be friends with, that’s for sure,” he affirmed, recalling now how the Shadow Host had been men who had promised Isildur, Aragorn’s ancestor, to fight against Sauron, but who, when the time came, had broken their vow and refused to fight. The King had condemned them to a living death, and only by obeying Aragorn’s summons for them to help take over the Black Ships did they redeem themselves and earn their release at last.

Gimli grunted and waved a hand weakly. “Best forgotten, Samwise, best forgotten,” he mumbled. “That was a dark, dreadful experience, traversing those Paths under the mountains…” he said, shivering at the recollection and apparently not heeding his own advice to leave the memory alone. “And only by the will of Aragorn was everyone able to go on… but I was shaking harder than a leaf in a full-blown gale nevertheless.” And the dwarf quickly downed the rest of his ale as if to give himself a measure of courage.

After a few moments during which the three companions kept a contemplative silence, Gimli sniffed and rubbed his eyes, which had begun to look a little puffy. “Aulë knows I’d just as soon have pushed the experience into the deepest recesses of my memory and locked it up there and thrown away the key. And indeed I would never have spoken of it again if Merry and Pippin had not insisted on hearing the full tale at the Houses of Healing… you know… after Pelennor.”

“They made you recount the event?” Sam asked, imagining how the two hobbits would not have ceased to pester the dwarf till he relented.

Gimli snorted. “Of course they did…” he replied, a look of unpleasant reminiscence appearing on his face. “But Legolas told most of it, if you must know. After all, he had felt no fear of the Dead, being an elf – ”

“Elves do not fear the Dead?” Sam queried.

The dwarf took a swig of his ale and issued a belch of satisfaction before he addressed Sam again.

“So the elf princeling claims… but then, elves are strange creatures, I always say,” the dwarf replied. “True enough, it might have been unpleasant for him on the Paths, but he certainly showed no dread. As for me, though, Mayor Samwise,” the dwarf declared fervently, “I went on to those Paths in ignorance, for the sake of Aragorn. But upon hindsight, I have to say I was being foolishly bold. I said it to Merry and Pippin at the Houses of Healing then – and I say it again now: not for any friendship would I face the terror of those Paths again!”

Sam swallowed at the fervency of that claim. “They were that foul, Gimli?” he ventured hesitantly.

The dwarf did not answer immediately. Whether a sudden cold draft had agitated the flames of the torches on the walls – or because their own minds were painting scenes of their own – the three companions felt the room grow a little darker, and the teeming sounds of merry-making that had been so loud and discrete minutes ago now seemed to merge into a subdued drone.

Among the three companions, there was only muteness.

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

Outside, the smooth tones of the elven voices tapered off into a gentle hush, breaking the enchantment their song had created and draping a silken silence over the darkness of the grounds as the passers-by departed.

All seemed still within Aragorn’s room, and the elves sat likewise in watchful contemplation.

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

In the bedchamber of Elessar, the sound of elven singing had ceased, and only the echoes of their remembered notes lingered sweetly in the mind of the King. Aragorn lay still, hoping that his waking state would fade as the elven voices did – gently and peacefully – and that the deepening dark would herald sleep.

He was too tired to remember that the dark hides many things, and it keeps them cloaked and silent, till it chooses to unleash them upon us.

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

Gimli cleared his throat and spoke at last in a tone as cheerless as a graveyard.

“The Shadow Host were not… ordinary ghosts, Sam, if ghosts can be ordinary,” the dwarf told the hobbit somberly. “They put into us a fear you cannot begin to imagine.”

“Remember that they were the restless spirits of violent, bitter men, cursed to wander this world in misery, long after they died and should have been at peace,” Faramir added in explanation.

A strange look entered the dwarf’s dark eyes, and he crossed his arms. “Even talking about it rattles me,” he said, shuddering again. “Must be the beer going to my head.”

“Or not,” Faramir observed quietly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Elessar’s disturbing dreams have been caused by being here.”

“Hrrmmphh, I don’t know about that; they started in Minas Tirith, I think he said,” Gimli corrected him.

“But they got worse after we got here, didn’t they?” Sam pointed out. “And then all of you started getting spooked here as well –”

“And to think he kept it from us all this while,” the dwarf grumbled.

“Well, as he explained on the ship, he could not be certain that it wasn’t merely an ailment of sorts to begin with,” Faramir said in Aragorn’s defense. “We have to admit: it didn’t seem to amount to anything truly alarming – not till Master Gamgee here told Legolas the Lady’s message and unnerved us.”

“Mmphh, I suppose you’re right,” the dwarf conceded. “And there’s no certainty that Legolas’ reading of Sam’s message is right: that there is a dire threat to Aragorn. Still… it is extremely strange that the only ones to share Aragorn’s unease here were the only four who had accompanied him on the accursed Paths of the… of  the… you know…”

“Why is that, do you think?” the hobbit asked, understanding the dwarf’s reluctance to even mention the Undead beings.

Faramir shook his head. “We can’t tell, Sam, none of us knows yet,” he replied. “I wonder if there might be some… some remnant foulness here? And perhaps, because of your previous encounter, Gimli, might you be… more sensitive to its presence?” He looked at Gimli, who merely raised his eyebrows and looked uncomfortable.

“Its presence!” Sam exclaimed, shifting nervously in his seat and swallowing.

“Or theirs?” Faramir proposed. “Elessar said he heard several voices –”

“Do you think those – those Dead things… might be here?” Sam chimed in, his round eyes darting around the noisy pub as if he would see ghostly specters pounce upon them.

“I certainly hope not!” Gimli piped up with some annoyance. “And I do not want to encounter them a second time – I don’t trust a foe I can’t sink my axe into!”

“I am puzzled as to why you should even encounter them again, for they were released, and they departed to… wherever they go to find peace,” Faramir pointed out. “Did they not?”

“Aye, and good riddance to them, too,” the dwarf declared with a firm nod.

“Yet… you and the others did seem to feel them here,” Faramir continued, not meaning to be unkind, but wishing to confront a possibility that was slowly taking shape in his mind. “Do you still, Gimli? Do you still sense –?”

“It’s the beer – gone to my head, like I said!” the dwarf exclaimed, banging his mug down on the table and not bothering to hide his irritation.

“I apologise for vexing you, Master Gimli,” the Steward said to placate his companion, “but I am pursuing a notion – strange though it may seem – of what may be troubling my king. If there truly are more of them still, I wonder if… if they – for some purpose we cannot yet fathom – have been trying to reach Elessar in his nightmares as well.”

The three friends lapsed into another nervous silence as they mulled over those words. They could not have known what was even now happening in the bedchamber of the King a floor above.

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

The hope of rest was a vain one for Elessar that night, for it was not sleep that came to him.

They did.

All restfulness left the King as the garbled voices and the vague images of his previous encounters started to creep into his mind again, unbidden and unwelcome. They cruelly thrust aside the memories of the elven songs that had calmed the man. Slowly and disturbingly, they began to vex him once more, and he stirred uneasily on his bed.

Who are they? the King of Men lamented. Oh, Eru – what do they want from me?

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

The restless spirits of violent, bitter men, cursed to wander this world in misery, long after they died and should have been at peace, Sam thought, shivering as he recalled Faramir’s words.

“If it really is those Shadow fellows troubling Strider’s dreams, they’re a proper menace, they are,” the hobbit said sympathetically.

Faramir nodded. “Whether or not those… beings are responsible, the dreams have worn him out night after night. He has retired early again – which reminds me: I had better replace the guards outside his door,” he said. The Steward had been fingering his mug absently, but now he picked it up. “I’ll breathe easier when we leave tomorrow,” he stated firmly, and drained the last of the ale.

Gimli suddenly stood unsteadily. “I – I think I’ll be turning in myself,” he announced. “I agree with you, Faramir: it’ll be a welcome departure from this place tomorrow. The hospitality wants for nothing, but it’s the – pshhh – the… ahem… ‘unwanted guests’ that may be lingering about, that I’ll be glad to be rid of.” He shuddered and pushed his chair back.

“Well, Master Gamgee,” Faramir said, turning to Sam. “Shall we fetch our young friends over there before they wreck every table and mug in the house with their kicking, and wake the Dead with their singing?”

“Pardon me, m’lord, but I’d just as soon not mention the Dead yet, not so soon after Gimli’s tale – not till it’s full daylight,” Sam said, his round eyes growing even wider. “But yes, we’d best retrieve those two and retire too. It wouldn’t do to bring the house down and leave the townsfolk with a bad impression of Shirefolk!”

“Hmmmph, go on then, and I bid you all good night,” Gimli mumbled as he sauntered off towards the dimly lit staircase that would take him to his room. All this talk of the Dead, the dwarf thought despondently. I hope they won’t fill my dreams.

Soon the wooden steps resounded with the heavy lethargic clump-clump-clump of his boots.

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

Outside, the solid oak seemed to thrum in time with the thudding of Legolas’ heart.

Amidst the soft rustle of leaves caressed by the barest of breezes and moonbeams peeking out from behind fickle clouds, a red squirrel scurried to its hole to settle for the night. But where two elves should also have been retiring, they were wide awake, strangely alert.

Legolas felt uneasy and did not know why, for there seemed to be no disturbance in Aragorn’s room, and the man should be peacefully asleep within.

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

All did seem calm in the bedchamber of the King, and no tumult broke the quiet. Yet, deep in the recesses of the mind of Elessar Telcontar – turmoil was already rampant.

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

Legolas looked at Hamille, who did not seem to be perturbed. But when the brown-haired elf saw a strange glint of worry stir within the prince’s blue eyes, he sat up slowly from the branch on which he had been reclined. Then he felt a little alarmed when Legolas declared abruptly:

“I think Estel needs us.”

  --------------------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------------------

Aragorn stiffened and gasped, his fingers gripping tightly the folds of the blanket that covered him. It kept away the cold – but it could not keep them out.

Pushing into his mind and his hearing and the space behind his eyes, the obscure images and muddled voices that had frequented his dreams came flooding in. They rose and fell with the waves of sleep: dark vapor snaking along the corridors of his now frightened mind; harsh whispers and plaintive wails burrowing into ears that could no longer keep them out; and the faces of Dead that do not die, forcing themselves past the barriers of his vision, till he could no longer shut his eyes against them… they penetrated his flesh and lingered in the space behind his lids, till he was left with no choice but to face them.

  --------------------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------------------

Hamille knew enough to not question Legolas when he himself could sense little of what troubled the prince, and followed the latter’s swift descent from the tree. For no apparent reason other than the sense of urgency that had suddenly gripped him, Legolas almost ran back into the inn and flew up the stairs to where Aragorn’s room was located.

But when the elves reached the door to Aragorn’s bedchamber, nothing seemed out of order. Other than the startled looks on the faces of the guards at the silent and sudden appearance of the two elves, the men appeared at ease.

Breathing an uneasy sigh, Legolas nodded to them and wondered if he had been over-anxious about his friend.

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

Aragorn breathed heavily, feeling the sweat break on his brow. He threw his head back on the pillow, choking on the terror of what he could not fathom or recognize. They grew in intensity, threatening his hold on sanity and stripping him of all he could hold on to.

They were trying to claim his mind, and he fought them with everything he had.

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

Somewhat reluctantly, Legolas started to head for his own room down the corridor, still questioning what he had sensed, when they all heard it: a crash, and a cry of distress from within the King’s chamber.

Legolas was back at the door in an instant. Before the guards could react, he had shot in between them and thrown open the door so hard it banged against the wall of the bedroom. The elf prince rushed into the large room, peering into the dark where the bed was in shadow. Hamille and the two guards followed so quickly behind that they almost knocked into the elf prince, who had stopped in his tracks, casting wide eyes upon the figure on the bed.

“Aragorn,” Legolas gasped in breathless alarm, and dashed forward. As he did so, the elf’s keen vision caught sight of something in the corner of the room near the window.

Reflecting the flickering flames of the single torch upon the wall, there had been – just for a fleeting moment – wisps like the thinnest of mists, and two pairs of red eyes.

Legolas gasped again, for in that moment, he knew what had been troubling the King of Men. He did not know how or why they had come, but he now knew who they were, for he had seen such eyes before.

This time, however, the bitterness in them was intense, and once more, the elf quaked – not in terror at the eyes – but with fear for the friend he now held in his arms.

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We have reached him, said a lipless mouth, and we have taken the others.

At last – it can begin, and we shall be forgotten no more.

Note:

Thank you to all the readers who took time to review: Ophium, Titihen Ferefir, Silivren Tinu, ArcherGal, Tinnuial, harrowcat, lindahoyland, eliza, nessa, and Red Squirrel.  

I wrote and posted this half-asleep. If there are errors in this chapter, please do point them out to me - thank you.

CHAPTER 9:  THE LONG NIGHT

(Note: The title of the previous chapter has been reverted to what I originally intended for it: Return to Pelargir.)

Elessaaaar… Elessaaaar…

In the innermost recesses of the mind, where length and breadth and depth have no meaning, and space is an absent dimension, fantasy or imagination – or a grim reality – may still haunt the corridors where the sleeper walks open-eyed with hesitant steps.

Aragorn was there, facing what he did not wish to confront, but no longer able to able to evade or repel those who had fought so hard to break through the barriers that had held them at bay. They oppressed him, for there was no place to run, no place to hide, and there was no longer any use in struggling.

They were Shades of Men, with eyes cold and pleading and angry, no longer as obscure as they once were in the nights past. Their voices were less garbled now, emerging from lipless hollows venting words he had no desire to hear.

“Cease resisting us,” they breathed, their wispy forms and speech loose semblances of the existence they had once had. “Aaaeeiiii. cease resisting – and you will hear us.”

They neared him, and Aragorn released a cry from a throat with no voice, feeling only the hoarseness of his silent scream and the raggedness of his breath that echoed somewhere in the chambers of his unconscious hearing.

Who are you? he cried. Who are you?

They wailed in response, voices full of incredulity and tortured ire.

“You ask who we are aaaaeeeiii… we are the Forgotten!” they lamented. “Twice forgotten!”

Even in sleep, Aragorn felt the frustration of one who is tortured without being told why.

Whom did I forget? he demanded of them. Who are you? Where – ?

“Kin and friend we are – of those locked in a prison of stone. Only misery… only darkness!”

And even in sleep, Aragorn could feel his fists clenching.

Prison… locked… where? I know you not! What do you desire of me? Why do you haunt me?

“We come to you, Elessaaaaar, because you did not summon us. You did not call us forth.”

Was I to summon you? Where… why…?

“We called to you but you were deaf to us. You left us, you forgot us! Redemption was taken from us!”

Redemption? Redemption from what?

“You forget us still, heir of Isildur?”

You call me heir… Are you – could you be – ?

“Remember us, heir of Isildur… hear our call noooow!”

And the forms pressed upon him and filled his mind, letting him know how real they were, ensuring he would forget them no longer.

Aragorn felt choked. Their voices and forms grew garbled again. There were no piercing shrieks, no fierce howls; there was only the low, piteous wailing of tortured souls and the mournful murmur of a small host, as from a distance, humming around him and in him – louder and stronger, and louder and stronger – till it shook him and made him tremble..

A sudden dread took hold of him – and he fought again, his hands flying to stop his ears, his body turning every way to seek a way out. But everywhere he turned, a whirling pool of mist and hard eyes and gaping mouths, pulsing with discontent, filled his dreamscape.

No place to run, no place to hide. Choked.

A loud crash resounded in his ears, but it meant nothing in the deluge of wails flooding his mind. He drew breath – painfully; he tried to feel – desperate movements leading nowhere, and then he screamed to release the terror of a mind held captive.

Another loud sound – from somewhere… and they were fleeing now, and as they fled – he felt his life sucked out of him, the surge strong enough to toss him wildly on waves of fear.

“Aragorn!”

Ai… they still call to me! Have they not left?

Others came, many more, more voices, more footsteps.

Begone! Leave me! he cried desperately, throwing up his hands to ward off those who sought to assail him. He felt cold sweat run into his eyes in little rivulets, and he blinked it away and hissed, clamping his eyes shut in a desperate attempt against further intrusion by the images that horrified.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

Legolas’ heart lurched at the sight of his friend.

Perched on the edge of his bed in the flickering shadows, Aragorn fought off some unseen enemy while he mumbled incoherently, his breathing rapid and agonized. Beneath his disheveled hair, his eyes were pressed together tightly, and his face was a mask of dread and distress.

“Aragorn!” the elf called again, running to the man’s side.

Legolas’ eyes quickly noted the evidence of earlier turmoil: the bed linen was undone, and the man’s flailing arms must have knocked over a jug of water on the stand beside his bed, which now lay broken in pieces on the floor beneath his feet.

His feet! Legolas suddenly realized: they were bare! Before Hamille could stop him, the elf prince knelt, ignoring the danger to his own knees, and lifted Aragorn’s legs, evading a kick from him. In the dim moonlight, he saw that there were cuts on the soles – thankfully small.

“Bring more light!” the elf told the guards, who came out of their stunned stupor and ran to retrieve torches from the hallway. “Aragorn,” he called once more and ducked a swing from the man’s arm. “Hamille – saes – the Phial – ”  

Hamille was at the door even before the prince finished speaking, just as Faramir rushed in with the guards, followed by Sam, Merry and Pippin.

“What happened?” the Steward demanded breathlessly, starting to kneel before Aragorn’s seated form when a guard stopped him and pointed to the broken pieces on the floor. 

As the guards quickly recounted what they had heard, Legolas grasped Aragorn’s hands, checking them as well as the man’s face and body for any injuries that he might have incurred. When he saw nothing, he breathed in relief.

“Aragorn,” he called again, seating himself beside his friend and gently shaking the man’s shoulders.

At that movement, the King gave a cry and almost leapt from the bed, but Legolas stayed him, wrapping his arms around the frenzied figure and trying to calm him, while Faramir and Hamille, who had returned, stood ready to lend aid.

“Aragorn, awake,” Legolas coaxed him. “Awake!”

Running fearfully along the corridors of his mind, Aragorn heard only the voice of another intruder – another to flee from. Now, he felt hands gripping him, and he was enveloped and held captive.

Release me! he cried plaintively, frantically fighting off his captors.

“Open your eyes, Aragorn – please.”

No, no, fill my vision no longer!

“My lord…”

You call me lord, yet you torment me?

“Elessar...”

“What’s wrong with him? What is he saying? Why is he still struggling?”

“He is not fully conscious, Merry. Strider – wake up, Strider!”

I wish to leave this place. Leave me – I will not yield to you! Depart from me!

“Sidh, Estel, peace. Daro – it is I… it is I.”

Fey are you to speak gently now… you wish to deceive me. Who are you? Leave me – why are you still here?

“Saes, awake, mellon nin, it is only I.”

Who – ?

“Awake, my friend, I am here. Shhhh… come back, come back to the light.”

No!

“Come back.”

No…

“Come back, Estel…”

Warm arms held him now. Warm arms – not the cold hard arms of the… the Forgotten.

“Peace, Estel, you are safe.”

He could breathe, he could breathe. Fingers were planted upon his sweaty brow, smoothing his skin… calming him.

You are not… them? he asked pitifully, wakefulness playing on the edges of his mind.

“Them? Nay… only your friends.”

You are not here to take me away?

“Shhh… No one will take you, not from my hold… not tonight. They have gone. Fight no more, Estel.”

Estel?

“They have gone. You are with me, with your friends. You are safe. Feel my hand. Take it.”

A warm hand… a kind hand… I know it, I know it… I can hold on to it…

“Here, Estel, hold this.”

What? What is this in my hands? Aaahhhh…it comforts me.

“Awake… open your eyes, mellon nin, open your eyes, look at me.”

Open – ?

“Breathe slowly, Estel… open your eyes. Look upon us.”

Tiny slivers of light, dim and diffuse, penetrated narrow slits as Aragorn opened his eyes tentatively. Fighting nervousness, he returned slowly to the world of the waking.

He was on his bed, drenched in sweat, with hair matted on his moist brow, and from somewhere on his body came pain – tiny points of sharp pain. A familiar arm was circled about him, and other hands – large, small, but all kind – were gripping his arms and resting on his knees.

He looked down. His fingers were closed tightly around something hard and bright: glass. It was glass, with a brilliant light within. And a fair, slender hand was lying atop both of his own trembling ones.

“Estel?” a voice called quietly.

He turned to the source of the voice and looked into a pair of anxious eyes – not the angry, hard ones of his nightmares, but unmistakably gentle and blue even in the dimness, holding volumes of reassurance. And in front of him was another pair of eyes, brown and grave, and beyond them other eyes: some he knew, some he did not, but they were all fearful, all studying him.

“Legolas… Faramir… Sam…” he said hoarsely, and so utter was his relief that his voice caught in his throat in a half-sob. “It is you… thank Eru it is you.”

“Aye, mellon nin, it is only us,” Legolas assured him.

“You were fighting someone, Elessar…”

Shuddering, Aragorn exhaled and closed his eyes again. “They have spoken to me,” he murmured despondently. “I have seen them… they have spoken to me.”

Then he gave in to his weariness and leaned back tiredly onto the elven shoulder.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

The hallway had filled with amazing speed after the arrival of Faramir and the hobbits in Aragorn’s room. Having heard the loud crash of the breaking jug and the bang of the door on the wall upon Legolas’ rapid entrance, the innkeeper and several of his staff had sprinted up the stairs, and they were only halted at the door by Aragorn’s guards. Eowyn, Rosie, Diamond and some of the children had also been startled from their sleep. Leaving the lady hobbits to comfort the little ones, Eowyn had rushed to the source of the commotion, just as Aragorn was coming awake.

The sight of the pale and shaken King had alarmed his friends in the room, and a hundred questions thrown at the Gondorian guards by those kept outside, but who had craned their necks nevertheless to catch a glimpse of the turmoil within. 

But the concerned and curious crowd had slowly dispersed after being reassured and politely dismissed with the news that the King had unwittingly knocked over a jug in the dark. The royal guards resumed their positions outside, and the room returned to a state of quiet, with the broken pieces of the lamp removed from the floor and the bed tidied.

“Eldarion is fine, my lord, as are all the children; worry not about them,” Eowyn reassured Aragorn when the King enquired about his son. Glancing at her husband and Legolas, she added quietly: “I have no doubt that there is more to this tale than a mere nightmare, but the morning shall be soon enough for us to learn whatever there is to learn. I will take my leave now, my lord, for the others will wish to know what has happened.”

At the nods and words of gratitude from Aragorn and the hobbit fathers, Eowyn excused herself and left, accompanied by her husband.

Only the elves and the three hobbits remained in the room with Aragorn now. Hamille finished cleaning and applying salve to the cuts on Aragorn’s feet and the smaller ones on his prince’s knees, then stood silently by the window, just as Faramir returned and closed the door quietly. Sam continued to tend the fire, while Merry and Pippin sat curled up on a large armchair, half-asleep despite the suspense they felt as they listened to Aragorn tell of his bizarre confrontation with the Shades of Men.

When Aragorn had finished his account, everyone was silent. Only the spit and crackle from the hearth and the faint sounds of the night outside could be heard.

“The Forgotten,” Faramir murmured finally from his seat on the chair he had pulled up to the side of the bed. “As I said earlier, it has to have been them.”

“Them?” Sam asked nervously from his place at the hearth. “Those… ghosts? From the Paths of the Dead?”

Leaning against the headboard, Aragorn ran his hands through his hair. “I cannot think who else who it could be,” he said, shaking his head. “They called me the Heir of Isildur –”

“Well, many people think of you that way, don’t they?” Pippin chimed in.

“True, but not everyone speaks of redemption while alluding to my heritage,” Aragorn pointed out. “The people of the Mountain… they were called the Forgotten People, for they had long roamed the Paths of the Dead – forgotten by all… till I went there and summoned them.”

“It was them, Aragorn,” Legolas said quietly. The elf prince had been listening intently, his fingers absently tracing the patterns on the bed quilt, but he raised his head now and looked at the King with grim eyes. “I know it, for I saw them.”

Sam’s jaw would have dropped even further if he had not been sitting cross-legged on the floor, and even Pippin and Merry perked up, their lassitude forgotten instantly.

“I could not be entirely certain at first,” Legolas continued when the others remained mute with astonishment. “But now that I have heard your account, Aragorn, I am more convinced.”

“You saw them, Legolas?” Pippin squeaked. “When?”

“As soon as I had entered the room,” Legolas replied, “but only for a fleeting moment.”

Hamille’s forehead furrowed. “I saw nothing,” he ventured quietly.

“They were by the torch on the far wall, near where you are seated now, Merry and Pippin,” the elf prince explained, “and the red gleam of their eyes was all I caught – but they were here.”

Faster than the shake of a rat’s tail, the two younger hobbits jumped up from the armchair they had been sitting so comfortably in and scrambled over to Aragorn’s bed.

“They… they’ve gone, haven’t they?” Pippin asked nervously, looking around. “Legolas?”

Despite the somberness of the matter, the elf prince could not help exchanging a quick smile with Aragorn.

“Aye, Pippin, they are gone,” he assured the hobbits, and their sighs of relief were audible.

“How did you know it was them?” Merry queried.

Legolas threw Aragorn another glance before he answered, memories clouding his eyes as he did so.

“More than ten years ago, the Shadow Host stood on the banks of the river in this very town, Merry,” he said softly. “They had aided Aragorn in capturing the Black Fleet, and the Corsairs had fled from their vessels in terror. We took some of the ships and burnt the rest so that they would not be able to follow after we sailed for Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn nodded gravely. “Aye, I remember that day, when our foes fled in terror of something – a Shadow army – they could not see, but that they could feel in the very marrow of their bones,” he recalled, “for that is how they would seem to mortals.”

“But elven eyes perceive them differently, more clearly,” Legolas continued. “And as we watched some of the ships burn, I did see them – they were standing silent and still and grave. But all that could be discerned by those of the Edain, and by Gimli, was the red glare of the flames reflected in their eyes.” The elf prince paused and looked steadily at Aragorn before he added, “I saw such eyes again tonight.”

An icy chill crept up the spines of the Steward and the hobbits, and even Hamille shifted his stance uneasily.

“There were at least two. It was them.” Legolas finished.

No one spoke for a while, till Hamille broke the uneasy silence. “So some remained?” he asked quietly. “But why?”

“I cannot fathom how and why they seek me, aside from their claim that I – in some unknown manner – left them behind,” Aragorn said, furrowing his forehead. “Did we leave any behind, Legolas? Was there any way to know?”

Legolas shook his head. “No, Aragorn, we could not have been aware of anything at the time, other than the presence of their army behind us,” he replied. “They said nothing else?”

“No,” said the King. He swallowed before continuing. “And I cannot tell if and when they will visit my dreams again, but I do not know how else we will learn their true purpose – or their whereabouts – unless they do.” He fell silent again. “They spoke of a prison, and I cannot think of that being in any other place but where we first encountered them – in the Mountain.”

Even those who had never walked the Paths before squirmed in their seats at the thought of a cold, dark prison in some hidden recess of the mountain.

“But even if there had been prisoners… wouldn’t their spirits… ghosts… souls… whatever they are…” Sam said, waving his hands in the air, “wouldn’t they have been with the others? When you summoned them?”

“That is what we would expect, Sam,” the King answered, “and that is the mystery: what prison do they speak of, where some would not have heard my summons?”

“And how is it that some are able to reach you, lord Elessar?” Hamille observed. “Are they not held captive as well?”

Aragorn shook his head, having no answer for the elf, and the little group pondered the mystery in silence again.

“This will not go away quietly, will it?” Faramir spoke at last, voicing a remark more than a query.

The King took a deep breath. “No, Faramir, it will not. Whatever they are discontented about, it needs to be resolved,” he said. “I am certain I have not seen the last of them.”

“You spoke truly then, my friend, when you said that perhaps you were meant not to ward them off. You said you needed to confront them,” Legolas observed. “Do you still feel the same way?”

Aragorn nodded slowly. “It is not a pleasant prospect – facing them again, but I do not know that I have a choice,” he said. “Yet I am at a loss as to what I need to do next. Do I wait? Or do I summon them as they wish? And how?” He fixed his gaze on Legolas, his eyes turbulent with doubt. “Do I… do I return to the Paths?”

Another uneasy hush fell over the company, till an audible yawn from Merry abruptly punctuated the silence, and the hobbit quickly apologized. Faramir sat up and cleared his throat.

“It is unlikely that we will obtain any answers tonight, Elessar,” the Steward remarked. “Perhaps it would be best for us to obtain some sleep for whatever is left of this night. As you so often say, Legolas, rede is often found with a new day. The morning may bring new counsel.”

Receiving no objections to this sound suggestion, Faramir continued.  

“Whatever may transpire after this, my lord,” he said, “may I also suggest that you not be alone again in the room tonight. The guards may stand outside your door, but with your permission, I would like to remain here. And I’m certain Legolas will not leave either.”

“Oh, why don’t we all stay?” Merry chimed in, settling himself in the armchair again. “We’ll keep you company, Aragorn. And – besides – I don’t really fancy returning to my room… not after all that has happened. What about you, Pip?”

“Now that is the best idea you’ve come up with in a long age, Merry,” Pippin quipped. “Diamond seems nicely settled in with Rosie and the little ones –”

“And there does not seem to be a threat to the rest of us anyway,” Sam observed. “Those foul things are only after Aragorn, it appears – he is the one who needs company.”

“Spoken truly, Mister Mayor,” Pippin said cheerfully, “so – move over then, Merry, let me fit in here!”

Aragorn smiled. “I thank you for your company, my friends,” he said, “but is there a need for so many to be uncomfortable?”

“Oh, hush,” Merry stopped him. “We’ve been in worse places, Strider – or have you forgotten? This will be like old times!”

As the hobbits fidgeted in the armchair, the King looked around. “Is Gimli still asleep in his room?” he asked Sam, wondering that the dwarf could have slept through the bustle of the last two hours.

“Aye, he went upstairs a little earlier than we did,” Sam replied, stifling a yawn as well. “You know him – he sleeps as soundly as I do, and the ale would have helped make sure of that.  He’ll have a fit tomorrow morning, when he finds out what took place while he was out.”

The others could not help a small grin at that remark.

“Well, there are enough of us here,” Legolas observed. “Let us not disturb his sleep. And you, too, Estel – look exhausted. We will dim the room for you. Saes, please keep the Phial with you for tonight at least, so you can sleep without care, my friend.”

Aragorn smiled his thanks and lay down gratefully with the Phial next to his pillow, for he was truly weary. As everyone began to settle as best as they could for the night, Faramir moved to Legolas’ side and spoke quietly.

“Perhaps we should take turns to stay awake. I can take the first watch,” he whispered.

“Worry not, Faramir,” Legolas assured him in the same low tones. “Hamille and I will be fine; we require less sleep than you. I will wake you if anything untoward happens again.” He turned to Sam when the hobbit walked over. “It would not hurt you to obtain some rest as well, my friend.”

The hobbit massaged one shoulder. “Well, if Strider will truly rest as you say, I wouldn’t mind some shut-eye myself; I’d be quite comfortable on that rug there, in front of the hearth,” he said, failing to hide a yawn, “so long as you promise to wake us if… if he starts thrashing about again. But you might have to give me a kick; sleeping logs need that, and I’ve been told I turn into one at night.”

Legolas laughed quietly and nodded. “May you have more pleasant dreams than he did, Sam.”

As they watched Sam waddle sleepily over to the rug, Faramir settled himself in the chair, and Hamille folded his long legs and fit himself on the wide window ledge.

Ignoring the little tears on his leggings, Legolas sat carefully on the edge of Aragorn’s bed and studied the face of his friend. He frowned a little at the slight creases that refused to leave the forehead of the adan, dismayed that the unpleasant memories were still troubling the man. His eyes never leaving Aragorn’s face, the elf prince leaned back slowly against the headboard, and in a voice hardly heard above the sighing of the night breeze, he began to sing.

The same lyrics of beauty and purity he had heard earlier that evening from somewhere in the branches of an oak now drifted softly again into the mind of the King, filling the very corridors where the Shades of Men had haunted him, silvery verses of elvish blessing cleansing the spaces that darkness had tainted. Aragorn’s features softened, and an expression of peace wrote itself on the kingly countenance, bringing a smile of pleasure to the elven friend who had lovingly put it there.

Satisfied, the elf prince looked around the room, noting the figures in various positions of repose. Finally, he nodded to the other elf in the room, and they began their silent vigil.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

The hours crawled by.

And with the passing of each watch, the Firstborn nursed the hope that for the remainder of the night at least, there would be no more visits from the Shadow People, that each movement of haze in the room would be nothing more than a wisp of smoke from the hearth, and that the flames of fire and torch would illuminate only the closed eyes of the sleeping occupants.

Nothing could have prepared them for what happened next.

As the moon’s descending path signaled the passing of the deepest part of the night, and the elves grew more hopeful that they could reach dawn without the return of the Twice Forgotten, sounds from the hallway outside disrupted the stillness.

First came the dull thuds of heavy footsteps on the wooden floor, which brought Legolas and Hamille to their feet. Then the guards’ voices – raised in a confused, inquiring tone – filtered through the door a second before it was thrown open, and a barefoot and disheveled dwarf in his nightclothes pushed past the guards and strode through, loudly enough to waken Faramir and Aragorn, both of whom began to stir.

“My lord?” a guard addressed Legolas, gesturing helplessly at the dwarf. The elf prince raised a hand to stay them, and kept his eyes focused on his friend.  

Gimli paused after his entrance and looked wordlessly around the room. The sight of a distraught dwarf would not ordinarily have surprised the group gathered there; indeed, for a moment, Legolas and Hamille thought that he was merely angry that he had not been wakened earlier, and they steeled themselves for his outburst. But as the dwarf continued to stand speechlessly just inside the door, seeming to sway a little from side to side, they noticed a strange, cold gleam in his eyes. The usual passion of the dwarf was absent that had nothing to do with the stupor of sleep; shadows flickered across his bearded face, but his beetle-black eyes were glassy and hard, and they darted around the dim room, seeking something. The Firstborn tensed as their elven senses tingled in warning.

“Gimli?” Legolas called softly, narrowing his eyes. Despite his uncertainty, he began to walk towards his motionless friend, but a hand stayed him, and he turned to see Hamille studying the dwarf suspiciously.

“He is not himself, Bridhon nin,” the elf whispered. “Be care – ”

“Aaaiiiiiii heir of Isildur!” the harsh cry from the dwarf cut him off, startling everyone and arousing even the three hobbits. Raising his hand and pointing a stiff finger in Aragorn’s direction, Gimli began to stride determinedly towards the bed where the stunned man sat, still groggy from the sudden waking.    

In an instant, Legolas and Hamille had placed themselves in the dwarf’s path, while the guards leapt to clamp their hands on the hefty shoulders, and Faramir shook off the last vestiges of sleep to move quickly and stand by his King. The hobbits ran over to join them, murmuring in perplexity.

“Gimli!” Legolas called again, alarmed and distressed at the sight of his friend’s strange behavior and rigid expression. Noting that the dwarf did not bear any weapons, Legolas twisted out of the grip Hamille had on his arm and approached the dwarf. But as soon as he neared the stocky figure, Gimli shook off the hold the guards had on him and swung his raised hand faster and harder than anyone anticipated, striking the elf prince in the stomach. With a hiss, Legolas stepped backward, and doubled over, drawing cries from all the others in the room.

Faster than the eye could discern, Hamille had drawn his knife and leapt in front of his prince, but Legolas immediately caught the elf’s arm.

“Nay, Hamille,” the prince gasped. “Do not hurt him… something… is wrong.”    

Ignoring Faramir’s restraint and grimacing a little from the pain of his bandaged soles, Aragorn stood and walked swiftly over to Legolas and Hamille. The dwarf’s eyes followed him.

“Legolas,” the man began. “Are you – ”

“Fine, Aragorn,” the elf replied quickly, straightening himself and holding out an arm. “Stay away – ”

“Heir of Isildur!” Gimli cried again, his eyes blazing with fierce resolve as he made to approach Aragorn. The strong grips of the guards and Faramir held him in place, but the dwarf continued to stare at Aragorn and rant in a voice that was his own gruff timber, yet strangely different, and full of bitterness and pleading. Over and over, he chanted:

“Deep in the Shadow Land, hear our bitter cry! Return, return, ye King of Men, where the dead do not die. Lay sword, bow and helm before the Holding Gate. Beyond, in Shadow Realm, the Twice Forgotten wait.”

The dark staves – chanted in a deep voice filled with angry lamentation – sent shivers down every spine, for it was clear that Gimli was, at the moment, in the possession of some other entity.

“Who are you?” Aragorn demanded, his fists clenched.  

Gimli returned his hard look as he answered. “You still ask, heir of Isildur! We – are – the – ones – you – forgot – twice! We are the ones locked in stone. We await redemption.”

“Why? Where?”  Aragorn continued. “Tell me how – ”

“Seek us where you once were! Return to where we walk without death. Seek the Holding Gate. We wait, we wait…”  Losing some of the stiffness in his stance, the dwarf began to sway, and his voice started to lose its volume.

“The Holding Gate? Is it in the Mountains? On the Paths?” Aragorn asked desperately. “Speak plainly!”

“The Paths… return to the Gate… read… listen to the Old One…” Gimli replied, his voice falling. He swayed even more vigorously now, making everyone wonder at what was happening.  

“Wait! What Old One?” Aragorn asked, stepping forward as Legolas held his arm.

“Spell… break the spell… Gate… beyond…  he will know… listen to him,” the dwarf continued to say, his voice dropping to almost a murmur. “Return, return to the Paths… we need you…”  

Then – as a rooster signaled the departure of night with its first crow – the dwarf crumpled onto the floor in a faint. 

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

The rose and gold hues of sunrise were just beginning to tinge the outlines of Gondor’s mountains, but already thundering south-westward across the plains that separated the town of Pelargir from the White City was a small group of riders who, with the first light of dawn, had resumed their journey.

When the lights of Pelargir – coming to life as its townsfolk awoke to a new day – came into sight, the horsemen hastened their beasts, determined that before the land could feel the heat of the sun this day, they would be able to see Aragorn. Thus was their hope.

Thus, too, was the fervent hope of another group of sojourners from the north-west. Tired, worried and desperate, they were journeying to the riverside town on an errand different from that of the company from the White City. Yet their purpose was the same: they, too, sought to meet with the King of Gondor.

For Aragorn, a long, difficult night would only lead to a new day with more disturbing news.

Note:  The account of the eyes of the Dead reflecting the red glare of burning ships may be found in Legolas and Gimli's narration of the event to Pippin and Merry in Return of the King.

CHAPTER 10: CONVERGENCE

The quiet grey chill of dawn in Pelargir was broken with the first gentle greeting of finches to the new day. From their perches on the oak outside the bedchamber of the King, they watched as the golden rays of Anor crept over the hills and drew once more the lines between sky and hill and plain, to peep through the leaves of the oak and play upon the faces of the company gathered within the room. Lack of sleep, anxiety, and even fright, had lined those faces in the dark before dawn, but the distress had now drained from all of them – save one.

A hoarse bellow of disbelief and rage from a dwarf shattered the calm of the morning, startling and scattering the birds and alarming yet again the innkeeper and his staff, who were beginning to wonder if the King’s company from Minas Tirith led strange lives. Having woken from his faint – to the immense relief of his friends – Gimli had just been told of the previous night’s events and was incensed to know that someone had actually broken through the defenses of what he considered the most hardy race on Middle-earth, and had had the audacity to take over his revered body.

“How dare they!” he raged, sitting upright on the bed where they had placed him. “Graaah! No one touches me without my leave!”  

So relieved were his friends that the dwarf was behaving like his usual self that they let him rant on for a while.

“I am sorely grieved that they insulted you in that manner, my friend,” Aragorn said at last. “My guess is that they needed to speak with me desperately. I do not recall that they were capable of speaking in their wraith forms when we walked the Paths… did they, Legolas?”

The elf shook his head. “No, we only heard many whispers, and even I could not discern what they were saying,” he replied. “It should not surprise us, for these beings exist in a different world… a different realm.”

Aragorn nodded. “If the voices that entered my dreams are to be believed, some called to me while we were on the Paths, but I could not have heard them, and as a result, some were left behind,” he said. “But why they were left in the first place, I still have no answer. I can only assume that for the past decade, they would have tried every means they could to reach me since then – as they did in my dreams.” He shook his head again. “And, unfortunately, you were one of those means, Gimli.”

Gimli looked incensed and grunted again.

Faramir cleared his throat. “As I said last night, perhaps those of you who walked the Paths would have been more sensitive to their presence, for these are not ordinary beings,” he said. “Were you aware of anything, Gimli, when – when you were – er…”

“The last thing I remember is going to bed with a stomach full of ale!” the dwarf answered grumpily. “Of course I did feel a little strange even before I came up, but I thought it was too much ale – and all that talk we had.”

“Do you understand or recall anything that you said in here last night, Gimli?” Aragorn asked.

“Not one blasted bit,” came the disgruntled reply.

“You spoke of an Old one… do you have any knowledge of who he or she might be?” Faramir queried. “Did you see –”

“Old – young – Forgotten – Remembered… they all mean nothing to me! And if I saw anything, it’s all been washed from my memory now,” the dwarf declared. “I can’t believe they made me utter all those things you said I did. I can’t believe they did that to me!” 

Still looking greatly peeved, Gimli swung his legs over the edge of the bed and began pacing the floor. He muttered under his breath, his face turning red from the effort of holding back something he was trying to suppress. His companions tensed a little, wondering if something strange was happening to him again, but he startled them when he narrowed dark eyes beneath bushy eyebrows and turned them towards Legolas.

“Why not him?” he demanded suddenly, pointing a finger at the elf prince, who was seated on the window sill, resting his hands on either side of his thighs and looking entirely too unperturbed for the irate dwarf’s liking.

“Look, I would not wish the experience upon anyone who wasn’t the son of an orc,” the dwarf grumbled, “but Aragorn and I went through it – so why was he spared?”

Hamille, standing next to his prince, stiffened and pursed his lips, but Legolas merely raised his brows in surprise, trying to stop himself from smiling.

“Come now, Gimli, didn’t you tell us last night that elves don’t get touched by the Dead?” Sam pointed out amidst the chuckles from Merry and Pippin, who did not bother to hide their amusement.

“I said they don’t fear them, but if those Shadow fellows were going to use someone, why couldn’t they be fair and drag everyone through it? Ah what an insult to the Dwarves! If they weren’t already dead, I’d chop off their twisted heads!”

“Is that what you were trying to do when your fist knocked the wind out of me, Master Dwarf?” Legolas teased, cocking his head to one side and drawing more sniggers from Pippin. 

“Oh, that,” Gimli muttered, a little abashed at the reminder. “Well… you shouldn’t have been standing there!” While the others stifled laughter, he fidgeted a little, looking contrite. “I… I didn’t cause too much harm, did I, elfling?”

The elf prince smiled as the blue eyes looked fondly at the dwarf. “No, my friend, you did not,” he said. “Consider that my punishment for not being… ‘taken’… along with you.”

The dwarf rubbed his nose and muttered something inadudible.

“What was that, Gimli?” Merry asked curiously. “Did you say something?”

“Nothin’,” came the gruff reply, though his expression said otherwise. “It’s just that…” he added hesitantly, “well…”

Everyone waited as the dwarf clenched and unclenched his fists – a sign that he most definitely had something on his mind.

“Just… what, Gimli?” Aragorn prompted. “Have you remembered something?”

“Come on, Gimli!” Pippin urged the dwarf as the stocky figure murmured discontentedly. “If something’s bothering you – spit it out!”  

Gimli grunted and glared so hard at Pippin that the hobbit took a step back. “Spit it out?  Very well, spit it out I shall then!” the dwarf sputtered. “How come when there’s a message for Legolas from … from beyond… Sam gets a good dream, beautiful vision – a visit from the Lady, no less! But when there’s a message for Aragorn – all I get is some foul thing taking over my body, and I don’t even get to remember it!”

Sam’s eyes widened and he went red in the face, dumbfounded for an answer. But the other hobbits guffawed, and everyone else was clearly tempted to join them, which irritated Gimli even further.

“Pah!” he grunted and threw up his hands. Getting up abruptly from the chair, he marched towards the door. “Enough! I need a bath to wash this foul feeling off. And nothing had better disturb me while I am doing that! If those fellows have the impudence to try and return – they’ll have to answer to my axe and all the curses of the dwarven realm, and then if they ever…”

Thus grumbling, he stomped out of the room, apparently without a thought as to whether he might be taken again.

“I doubt anything will happen in the light of day, but I will post a guard outside his door all the same,” Faramir proposed after the dwarf had left, and Aragorn nodded in approval.

“There is no need, I will keep an eye on him,” Hamille volunteered in response to a signal from Legolas, and left the room in pursuit of the angry dwarf.   

Aragorn stood and stretched his arms to lose the stiffness from his body. “It might be wise to follow Gimli’s lead,” he said. “A hot bath would be a most welcome respite at this time – after the rigors of last night. And it will give me time to consider what next to do.”

“A hot bath for you then – and then breakfast for all! One can’t think on an empty stomach,” Merry declared, jumping up and heading for the door. “Come, Pip, Sam, let’s pay the innkeeper and cook a visit and take care of all that.”

Faramir exchanged a look of silent accord with Legolas as the Steward followed the exit of the hobbits from the room, a gesture that did not escape the keen eyes of the King. The King knew, even without asking, that his friends were making arrangements for someone to be with him as far as possible, even now that the sun had risen, for that is what he would have done were he in their position.

Left alone with Aragorn in the room, Legolas turned to the window and trained his eyes on the sunrise and waking town outside. “You should not have been on your own last night,” he said before the man could make a single remark. “No more, mellon nin, not till this is settled.”

Aragorn nodded, knowing it would be futile – and perhaps – unwise – to argue. Treading gingerly on his bandaged feet, he walked to the window to stand beside the elf and cast his eyes upon the same scene.

“In that case, mellon nin, will you be watching me bathe?” he asked calmly, hiding his mirth.

A silvery laugh – warm as the rays of the rising sun – was all he received in reply.

--------------------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------------------

Breakfast for the King’s company had been served in the privacy of a room set aside for them, and the presence of the womenfolk and children dispelled the unpleasant aftertaste of the previous night’s events.  Aragorn was immensely glad to see his son safe and cheerful, and said little of all that had taken place lest it frighten the young prince. As such, Eldarion spoke enthusiastically of seeing his mother again and recounting his experiences to his friends in the City who were awaiting his return.

But after Eldarion and the other children and their mothers had left the room, the lightened atmosphere went with them, and much as Merry and Pippin tried to re-inject cheer into the company, it was clear that Aragorn, Legolas and Faramir were worried more than they would say. And despite the satisfying meal of eggs and bacon and fresh bread, even Gimli was still a little irritable as they returned to the business at hand.

“Well, the next step can be put off no longer,” Aragorn stated softly, seeming to speak more to himself than to the company. “But should I first return to the City, before I leave for the Paths?”

“You mean we, of course, Aragorn,” Legolas said wryly, making the man look up and give him a lop-sided grin in reply.

“Of course,” Aragorn answered.

“Are you certain about returning there, Elessar?” Faramair asked. “Is it safe?”

“I do not think I have a choice any longer, my friend,” Aragorn replied. “I am not certain what it is I have to do there… but there is no other way to find out.”

Faramir had barely nodded – somewhat reluctantly – before a knock was heard on the door, and it opened to reveal the innkeeper himself, looking a little flustered but not entirely displeased with all the excitement and business the King’s company and their strange experiences had generated.   

“My lord, there’s a group of men requesting to see you urgently – they claim they’ve been riding for days, and they look weary enough,” the portly man announced, a little incredulous that there seemed no end as yet to the unexpected incidents surrounding the King. “May I show them in?”

“From where have they come?” Aragorn asked.

“I enquired, but that business is theirs and yours alone, was what I was told,” the innkeeper replied, looking somewhat miffed. “Dark and dour-looking they be – and a mite suspicious, if you ask me, Sire, but what would I know?”

“Then there’s no point asking you, is there?” Gimli remarked impatiently, making the moustache on the pink, rotund face of the Pelargir man bristle a little.

The innkeeper chose to ignore the dwarf’s snide tone. “Well, do you desire to meet them, my lord?” he asked the King.

Aragorn exchanged a quick look with Legolas – clearly curious as to who might have come to see him here – before he signaled for the visitors to be brought in.

Three men soon appeared in the room, their tired and drawn faces evidence of the distance they had traversed over several days. They looked around at the company gathered there, their expressions registering barely concealed surprise at the sight of elves, hobbits and a dwarf alongside two humans – one of whom was clearly the King, for he stood tall and straight before them, eyeing them unflinchingly. One of the three newcomers, the most confident in appearance, but also the one with the most troubled look, dusted off his clothes hastily and bowed awkwardly, unused to this audience with the ruler of their realm. The others quickly followed his lead.

“King Elessar?” the first man asked, straightening when Aragorn signaled for him to do so. “My lord, we – these fellows and I – have come from Grimwythë to seek you on a matter of urgency. I am Mathgor.”

“Grimwythë?” Aragorn queried, frowning. “I am not familiar with that place. Where is it?”

“It is the name of our village, Sire,” the man replied to the first question. “It is a quiet place for the most part, with shy folk and few strangers, and one would not wonder why, for it lies in the Vale of Morthond, in the shadow of the Dwimorberg – which you rode through some eleven years ago.”

Loud gasps could be heard from the hobbits at his words.

“It’s the village the Grey Company passed after they left the Paths of the Dead!” Sam whispered to Merry and Pippin, whose eyes grew round. “They were on their way to the Stone of Erech, remember?”

Gimli had recounted the incident to Frodo and Sam after Aragorn’s coronation, describing how the villagers had shut their windows in fear as Aragorn and his company rode past with the Dead behind them, crying: “The King of the Dead is here!” Gimli had always believed that those frightened villagers had been referring not to the king of the Shadow People, but to Aragorn whose summons the Dead obeyed – yet now here were three of them standing before that very king, and the dwarf wondered with some amusement if they were silently quaking in their soiled boots.

“Yes, I know the place you speak of, though it has indeed been a decade since I last saw it,” Aragorn said, sounding and looking nothing like the terrible grim-faced rider who had led a host of grey specters through the valley. “But I am not entirely uninformed of what is happening in that county, for Baron Balrith assures me that there have not been any threats or calamities in that area.”

“He speaks truly, Sire, and that is not why we have come,” Mathgor affirmed, his voice reflecting no fear but hinting at some need for aid, yet he seemed hesitant to begin.

“Come, tell me of your purpose,” Aragorn prompted, “and how you came to know of my presence here in Pelargir.”

“We set out five days ago, meaning to ride to Minas Tirith to beg an audience with you, my lord,” Mathgor continued meekly, “but news at Ethring was that you had sailed here, so we duly changed our course and rode south. We left Lindir yesterday morn and camped a league from here last night. You’ll have to excuse how we look, Sire, we’ve not had time to wash or change out of –”

“I take no offence,” Aragorn assured him, “and that has to be the least of your worries, for surely you would not have ridden so far and hard to seek me over some small matter of governance.”

“Indeed not, my lord,” Mathgor affirmed. “Our purpose is of… a stranger nature.”

Aragorn glanced briefly at Legolas before he responded. “Then I guess we shall soon find that your coming here is more than mere chance, Mathgor, and that your concerns and mine spring from the same source.” As Mathgor and his friends exchanged puzzled looks, the King added: “We shall talk, but first – perhaps we could call for refreshments, Lord Faramir?”

Mathgor and his weary companions appeared most grateful over the King’s thoughtfulness and nodded politely to the Steward as he left the room to speak with the guards. And when Aragorn seated himself and motioned for them to do likewise, they readily acquiesced.

As soon as the men had done so, they gave in to their curiosity and looked in astonishment upon the King’s companions, for none of them had ever set eyes upon dwarves or Halflings, whom they thought existed only in tales of fantasy told at the fireside. Even more did they marvel that their King seemed most comfortable around this strange group of beings as he introduced them briefly to the villagers. 

The men’s longest scrutiny, however, was reserved for the two elves, the golden-haired one who stood beside the King, and the other who stood a little behind the first. Although no words escaped the lips of the travelers regarding the Firstborns, their initial awe at the unearthly beauty of the fair beings was replaced by suspicion and more than a little displeasure, both of which were clearly written on their faces except for Mathgor's. Aragorn wondered at this reaction – and knew that Legolas would have noticed it as well – but held his tongue, trusting that they would eventually learn the cause. When Faramir returned to the room, the King turned his attention to Mathgor and bade him tell of their purpose in seeking him.

“I trust you know, Sire, about the history of our land,” Mathgor began. “For long years, since beyond my memory and the memory of my father’s fathers, we had lived in the Shadow of the Mountain and surrounded by the presence of the Dead. The people of Grimwythë had lived in constant knowledge and terror of them, but they learned that as long as they remained behind closed doors in the night and took care not to venture out in the dark, they were for the most part, left untouched. And so the villagers remained, from one generation to the next, for their love for the land is strong.”

When Aragorn nodded, the villager continued. “Eleven years ago, we learned of your journey through the dreaded Paths, my lord, and we learned that you had set the Dead free, with the command that they never trouble the valleys again. That was a glad day, my lord, for we were finally free from the terrifying sounds and chilling specters that had haunted our darkness for years beyond count, and it has indeed been peaceful since you led them to the Black Stone.”

Aragorn smiled grimly, glad in the knowledge that his dealings with the Shadow Host had achieved more than the capture of the Black Fleet, but poised to hear less pleasant news that he knew would come. It came all too soon.

“To our dismay, the peace has been broken, my lord,” Mathgor said. “Of late, the Dead have been heard again, and seen walking the valley.”

There was no sign of surprise on the face of the King, but the smile disappeared at once, and everyone else tensed.

“As rampantly as before?” Faramir asked.

“Thankfully, no, my lord,” Mathgor replied. “Where our valley was once filled with the wanderings of many, there seem to be only a few now who may be seen haunting it, though we still hear the wails of a small host if one ventures close enough to the Mountain… as if there were… others… trapped within.”

Mathgor saw the King and all his companions stiffen again at those words, and assumed that they were merely made uneasy by his tale.

“We did wonder why those few have remained even after you released them, Sire, yet… we could have lived with them, for they had long been a common presence in our land,” Mathgor continued. “We expected the few to be no more of a disturbance than pests in our fields – and certainly no greater a threat than the hosts that once blackened our valley – but we were wrong… and the hold these last few have on us… it… it’s far worse…”

Mathgor’s voice failed, and he pursed his lips, choking on whatever words he had meant to say.

“What is it, Mathgor?” Aragorn pressed, frowning. “How is it worse?”

“His father, my lord,” a second villager replied a little timidly, lowering his head and clasping his hands when Aragorn looked at him. “His father… he has been speaking and acting strangely – he is not himself, and they think… we think…”

“We think the Dead have him,” a third man piped up more boldly, “Took him, more like it, took him, making him say things, like it’s his body but not his voice, not his thoughts...”

A loud, coarse remark from Gimli interrupted the man’s speech. “What did he say?” he demanded. “What did they make him say?”

“He… they… asked that you return to the Valley and the Paths, Sire,” Mathgor spoke again, his tone grave. “There is ‘a wrong that needs to be righted’, those were the words, and ‘some who were not redeemed… it is not finished.”

“They have been forgotten twice, is what the thing in him said,” the third villager added. “Return to the Paths, it demanded, and you will see and learn all you need to know.”

“Another one!” Gimli grunted. “It wasn’t enough for them to send their repulsive message through me?”

Noticing the villagers’ stares and murmurs of confusion over what Gimli meant by “another one”, Faramir – at Aragorn’s nod – gave them a brief account of the events that had affected the King and his company in Pelargir.

“It’s plain – they wanted to make sure Strider heard and paid attention,” Merry said after the Steward had finished, making the villagers wonder anew at who ‘Strider’ was. “They sound desperate enough.”

“How long did he… or it… have hold of your father, Mathgor?” Aragorn asked the man.

Mathgor turned ashen as he replied softly: “It has not left, my lord.”

Another gasp came from the hobbits, and a shudder went through Gimli, at those words. Several looks of sympathy were sent in Mathgor’s direction.

“My father continues to be in a… a kind of daze,” the man added, “speaking every now and then to remind us of the same matter: to bring the heir of Isildur back.”

“Why did you not bring him here?” Faramir queried. “To meet with the King – ”    

“He is an old man, he would not survive the journey,” the bolder of Mathgor’s companions spoke up, with a slight edge to his voice. “Surely an aged man cannot be expected to ride – ”

“Hush, Fierthwain, they would not know of Father’s delicate health,” Mathgor told his companion in gentle reproach. “Forgive my cousin, my lords, he sometimes speaks brashly, but my father is indeed too old to make such a journey.”

Disregarding Fierthwain’s impudence, Aragorn sent Legolas and Faramir an unvoiced question as he recalled Gimli’s words: Listen to the Old One. Could they have been referring to Mathgor’s father?

The King turned his attention back to the villagers. “I wish we could learn more about who these Twice Forgotten are, and why they are locked away,” he said. “There may be no written records, but your people have lived in the Shadow of the Mountain since their race dwelt there in hiding, have they not? Perhaps there are those among you who have heard of some incident that might explain what is happening?”

“Aye, my lord, our forefathers were witness to the flight of that race into the darkness of the Mountains, and there are even some among us who are believed to have shared their blood in the distant past,” Mathgor said. “The history of the curse is known to all, and from it have sprung many tales. Some we think hold truth, and some stories we have come to consider old wives’ tales, told for no other purpose than to frighten children at night. But since my father began voicing these strange claims about some who were forgotten twice… well, one of those tales no longer seems so far-fetched or silly. If you desire to hear it, my lord, Spinner here could tell it better than any of us.”

“Spinner?” Sam asked.

“Well, that’s what we call him, on account of his love of old tales,” Mathgor explained, twitching his lips at his timid-looking companion, whose face had turned a shade of red. “He’s the most regular of us with books, and he writes down old tales and spins new ones.”

“It just seems such a shame, all those stories going to waste if no one remembers them, my lord,” Spinner said suddenly, “so I write them down.”

“A Bilbo in the making,” Sam remarked quietly to Merry and Pippin, who grinned and nodded.

“Come, Spinner, tell this company here what the whole village has been talking about for the past two weeks,” Mathgor urged. “It doesn’t seem so much like spun yarn now.”

For a moment, Spinner was too embarrassed to say anything, but at the urging of his friends, he cleared his throat and began.

“This is the tale told by my departed grandsire, my lord, and who knows how many others,” he said. “It tells of the King of the Mountain; by the name of Häthel the Stone-hearted was he known, because of his cold heart, so the story goes, though we know not his real name any longer. It was in the days when he first invoked the anger of Isildur and thus brought the curse upon his people, that there were those who laughed at the words of Isildur and took them to be folly – empty curses that would be blown away with the wind, never to be fulfilled. They held to the might of the Dark Lord Sauron and believed it would prevail.”

“Sounds like some of Saruman’s Wildmen,” Pippin whispered to Merry, who hushed him.

“Well, some of the Mountain folk did not take it lightly like the others did, and they believed that the curse of the rightful King of Gondor would come to pass if it were uttered in earnest,” Spinner continued. “Neither love nor hate had they for Isildur, for he was only a distant figure on a throne, but they did dread an alliance with the Dark Lord, whom they knew would be both treacherous and cruel. So this small number rose against Häthel in anger and fear, meaning to change his mind and the fate of their people by riding to war with Isildur.”

At these words, Aragorn looked around at his own companions, for this part of the history of the Mountain people had not been known to any of them before this: that not all of those folk had supported their king’s treachery. They turned back to Spinner when he resumed the story:

“My grandsire said that the wrath of Häthel was terrible, and he cast a dark spell on the usurpers. With the help of his most powerful mage, he imprisoned them all in a part of the mountain, behind a door of rock no one could open, not even with the mightiest of weapons. He allowed it to be opened only to supply those within with the barest of necessities, or to add to their number as more resisted him. But finally… no others dared oppose him any longer, and those within remained in misery… wailing and calling to ears that would not heed them… rotting in flesh and spirit… with only darkness for company… till they perished long years later.”

A silence fell over the group as they pondered on the tale Spinner had told, mutely horrified that Häthel could have condemned his own people to such a fate.

“The tale says that Häthel’s mage alone would not have been able to invoke so powerful a spell if he had not been aided by the Dark Lord himself, and no prison door could have been as strong or unbreakable,” Spinner added quietly. “But hold fast it did – and none could escape it.”

Aragorn shared a look with Legolas, each thinking the same thing: the Holding Gate that Gimli had chanted about, though the dwarf remembered nothing of it. Ironically, it was Gimli who asked the next question:

“So these prisoners – when they perished – their spirits also remained in the Mountains like the others, except they were trapped behind the Door the whole time?”

Spinner shrugged his shoulders. “No one knows for certain, but that is how the tale goes.”

“And that is what these imprisoned ones were trying to tell me,” said Aragorn, shaking his head in amazement. “When I summoned the Dead ten years ago, these… prisoners… apparently also called to me for release, but as they said: I heard them not. The others answered my summons, but they could not, and so they were left behind.” His voice grew softer as he pondered the meaning of what he had just realized. “They were never called to the Stone of Erech. They never fulfilled their oath to fight against Sauron – their souls were not pardoned, and their spirits still remain here.”

“Incomplete redemption,” Legolas said softly. “That is what they meant. Among the Forgotten People of the Mountain, there were indeed some who were forgotten again…”

The company fell mute once more, sitting still with disbelief and an emerging measure of pity for the Twice Forgotten. In the pleasant ambience of the inn, they could have been like another group of people sitting by a fireside after dinner, listening to tales of the past told by a lore-master – if not for the chill in their hearts and the stark reality of the situation.

“So they want you to return and set them free, Strider,” Sam asked, breaking the cold silence. “Well, why don’t they just say so then? Couldn’t you just say ‘I forgive you’ or some other such pardon and tell them to be on their way, just like those other fellows?”

“Perhaps that is all it would take, Sam,” said Aragorn, “But if it were so simple, they would have said so. I won’t know more till I get there.”

“Wait a moment… something is not clear to me,” Faramir said, rubbing a finger against his temple. “If the spirits of the Twice Forgotten are not free, Mathgor… if they are held by the Door as you say, then how are they still able to haunt the village, and take hold of your father?”

“Yes!” Pippin chimed in, nodding vigorously in agreement. “Yes, and how did they come here? And take possession of poor Gimli as well?”

The villagers looked at each other and shrugged. “We cannot explain that,” Mathgor replied. “There are no tales foretelling these matters.”

“Could it be… that some did escape?” Faramir suggested.

“Not likely, I don’t think, if the spell were powerful enough,” Merry said. “But perhaps… well, it sounds a bit of a stretch, I know… but perhaps there were some outside the prison who did not leave.”  

“That could be so,” Aragorn said, surprising Merry with his agreement. “It may be that not all left the Paths when I called. Is it conceivable… that they remained for the sake of those left behind?”

Gimli almost responded with a dismissive laugh, but seeing that everyone else had remained quiet and was weighing the possibility voiced by Aragorn and Merry, he suppressed his reaction and wondered if his friends might be right. No other possibility came to mind.

“Honor amongst the dishonorable,” the dwarf muttered finally. “It would actually be funny if it weren’t all so weird.”

“Perhaps if you spoke with my father – or whoever is in him – we would find out.” Mathgor remarked.

No one answered, for they knew not what to say, and it was then that an opportune interruption came in the form of a knock on the door. It opened, and some of the inn’s serving staff brought in a tray of drink and food. All conversation pertaining to the call of the Dead halted, and only after the staff had left did Mathgor continue to speak.

“We truly have no knowledge of what the Dead mean, my lord, if it is the Dead who have him,” he said. “All we know is that they ask for you, and I hoped – as my mother does – that you might heed the words… and come to our village. We have no desire to trouble you, my lord, but if you do not come… I… there is no telling when and if they will release my father.”

“And if they will continue to haunt our lands,” Fierthwain added sullenly.

“Would you come, Sire?” Mathgor asked quickly before his cousin could say more, and the hint of desperation in his voice was clear.   

“Of course I will,” Aragorn replied immediately. “You may be surprised to learn that I had decided – just this previous night – to ride there, though the need has just become more urgent. Though I know not much more than you do, we will ride to your home and set right whatever needs to be righted. We will leave as soon as you have been refreshed and feel able to make another long journey.” He gave the men a wry smile. “Perhaps then this King of Gondor – unlike my forefather Isildur – will be less of a distant ruler sitting on some distant throne.”

“I thank you, my lord,” Mathgor said gratefully, his relief visible, as was his companions’. They stood quickly when the King rose from his seat and turned to speak with Legolas and Hamille.

“Help yourselves to the food and drink, Mathgor,” Faramir said, indicating the items in a corner of the room. When the travelers had moved aside, he joined Aragorn and Legolas, who were now surrounded by Gimli and the hobbits. “Well, Elessar, it looks like the decision has been made for you to ride to the Paths from here,” said the Steward.

“I will make the journey with a small company, for there is no need for everyone to take that road,” Aragorn said. “The Star can bring the children and their mothers back to the City.”

Faramir nodded. “We are almost ready to leave. I will make the final arrangements.”

Legolas turned to Hamille. “My friend, might I ask you to aid Faramir –”

“Not this time, my prince,” Hamille said evenly. “I made no vow regarding any other journey but that to the Bay, and I will certainly not let you ride back to the Paths without me. Faramir is not likely to require my aid, and there will be others with him –”

“Quite right. Don’t forget, I am no wallflower, and I am perfectly capable of lending my husband whatever assistance he needs,” came a firm voice from the door, and they turned to see Éowyn, standing tall and proud with her chin held high. She had obviously heard the discussion from a discreet distance.

Surprised, the menfolk exchanged glances and smiled as the lady walked towards them.

“You are most certainly not a wallflower,” Aragorn said sincerely, “and the safety of my son and the other children will be in your hands as well.”

Sufficiently appeased, the lady of Rohan smiled. “With your leave, my lord, I will alert the guards to prepare your horses, and get the children ready.”

Aragorn inclined his head in respect and gratitude, and Éowyn exited the room after throwing her husband a satisfied smile.

“And we will be around, too,” said Sam to Faramir after his wife had left. “Much as I’m curious about the Paths, I think you will need speed, Strider, and you will go faster with fewer and swifter riders, without having to wait for us and our somewhat… smaller horses.”

“Besides, I know you wouldn’t want Rosie and Diamond to be worried about you,” Merry added, guessing that Sam did have that concern but had chosen not to voice it. “The Paths and the – er – the Dead – are little known to us, and after learning about what those… things… did to Aragorn and Gimli, your wives would have sleepless nights at the thought of you actually going to meet them!”

Pippin cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re right, Merry,” he agreed. “I don’t mind hearing about the Paths, but – I’m not certain I want to be on them, or meet any of those dreadful fellows.”

“Well, I would be most grateful for your company on the journey home,” said Faramir. “But what about you, Master Gimli? You’d said that you would not return to those Paths for anything or anyone.”

Everyone turned his eyes on Gimli, and he suddenly looked sick.

“I most certainly have no wish to enter those Paths again, and after what happened last night, I have no dying wish to meet with those who defiled the body of a Dwarf with their foul presence!” he declared passionately. “But… this elf is going…” he pointed to Legolas, “and I will not be left behind. I will ride with you to the village and stay there till you conclude your business.”   

“I do not urge you to go, Gimli,” Aragorn said kindly. “It is your choice and you are welcome to stop or turn back whenever you wish.”

“I sorely miss the presence of Gandalf now,” Pippin announced, sighing. “With all these strange goings-on, he would know what to do, and if he didn’t, he could find out the cause of it, do something with somebody’s mind – like he did for me when he saved me from the – er – my encounter with the Palantir.”

“Mmm, it’s times like these that we need a wizard around – grey, brown or white, it doesn’t matter – so long as he can deal with those who aren’t human,” Merry agreed.

“What about you, Legolas?” Pippin asked suddenly. “Can you not work some magic or elvish stuff?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn noticed Mathgor and his companions stiffen at Pippin’s question and turn to look at Legolas. And on their faces was written doubt – no, not doubt – it was suspicion. The King frowned but said nothing for the moment.

“Nay, Pippin, I am one of the youngest elves of this Age,” Legolas said in response to the hobbit’s query, apparently unaware of the villagers’ reaction. “I may have some heightened sensitivity than Men and other folk, but I have not the extent of ‘sight’ or touch that Gandalf or Galadriel or Lord Elrond possessed. My father is one of the oldest elves left here, but his heart and soul lie in the land and in our bond with the trees of the forests and waters of the ground, not with the spirits of Dead Men – or with beings in some Shadow Realm.”

Then the elf prince looked at Aragorn and said: “Yet, there is one we could still seek for some aid, and Hamille could ride there if it should become necessary.”

The others were about to ask Legolas to whom he was referring, when the door – which had been a little ajar – opened wide, and in walked a tall figure, his dark, windswept hair not detracting from the fairness of his features.

“And where might our good Hamille be riding off to?” asked a smiling Elladan, striding towards Aragorn and Legolas and clasping hands with them.

“What brings you back here, gwador?” Aragorn asked in pleasant surprise, before a worried look erased his smile. “Arwen! Is anything – ?”

“Nay, all is fine with her, Estel, and nothing has befallen the City,” the elf assured him. “She is merely a little distraught at the news. Elrohir has remained with her, while we rode here. Are you well yourself?”

“Wait – ‘we’? Who else came with you? And what news do you speak of?”

“That you need aid,” Elladan replied. “Though of what nature, we do not yet know. He arrived at the City two days ago, and we came immediately – ”

“He? Whom do you mean? How – ?”

Before Elladan could answer his brother, another figure appeared at the door, surprising them all: men, elves and hobbits. Even barely past the door, he cast a brightness into the room with his very presence, his height and luminescence commanding an awed silence even from the villagers who had never seen him before.

Aragorn, Legolas and Hamille immediately placed their hands on their chests in the elvish greeting and said: “Mae govannen, hir nin.”

“Mae govannen, Elessar, and Legolas Thranduilion; it is good to see you again,” came the reply in a sonorous voice.

And into the room stepped the impressive figure of Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien.

Note: I apologise profusely for the long delay, but my ‘other’ life has not been very kind to my Real Life of LOTR :–)   –   keeping me immersed in (much less pleasant) work. I have spent late nights getting this chapter ready (so please forgive any mistakes you see) as a Christmas / New Year gift for those who have been reading and reviewing this story faithfully and patiently awaiting each new chapter. I hope I have not lost too many readers with this delay, but wherever you are:  Peace be upon you, my friends, and may the New Year bring you the joy you desire. May we all find – as Aragorn and Legolas and their friends have – true love that transcends all. Merry Christmas and a Blessed New Year!

CHAPTER 11: HEARTS UNFURLED  

A few miles south-east of the Stone of Erech, on the fringes of the Morthond Vale, a group of riders halted beside a creek to partake of a light evening meal and to set up camp for the night. After four days of riding with little rest, they were tired and only too willing to break their journey. Their destination was a village nestled between cliff walls in the Vale, and if they set off again at sunrise the following day, they would be able to reach it by late afternoon.

In the distance, the black Stone lay half-immersed in the ground, its unburied half unnaturally smooth and coated blood red by the rays of the late evening sun in a dusty sky. The sight would have been quite spectacular were it not for the somewhat dismal mood of the company. Now, the whole scene simply looked chillingly eerie.

As Hamille helped Gimli build a fire, he noticed the villagers settling themselves a distance from them as they had done the past three nights. Mathgor and his two companions had been joined by three other men from the village who had been purchasing supplies in Ethring when the company from Pelargir passed through the town. Aside from Mathgor and the more timid Spinner, the villagers did little to conceal their wariness of the elves. Even now, the four men were casting suspicious glances at Celeborn and Elladan, who had washed themselves and were walking back to the camp with Aragorn. Just as guarded were the looks they threw Legolas, who stood gazing in the direction of the Stone: a lone tall, slender figure, his profile breathtakingly stunning in the glow of the setting sun. To the villagers who understood little of the Firstborn and trusted them even less, the prince of the Greenwood seemed to them at this moment nothing less than a fiery specter – beautiful, mysterious, and dangerous.  

Reining in his disgust, Hamille feigned ignorance of what the villagers were saying about the elf prince, but his acute hearing caught some of their comments: “Look at him staring at the Stone… dark magic… has the King blind… can’t stay in their forests… bringing evil to the Valley…”  

“Ignorant fools,” Gimli muttered disgustingly when he noticed Hamille’s hardened features and knew that he must have heard aspersions cast on the character of the elves. “Leave them alone, Hamille, they can’t see beyond the wargs’ behinds their heads are stuck in.”

Despite his ire, the elf could not hide a grin at Gimli’s defense of his elven friends, and he looked amusedly at the dwarf tending the fire. “Why, Master Gimli,” he said, “I marvel that the day has come when a dwarf would forget how his race, too, might have said the same things about us once.”

Gimli chuckled. “Well, that works both ways, Master Elf,” he rejoined. “But you and I, and that elfling over there,” he nodded in the direction of Legolas, “we’ve come a long way, eh?” 

“Indeed we have, although he is no more an elfing than I am,” Hamille laughed as he folded his long legs and sat beside the dwarf. “It all seems so ludicrous now, but I suppose that it is easier to fear than to trust what is strange to us.”

“I won’t argue with that, Master Elf,” the dwarf declared readily, “but it still pains me to know that some Men can look at Legolas that way. The only thing that would dull some of the sharpness of my temper would be a pint of ale and a good smoke, but since I can’t get the first tonight, I’ll make do with the second – and I’ll thank you to pass me some of that dried pork from Pelargir. Sinking my teeth into a roasted bit of it would do much to raise my spirits, and maybe I’ll let those fools live another day.”

Aragorn heard the laughter of the brown-haired elf and dwarf from a distance as he walked slowly towards them with Elladan and Lord Celeborn.  

“Gimli’s mood has improved over the last few days,” the King remarked, smiling. “He seems to have recovered from his immense anger at the Dead.”

“He certainly has,” said Celeborn. “Much has changed since I last was with your Fellowship in the Golden Wood. It warms my heart to see him feeling so comfortable in the company of the Quendi now.”

“The Quest changed each of us in different ways, my lord,” Aragorn said in a reflective tone. “Who would have thought a dwarf could have become so enamored with the Lady? Ah, the Lady…” Aragorn shook his head. “I fear, my lord, that despite his improved spirits, Gimli will be reminded of your vision each time he sees you.”

Elladan shook his head and chuckled. “I cannot wait to describe to Elrohir the poor dwarf’s face when we told him of your vision, Daeradar,” he said to his grandsire, whose usually grave features softened into a small smile. “Yet another who received a visit from the Lady with whom he is smitten… oh, I did not think one could see colors change under all that beard! Red to blue – ”

“Be kind, Elladan,” Celeborn chastised his grandson gently. “He did not have the pleasure of seeing her again as Sam and I did, however briefly.” His expression grew tender at the recollection. “I only wish it could have been under other circumstances than to tell me Elessar would need my aid.”  

“It is not usual to be visited by someone who is already in the Undying Lands, is it, my lord?” Aragorn asked.

“Nay, it is not,” the elf lord replied, his face growing grave again, “and therefore, the need must be dire. But I have no more knowledge of the coming events than what you and the villagers have told me, Elessar. It seems we shall to wait and see what transpires.”

Aragorn nodded feebly. “Indeed, my lord, I walk a dim road even before I reach the darkness of the Paths,” he sighed.

The elf lord’s eyes softened as he turned to look at Aragorn. “I will not hide the fact that I harbor some concern, Elessar, as Legolas surely must after having been delivered Galadriel’s command. You must be cautious.”

Aragorn nodded again, and turned the conversation to other matters as they reached Gimli and Hamille. Celeborn and Elladan joined the dwarf and the elf at the fire, while Aragorn walked on, looking around for Legolas in the failing light.

The elf had seated himself on a grassy mound, his eyes focused on the Black Stone. A sunbeam crept over the mountain ridge in the distance and crossed the leagues to fall softly upon the elven countenance and delicate features that, despite their composure, were shadowed by disquiet. He heard the footsteps of Aragorn approaching him and moved aside for the man to join him.

“What ails you, my friend?” asked Aragorn as he placed a hand on the elven shoulder and lowered himself into a sitting position. 

A little laugh left Legolas’ lips. “This is just like you, Estel,” the elf remarked, evading the question. “You are the one who shall soon face an unknown challenge, and you ask what ails me.”

“That is because something does ail you,” the man answered easily, knowing full well what troubled his friend, but desiring the elf to unburden his heart.

“Then it is for me to bear, and no one else,” the elf said obstinately.

“Come, Legolas, we have no secrets between us,” Aragorn urged patiently. “Tell me what it is.”

The elf continued to gaze at the Stone that held so much significance for Aragorn.

“I worry for you of course,” he said eventually, a hint of his deep concern creeping into his voice. “You are again to traverse a Path that had haunted your life since your birth, and on which the doors should already have been closed years ago. Now you have to open that door and enter willingly once more. You will face tormented souls that should have been at peace but are now directing their anger at you.”

Aragorn was mute for a few moments before responding. “Perhaps it will be a simple matter of declaring them forgiven,” he said with as much conviction as he could inject into his voice.

“We can only hope so,” the elf said, wishing to believe it himself. “But… the Phial,” he whispered reluctantly, “I have been delivered the Phial for some purpose that I am blind to, aside from the charge that I am to keep you alive. To keep you from some harm I cannot see – perhaps at the accursed black orb over there – perhaps on the Shadow Paths….”  

The elf’s voice dropped as his throat constricted. “Orcs and rogues I can keep off your back, Estel… and I could shield you from falling rocks if I can see their approach,” he said. “But this… this is different. This threat is different, and the Lady would not have spoken to both Sam and Lord Celeborn if it were a light matter. Thus… thus I worry for you,” he finished and lowered his head.

Aragorn was suddenly at a loss for words. “Legolas –” he said weakly, resting a hand on one of the elf’s clenched fists.  

“Nay, Estel, do not offer me comfort,” the elf prince protested. “I am not the one who should need it.”

To his dismay, Aragorn heard a hint of self-deprecation in the elf’s voice, and he hastened to dispel it.

“My friend,” said the King, his brows furrowing. “You fear for me, and there is no shame in the distress you feel because of it. Though it gives me no pleasure to know that you should be so troubled on my account, I am both proud that you are, and humbled by your concern.”  

Another objection was on the tip of Legolas’ tongue, but the man silenced him with a tightened grip on the elven fist.

“You have freely given me much that I am grateful for, Legolas: your devotion to restoring Ithilien, the Royal Bath, the Glass Pool, my first ship… and you have saved my life more times than I care to remember,” Aragorn said sincerely. “Yet… the greatest gift you have blessed me with is none of those, my friend, for what I value above all is quite simply – and most assuredly – the confidence that I am truly loved.” He paused to let his words sink in, never taking his eyes off the elf. “You hand me that gift not only when you are anxious for me, as you are now, but also when you lend me your aid and your strength in spite of it.”

A contemplative silence from Legolas followed Aragorn’s heartfelt speech, and after a few moments, the elf took a deep breath and lifted his head to meet his friend’s gaze, quickly suppressing the swirling anxiety in the clear blue pools of his eyes. A smile graced his features, and he received one in return.

“We have been down many unknown paths before, Legolas,” Aragorn said gently. “This will be no different.”

“Aye, mellon nin,” the elf said, his spirits lifted just by the calmness in the voice of the man beside him. “Aye, I will hold on to hope, for that is what you are, Estel.”

Man and Elf lapsed into silence as the voices of the rest of the company drifted around them, some sharing stories and some airing opinions, while fires crackled and the smell of roasted meat wafted invitingly in the crisp evening air.

Yet, the thoughts of the two friends were elsewhere. Even in the darkening vale, when all else in the distance began to don a cloak of obscurity, the Black Stone taunted their vision, a grim, silent reminder of a bloodline whose history spanned the shores of an elusive island to the mountains of Gondor, a long line marked by honor and pride, but also violence, betrayal, shame and banishment. Legolas turned to study the face of the King, recalling the memories of a journey made more than ten years ago to a place of grey vapor and dark dread under a mountain that no one desired to cross, but many were forced to.

“Do you fear the return, Estel?” he asked quietly.

Taken aback by the unexpected query, Aragorn searched the face of his friend and understood his meaning, but did not answer immediately. He turned to watch the setting sun, unblinking, and he sat as still as the stone figures of his forefathers, while the last of the sun’s golden-red rays brushed across his forehead.

“Do I fear it?” he echoed the elf’s question. “No more and no less than I did the first time, Legolas, for I am mortal. I can be… touched,” he whispered at last. “Yes, I did. I feared them even then… but I would not let it be written on my face, so that none would read it. I hardened myself for the sake of the company I led.”

Legolas fell respectfully silent, knowing how much strength it took Aragorn to confess his fear. The elf had never raised the subject before, and he half-regretted doing so now. But the man himself had said: no secrets.

“Aye… they would have terrified me had I allowed it,” Aragorn continued, finding this revelation of his feelings to Legolas strangely liberating. “But I was driven by need then, a need deeper than my own, and named by my bloodline. It strengthened my will, and it became my armor, my amulet, and my shield.”

Legolas nodded when Aragorn paused. Then the man gave a light, rueful laugh and bowed his head. “What shield do I carry now?” he asked in a voice that suddenly seemed small and lost, the stoicism that had been in him a while ago fading with the remnant fragments of light at day’s end.

Sucking in a breath, the elf immediately placed a hand firmly on the arm of the King. “You need no shield but your own strength, Aragorn,” he said encouragingly. “It did not fail you then; it shall not fail you now.”

Aragorn gritted his teeth. “To be honest, Legolas, I would turn away and never walk that path again if I could,” he admitted. “But I am afraid that choice is not given to me.”

“Perhaps not,” Legolas agreed, “but remember that you will never walk anywhere alone, Estel, not so long as there are those who love you, and so long as I have breath within me.”

Aragorn locked his eyes on the face of his friend, eyeing him steadily before he spoke.

“Aye, Legolas. Whatever shield I carried with me into battles past, mellon nin, your name was clearly written on it,” he said. “And whatever shield I shall take to the Paths hence – know this: your name will be on it still.”

Smiling, the two friends turned back to watch the sun sink to rest behind the hills, and its light was lost, and the black of night closed in around them. And still they sat in the comfortable silence of companions, shoulder to shoulder, each finding solace in none but the presence of the other, till high above them, the Star of Eärendil rose, blessing them with a ray of hope in a dark sky.

  ------------------------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------------------

Under the noon sun of the following day, the village of Grimwythë loomed into view when Aragorn and his company rode over the little ridge that had hidden it from sight. Despite its unfortunate name, it was actually quite a pleasant little hamlet, the King decided as his eyes swept over it from beneath the shade of his hand, if not for the singularly unfortunate circumstance of having lain in the shadow of the Dwimorberg for several generations.

Almost eleven years ago, he had only ridden past the village in the growing twilight, bent on only one destination: the Black Stone. But today, he saw the charm it could exude: the cottages’ brown thatch roofs and white walls were set against a clear blue sky, while little patches of green surrounded the main cluster of homes. If not for the mute grey cliffs of the Haunted Mountain watching the village like grim sentinels, the King thought, the people who lived there would be just like those in any other small town: simple folk with happy, uncomplicated lives, like Mathgor and Spinner and their families.

“Thirty-five families,” Mathgor answered when Aragorn asked him about the size of the village. “We live close to each other, always have; it helps us feel safer at night.”

“And your farms – they seem to lie a little way outside the town,” Aragorn remarked, looking around.

“They do, my lord, where it is less rocky,” Mathgor explained to Aragorn. “And they are kept small, so that when we work on them, we can finish and return home well before dark. Living in the Shadow of the Mountain, we have made that our practice for as long as I can remember.”   

Mathgor’s explanation reminded Aragorn that these villagers’ lives had begun to take on a happier note after the Quest, but were once again being disrupted by the Shadow Host from the past. Indeed, for Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Elladan, the remainder of the journey to Grimwythë was a little like stepping back in time. As their horses slowed to a trot along the more stony paths to the village, they looked at the sheer, unfriendly cliff faces of the Vale and recalled their ride of terror from the Paths of the Dead all those years ago. Conversation stopped, and only the clip-clop of their steeds’ hooves could be heard punctuating the air. The bright noon sunshine brought the only spot of cheer to the company of riders.

Closer to the village, however, the sound of children’s voices at play reached their ears: a welcome sound to the newcomers. The youngsters soon came into sight, and at the first glimpse of the approaching company of riders, the youngsters exclaimed and pointed excitedly at them. They stared at Aragorn’s escort with the livery of Gondor, and tall riders who did not seem quite like the people they had been used to seeing. The children were torn between running towards the newcomers and fleeing from them. Upon noticing Mathgor riding beside the King, however, their faces beamed with delight and they squealed loudly.

The parents – who quickly emerged from their cottages and various other places – were decidedly more sedate and less enthusiastic than their young offspring had been, Gimli noticed. They greeted the arrival of the King and his company respectfully enough, but their guarded curiosity over the presence of the elves and dwarf was plastered on their faces. Looking askance at the tall figures standing by their horses – and particularly awed by the striking presence of the Lord of the Golden Wood – they spoke to each other in low tones, and the air was charged with their nervousness and reservation.  

“Mmph, this is like a repeat of our first visit to Edoras,” Gimli muttered to Legolas and Elladan, while Aragorn spoke with Mathgor and some of the villagers. “You’d find more cheer in a graveyard. What is it about us that turns people’s faces sour enough to curdle milk, eh?”

Elladan chuckled lightly. “Oh, might it have something to do with the way we look, do you think?” he asked the elf prince airily.

Legolas smiled. “I would not know, gwador; Men and Dwarves and Elves all look alike, do they not?” he quipped, but his voice took on a more serious note as he turned to Gimli. “Remember the reason they requested Aragorn’s presence, my friend,” he said. “Something is terribly awry; do you wonder at their somber mood?”

Gimli snorted and waited a little impatiently as Mathgor introduced the King to some of the villagers who had gathered. A few were clearly older than Mathgor, but they all seemed to be deferring to him at the moment. The dwarf cheered up quickly when the man whispered to a pleasant-faced woman and she smilingly made an offer of refreshment.

“That would be most welcome, good lady,” replied Aragorn, at once charming the folk with his courteousness, “and I’m sure many of my company would appreciate it. But there is a more pressing matter that requires my own attention, so let us not delay it further, Mathgor. Your father does not deserve what he has to bear.”

Mathgor nodded gratefully, and after giving instructions to some of his friends to lead Aragorn’s men to some shade and the horses to fresh water, he began to lead the King to his cottage where his parents were. Hamille remained to take care of the elvish horses, but Celeborn, Legolas and Elladan accompanied Aragorn. After some hesitation – with visions of food and drink and the recollection of the unpleasant incidents at Pelargir occupying his mind – a grumpy, reluctant Gimli followed.

The group made their way along a wide path, the heavier boots crunching noisily on the hard stones beneath. As they walked past several small homes, more faces peeked out through curtainless windows before the incredulous owners emerged from their front doors to cross fenceless yards and join the little procession in open-mouthed wonder. Gimli felt the heat of twenty or more curious stares upon his back, and his own stolen glances told him that they were also studying both the form and raiment of the elven visitors, as well as the finely crafted bows and knives borne by Elladan and Legolas. The rapid chatter of children and the more subtle but no less excited whispers of older folk grew behind them with each step they took.

“The last time we were here, and we heard growing murmurs behind us, we were followed by the Dead,” the dwarf remarked grouchily to his elven friends. “Now, we’re treading upon the Paths of the Living, but I’m not sure this is any more pleasant.”

Legolas laughed lightly and clapped a comforting hand on the stiff dwarven shoulder. “It must be your hunger that sours your temper, my friend,” he teased. “But take heart; they are merely drawn to your alluring presence, Master Dwarf!”

Gimli could not decide whether to puff his chest out or to bristle at the elf’s words, so he settled for a dismissive grunt instead, stroking his beard absently.

“Some do not look too friendly,” Elladan noted quietly in Sindarin from his place beside Celeborn.

“We should take care not to offend them then,” the elf lord responded in the same low tone. 

Ironically, it was this note of caution in Sindarin that ignited a spark of annoyance in Fierthwain. Having heard Legolas’ light laughter and the exchange between Elladan and Celeborn in a strange language, the man’s features turned hard, and he walked boldly to the front of the group, falling into step beside Mathgor, who was just pointing out his parents’ cottage to Aragorn. 

“Pardon my asking, my lord,” he said suddenly, interrupting the exchange between his cousin and the King. “I mean no offence, but will they be coming inside too, to see my uncle?”

Mathgor and Aragorn came to an abrupt halt at the beginning of the little path to the cottage, surprised by the unexpected query and the barely concealed tone of revulsion in Fierthwain’s voice despite his claim of cordiality. The rest of the whole procession came to a stop as well.

“Fierthwain!” Mathgor hissed in caution.

The sallow-faced man ignored his cousin and turned his steely eyes towards the subjects of his clear dislike. Aragorn followed his line of vision and saw that it ended at the three elves, lingering longest on Legolas, who looked as taken aback as he felt.

“Why do you enquire?” the King asked testily. “Is there a reason for them not to?”

“Pardon me again for saying so, Sire, but we have been told of elvish wights,” Fierthwain replied, bringing a look of horror to Mathgor’s face and making the two village elders on the other side of Aragorn fidget in discomfort. “We have no dealings with them, and – ”

“Fierthwain, now is not the time,” one of the elders, a thin white-haired man, said nervously.

Fierthwain pursed his lips stubbornly. “I think now is the time, Hëmuth,” the younger man objected, looking at the two elders. “And you too, Dèormal, why do you fear voicing what is merely the truth? If no one will speak out, let me do it.”

Turning back to Aragorn, Fierthwain continued. “We mean you no offence, Sire, for we know of your friendship with the elves, but they are strange to us, and I ask this for the sake of the folk here,” he stated. “For ages now, stories have been told of the unnatural magic of elves. And we have always wondered if… well, we have been told that perhaps elves and their chants and spells have been behind all these…these dark, accursed happenings.” He nodded his head pointedly in the direction of the Haunted Mountain and then at the home of Mathgor’s parents nearby. “And now, my lord, they are here, in our village, where an evil has returned to bring turmoil to our lives.” He paused as a dumbstruck Aragorn stared at him, but he was determined to purge himself of all the misgivings he had held back. “Will their presence unleash greater evil?”

The whole group fell mute at Fierthwain’s blunt question, and even the children were hushed, sensing something amiss.

“By the Valar! How dare he – ” Elladan hissed, preparing to move forward even as Gimli bristled and reached for his axe, ready to do battle.

Celeborn clamped a hand on the arm of his grandson and stayed his step, while Legolas grasped the shoulder of the irate dwarf and held him back. Fire kindled in the clear blue eyes of the Lord of Lothlórien and the Prince of the Greenwood, but although the two elves drew themselves up to their full heights, making the more faint-hearted cower, they withheld their anger and waited for Aragorn to voice the response.

Aragorn did not speak immediately but looked unflinchingly at Fierthwain, his kingly face and posture a study of composed calm. Only his close friends and brother knew the intensity of the cold wrath that would surely be streaming through his veins at this moment, but even the men around him sensed his anger. They stood without moving, nervousness freezing their limbs and tongues in the heat of the mid-day sun, till it seemed the only sound they heard was the light wind that brushed against their stony features, taunting their own speechlessness.

When Aragorn spoke at last, his tone was icy and carefully measured. “In only one thing have you spoken truly, Fierthwain,” he said. “These elves are my friends, and my kin, closer to me in spirit and in blood than you will ever understand.”

The evenness of his voice unnerved the villagers more than a ranting king would have, and the earnestness of his tone left no doubt about the depth of his conviction in what he said.

He longs to wipe the look of contempt off Fierthwain’s face, Legolas thought, observing his friend, but Aragorn is Aragorn, and the king in him is weighing that desire against the knowledge that the villagers are merely nursing a fear born of isolation from elevenkind.

“Indeed, Fierthwain, you may never truly understand what you owe the Firstborn,” the King continued, confirming the elf’s assumption. “Yet I would ask you to try, for these whom you doubt are the ones who, through the Ages, have kept the forests and the earth alive, that you and your children shall inherit. For thousands of years, elven refuges you have never seen or heard of held within them some of the greatest power in Middle-earth, power that was needed to defy the Dark Lord and make it possible for Men to remain free. Lords Celeborn had the Golden Wood under his command, and Elladan’s sire had Rivendell under his. They and their kin could have taken over the realms of Men long, long ago had they wished to, for they certainly possessed the power to do so – power that you so freely call dark elf magic.” Aragorn’s eyes blazed then, boring into Fierthwain. “But fortunately for us, the Firstborn have never desired such conquests, nor sought the suffering of Men, nor unleashed blights upon us, despite what you so blindly claim.”

From behind Aragorn, Dèormal coughed uneasily and attempted to say something to alleviate the tension that had gripped the whole procession. But the King was not finished. He raised his arm towards Legolas, motioning for the elf to come to his side, which the elf did slowly. 

“Prince Legolas here,” Aragorn resumed, when the elf had reached him, “is from the Woodland Realm which his father rules. It is by the blood and valor of King Thranduil and his people that much of the Great Wood has been kept safe and won back from Sauron. Know now, Fierthwain, that if the forest strongholds of King Thranduil and Lord Celeborn had fallen, Gondor and the rest of Middle-earth would not have long lasted the onslaught. If that had happened, Fierthwain, you and I, and these good people here, and these children as well, would in all likelihood be slaves to the orcs of Sauron at this moment.”

A murmur arose in the group of villagers as the King’s words struck a note of dread in their hearts.

“Remember too, Fierthwain, this particular elf here,” Aragorn said, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Know you that his life is worth more than many put together, for he and the Dwarf Lord Gimli over there were among the Nine who completed the Quest of the Ring with me, and made it possible for all of us to be standing here eleven years later. Surely even you know that tale, and if you do, you would understand that he would no sooner bring you harm than I would.”

Aragorn’s chastisement had been targeted at Fierthwain, but many of the other villagers – save the children – nodded their heads in agreement, or lowered them in embarrassment.

“Listen well, Fierthwain, and any who care to know,” the King said, his voice reverberating with quiet authority. “These elves have no more to do with the hauntings or the Dead than you do. I stake my life on it. If you cannot trust them, then trust the word of your King, and utter not one more claim of doubt or offence against them.”  

Aragorn marked the end of his speech with so stern a look and so straight a carriage that none of the villagers dared even to breathe in the long moments of loud silence that followed, afraid of what the King would do next. 

Then the thin voice of a child enquired: “Why have they stopped talking, Mama?”

And as the breaking of a spell, Mathgor and the elders tumbled over each other in their apologies for Fierthwain’s boldness. The man himself did not look entirely convinced however, Gimli noted, and neither did a number of others in the crowd behind them. Fierthwain’s lips were tightly pressed together in an obvious effort to hold back further insult.

Legolas sensed the wrath still seething beneath the King’s outer calm, and he gripped Aragorn’s elbow lightly.

“They know no better, Aragorn, let it be,” he whispered in the elven speech. “His words are but words; they do not hurt us. Let us attend to the business at hand.”

At the elf prince’s reminder, Aragorn drew a deep breath and turned back to Mathgor.

“Your father waits,” he stated without mirth. “Let us proceed.”

Visibly relieved, Mathgor hastened to resume their interrupted progress, but they had taken no more than two steps before a shriek rent the air inside the little cottage.

“Elessaaaaar!” a voice wailed within, curdling the blood of all who heard it.

Note:  My thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter, and Happy 2006 to all!

CHAPTER 12:  IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOW

The shriek from the cottage spurred Mathgor into an urgent dash down the path to his parents’ home. He threw open the front door and rushed in, with Fierthwain close on his heels. Aragorn and the others entered moments later, and were greeted by the tearful face of an old woman which turned towards the King upon his entrance.

Aragorn found himself standing in a sparsely furnished but neat and airy sitting room, in one corner of which sat an old man in the throes of a convulsion. Upon his shoulder and chest the woman’s hands were pressed, and Mathgor, kneeling beside the chair, had his arm about his waist, holding him down and trying to placate him. Despite the creases on his gaunt face, the old man’s resemblance to his son was clear. He looked weak and frail, but his hands gripped the arms of the wooden chair tightly as his body thrashed. His eyes were yellow with age, drooping with the absence of muscle along his cheekbones. Yet, there was a fierce light in those eyes – unnaturally bright – and it was trained on Aragorn from the moment the man stepped over the threshold.

“Heeee has come! Heeee has come!” the old man cried in a voice that did not seem to belong to him, and with a strength from without his thin frame. Many of the villagers had come into the room behind Aragorn and his company, and some faces peered in through the windows. As the crowd watched in fascinated dread, the old man sat up and pointed a shivering, bony finger directly at the King, who could not help blanching a little at the sudden recognition demonstrated by the possessed man. Legolas and Elladan moved to stand at his side, while two of Aragorn’s guards who had caught up with them stood on the alert nearby. Gimli swallowed, unable to repress a shudder as he wondered if that was how he himself must have appeared a few nights ago in Pelargir.

“You!” the old man croaked, still focused on Aragorn. “You… come…at last... to free… to free…”

The old man sank back into the chair again and hung his head, exhausted and wheezing heavily. The stunned crowd stood in mute astonishment, while Mathgor’s mother ran her palm down his chest in slow, comforting strokes, checking her own quiet sobs. Mathgor held his father’s hands gently and brushed his calloused hands across the thinning hair of the aged scalp till the wheezing grew lighter and the old man seemed less stressed. Releasing his hold on his now feeble father, Mathgor rose from his kneeling position and brushed away the locks of brown hair that had fallen across his tired eyes. He moved around the chair to gently grasp his mother’s shoulders and speak soothingly to her. The woman released her hold on her husband and wiped her face quickly as Mathgor led her to the King and introduced her.

“My mother, Sire,” Mathgor said, his brown eyes soft with pity. “Sarawyn is her name, but you may call her Sara. My father is Mathuil.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, good lady,” Aragorn said gently, quickly holding out his hands to grasp hers and put her at ease. “I truly wish we were meeting under better circumstances.” 

Sarawyn looked at Aragorn, torn between uttering an impassioned plea for his aid and levying some blame at him for what was happening to her husband. But the kindness she saw in the grey eyes of the King, and the sincere sympathy written in his features, robbed her of longer speech and softened her tone as she said simply in a quaking voice: “Help him, my lord.” 

Her quiet plea snapped the two village elders back to awareness, and they quickly and firmly directed the crowd to disperse. They shut the front door and stood guard outside the cottage alongside the King’s royal escorts, so that only Aragorn, the elves and Gimli remained in the room with Mathgor, his cousin, and his parents. Fierthwain found and draped thin sheets over the windows so that no prying eyes would disrupt the goings-on in the room.

In the dimmed sitting room, Aragorn studied the now silent figure of Mathgor’s father for a few moments before he turned back to the old man’s wife and son.

“I do not wish to tire him out, but I need to attempt speaking with him,” he said quietly and received feeble, worried nods in response.

Minutes later, he was seated in front of the frail figure, with Legolas and Lord Celeborn just behind him, while everyone else remained a little distance away.

Aragorn took a deep breath, but was at a loss to start, for he did not know how to address the old man. Would be speaking to Mathuil, or the spirit of a long-dead man? 

“Old father,” he said at last, his voice sounding hesitant.

There was no response from the old man, whose head remained bowed.

“Old father,” Aragorn tried again. “Tell me who you are.”

The bowed head was suddenly raised, and the King found himself looking into a pair of yellowed eyes, unnaturally wide and filled with bitterness. A thin hand, its veins standing out, suddenly gripped Aragorn’s arm before he could retract it, drawing startled gasps from many lips. Aragorn instinctively tried to free his arm of the wrinkled palm and fingers, but found them fueled with some strange strength. In the next instant, he saw the fair hand of Legolas reach to pry the thin fingers off without hurting them, but Aragorn stopped him. The King forced himself to cease his own struggle, although he squirmed a little under the chilly stare of the cold eyes.  

“There is no hurt, mellon nin,” Aragorn said calmly, trying to reassure himself as much as the elf. “They need me… I do not believe they will harm me. Let’s leave it alone for the moment.”

Legolas withdrew his hand, but wariness still sat upon his features, and he remained standing inches from his friend.

Taking a breath, Aragorn repeated his request to the thin figure before him: “Tell me who you are. Are you one of the Forgotten Ones?”

The old man parted his lips to speak, but despite the strength of his grip, gone was the earlier strength of the voice, and the words came in a raspy wheeze.

“Nay… aye…” came the vague reply.

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked, puzzled.

“I am not of them,” Mathuil wheezed. “But I am with them.”

Aragorn raised his brows in query to Mathgor, but the villager was just as puzzled. Celeborn and Legolas exchanged looks of incomprehension as well before the old man’s voice drew their attention again.

“I am he… who tried to free them… the condemned,” he continued. “But he, he and the others… too strong… too evil… I failed at the Door… my spirit lost the fight… all in vain…”  

Chilly fingers crawled up Gimli’s spine as he listened. He stole glances at everyone else, but not a single face showed a glimmer of understanding about the dark piece of history to which the dead one was referring.

“You died at the door?” Aragorn questioned. “What door? Where? How? I do not –”

“You forget?” the old man suddenly challenged, a note of bitterness coloring his voice. His grip on Aragorn’s arm tightened. His eyes left Aragorn and looked around the room slowly. Traveling upwards, they alit upon the upright figure of Legolas, and the yellowed eyes paused and squinted. Even in the dimness, a gleam of recognition seemed to appear in them. The elf prince stiffened but said nothing. The eyes then moved to the other occupants of the room, and when they reached Elladan and Gimli, the black orbs lingered on them as they had the elf prince. 

The dwarf squirmed uncomfortably as the searching eyes seemed to pierce through flesh and bone to reach his soul. “What is he doing?” he whispered nervously to Elladan.

“He knows us,” the elf whispered back, feeling unpleasantly touched by the Sight of the Dead himself. “We were there, and he knows us.”

Gimli gulped. “Who?” he squeaked. “ Who is he?” 

“You have forgotten me?” the voice asked again in a piteous but bitter tone.

“Who are you? Tell us,” Aragorn urged, feeling increasingly squeamish from the tight grip of the hand upon his arm.

But the hold suddenly slackened. The old man wailed feebly and fell silent, his head bowed and his body sagging against the back of the chair. A small cry came from his wife, who quickly ministered to him again.

“He is worn out,” Fierthwain said with an unmistakably hard edge to his voice. He walked towards his uncle. “The questioning has tired him; he can take no more.”

Aragorn did not argue, for it was clear that the aged man was indeed exhausted, and the King felt a surge of pity for him. He stood and looked enquiringly at Mathgor and his mother.

“Do you know the meaning of what he uttered?” he asked.   

“No, my lord,” Sarawyn answered in a frightened voice. “This is the first time he has uttered those words.”

“How often does he – or the voice of the Other – speak like this?”

“In the beginning, he would keep ranting, and it was all we could do to quiet him and hold him down,” Mathgor replied. “Then he… my father’s body… tired out quickly, and it became a struggle. It was clear that the… the Other, as you say, desired to make himself heard, but my father would be too weak. More and more, my father would fall silent, even though he – or it – tried to make him talk. He just grew too feeble... even as you see him now.”

Mathgor’s eyes filled with pain, and Sarawyn started sobbing quietly again. The King looked at them and saw weariness and sorrow in the tanned faces that bespoke a previously uncomplicated life of sun and honest work, and his heart was moved.

“Then let us allow him to rest for now,” he suggested kindly. “And much as I loathe troubling him again, I have little choice but to try again later, for I cannot help him without learning more.”

Mathgor sighed before he answered. “We wish to see this ended quickly, my lord, for my father cannot bear much more. We fear for him,” he said, and Aragorn could hear the quiver in his voice.

“I will endeavor to free him of this… bondage… as soon as you feel he has regained some strength,” the King said. “But this predicament poses a bigger challenge than I have ever faced. If your father is indeed too weak to allow further discourse with… with the Other, we must attempt to read his thoughts, and to do that, I shall have need of Lord Celeborn’s aid.”

At the mention of the elf lord’s involvement, Fierthwain’s eyes widened and he looked about to voice a protest, when Mathgor spoke.

“Do what you deem best, Sire; I will abide by your counsel,” he said resignedly.

A fierce frown appeared on Fierthwain’s face at Mathgor’s response. Turning abruptly from his cousin and evading the outstretched hand of his aunt, he strode to the front door, yanked it open and left the cottage without a word, brushing past some startled Gondorian guards and two embarrassed village elders.

Within the sitting room, Gimli was the first to recover from the uneasy silence that had followed the man’s wordless remonstration and departure.

“Well, it’s less stuffy in here now,” he sniffed, and Elladan knew he was referring to more than the fresh air and sunshine that streamed in through the open door. “Spared my boot from being scuffed against his rear end,” the dwarf added, and the elf grinned at him.

“I beg excuse for my cousin’s behavior on his behalf, my lord,” Mathgor said to Aragorn. “He loves my father dearly, for his own died when he was a young boy, his mother not long after, and my parents raised him. My father reminds him of his own, for they were brothers. He feels most keenly the torment my father has had to bear since all this… this trouble began. Fierthwain fears for him as we do.” 

“But why does he harbor such a suspicion towards the Elves?” Aragorn queried, voicing the question that he knew was on the minds of all the Firstborn.

Mathgor glanced quickly at his mother and the two elders, sharing their discomfiture, before answering. “As my cousin said: stories warning us of elvish wights and their unnatural… er… craft… have been handed down to us through many, many mouths,” he stated, though his voice was absent of the disdain his cousin had shown. “We know no more than what we have been told, and our fears – even if they be unfounded in your eyes – are no less than what those warnings are meant to instill.” 

The man looked at each of the elves present in the room before he added: “I mean no offence, my lords, but the King did ask, and I will not coat my response with the honey of sweet-tongued liars. We feel no hate towards you, but many are wary and cautious. We receive few strangers, and have never encountered Elves, save as vague shapes riding in the dark eleven years ago, with the King of Dead before them, and the Shadow Host behind. You were – and I speak plainly – no more than glowing specters to us.” 

“Specters they may have seemed, Mathgor, yet they are real, and they share your distress as I do,” Aragorn insisted. “None of them wishes harm upon your father.”

“Caution is reasonable, and the Elves are no strangers to that sentiment,” Lord Celeborn said unexpectedly, his sonorous voice sending Mathgor a note of understanding and assurance that the man felt immediately. “But the King speaks truly: we have come here not to disrupt your lives. We desire only to help the Lord Elessar seek a solution to what is troubling him and your father. You have our word.”

“Very well, my lords,” Mathgor replied, nodding gratefully to the elf lord. “I only ask that you first grant my father some sleep. It might take much of the afternoon, I’m afraid. In the meantime, you would also benefit from some refreshment, I’m sure. If the good Elders here could – ”

“Leave it to us,” Dèormal said, stepping in quickly. “You see to your father, Mathgor, and we will get the King and his companions settled.” 

Thus agreed, Aragorn and his company rested from their journey for the rest of the afternoon, if rest was what they could call the light respite they tried to find in the Shadow of the Haunted Mountain.

  ------------------------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------------------

It was near twilight before Mathgor sent word to the visitors that his father had fully woken from a troubled sleep. The old man had been fed some soup, the only nourishment he seemed to be able to consume in recent days, and if the King so desired, this would be a good time to speak with him again.

It was thus that Aragorn and his friends found themselves once again walking past the line of cottages, now dimly lit and with wary faces at the windows guardedly watching their return to Mathgor’s cottage. Missing was the earlier procession of eager followers, for none of the villagers would willingly wander in the dark after nightfall.

The company found the atmosphere in the old couple’s cottage considerably gloomier now as the light of several candles provided the only illumination in the sitting room, casting flickering shadows on the rough walls. Fierthwain was already there with the two village Elders, who gave Aragorn slight nods as he entered. They watched silently as his companions filed in, the light footfalls of the elves and the heavier ones of Aragorn and Gimli the only sounds to intrude into the silence of the dimly lit space. Mathgor and his mother moved aside to allow the King and Celeborn access to Mathuil.

Gimli halted in his stride and swallowed nervously at the sight of the old man. Rocking himself back and forth in a slow, strange motion, the wrinkled form once again stared at Aragorn as the tall figure approached him. He bared his yellowed teeth as if to speak, but no words were uttered. His eyes, unnaturally and eerily bright in the candlelight, watched the King’s every move as the man – with his eyes fixed on the old man as well – seated himself on one side of the frail figure. Legolas, ever watchful over his friend, stood a little behind Aragorn, while Celeborn positioned himself on the other side of the chair, and Elladan hovered nearby. Hamille and Gimli seated themselves at the other end of the room, the dwarf content to distance himself from whatever would be taking place.

The old man did not cease his rocking motion, and Aragorn soon addressed him as he did earlier.

“Old father,” he said, speaking to both the elderly man and the spirit possessing him. “Do you know me?”

“Yesss,” the old man answered dully.

Aragorn was encouraged by the quick answer, although the elderly voice lacked strength. “Do you wish to speak with me?”

“Return to the Paths,” came the reply. “Find them.”

Them, Aragorn repeated silently, recalling the tale told by Spinner. “The ones locked up by the king?”

“Yesss.”

“Because they opposed his decision to betray Isildur?”

“Yesss.”

So, Aragorn thought, the old wives’ tales had, for generations, apparently held more truth than any living person knew.

“Where are they?”

“The Paths. They are there.”

“You spoke of a door.”

“Yessss… they are beyond it.”

“So, I need to seek it? Where – ?”

“The Paths… where you once walked.”

Aragorn shook his head, trying desperately to recollect all he had encountered in that dark place eleven years years ago. “But where do I find it? Tell me.”

“Seek... you will see it where I am… I am there…”  Mathuil continued to rock back and forth, but his voice had grown shaky, and his hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly.

Aragorn yearned to ask further about the door, but he was afraid that the old man would be tiring again, and there was still much to enquire. He settled on a more urgent question: “What do I do? Do I break this door?”

The old man shook his head and his expression turned to one of annoyance. “Lay down sword, bow, helm…”

Aragorn raised his palms in confusion. “Sword, bow, and helm?”

“…before the Holding Gate…”

A note of frustration entered Aragorn’s voice. “Do I need them – these weapons?”

“Lay them down!” The old man said insistently.

“I believe he is saying that weapons will be of no avail, Elessar,” Celeborn suggested, looking at Aragorn. “Whatever the door or gate is – it cannot be unlocked by might.”

Aragorn drew a deep breath and exhaled, calmed by Legolas’ steadying hand on his shoulder. “What do I do then?”

“Summon… summon them as you once did,” Mathuil replied, beginning to wheeze.  “Let them fulfill the oath… to be free… as before… take them to the Black Stone…”

“Will they hear my call?” Aragorn asked.

“Yesss! They have waited, they need you… yes… yes!” the old man replied urgently.

“But why did they not hear the first time? Why did they not answer the summons then?”

“The King’s curse!” The reply was a lament laced with disgust. “No release till he had departed… no release, heartless, merciless!... but he is now no more, and they await you.”

“They?” Aragorn asked. “What about you? Are you not with them?”

“Yes… and no! I have spoken of this, I tried to free them!” The old man strained his voice even more, and his eyes widened in desperation. “Did you not hear?”

“But what of your fate?” Aragorn pressed, still puzzled.

“The same curse! I seek release. Free them… and free me.”  

“Your meaning still escapes me,” Aragorn said, shaking his head. “If there are indeed souls in torment awaiting release, I wish nothing more than to grant it to them, but… I once entered the accursed Paths blindly, and now you ask me to walk them again with little understanding to light my way – ”

“You still doubt my words?” the old man challenged with wide eyes.

“I know not who you are, for you have spoken in riddles thus far. Will you not shed a little more light? Tell me who you are.”

A moan of resignation preceded the old man’s next words. “I am… I am… he is… of me…”

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed. “Who is of you?”

“I am he from whose loins he has sprung,” the old man said slowly. “He is the son of my son’s sons, and my blood flows in him.”

Aragorn struggled to comprehend. “This body in which you reside? Mathuil?”

“Of me… from me…my blood…” 

Of his blood. So Mathuil was descended from the one who was in him, Aragorn concluded. Perhaps the bond made the possession easier.

“But if you are not one of the Forgotten, why were you on the Paths?” Aragorn asked.

There was no response from Mathuil.

“Why?” Aragorn persisted.

Instead of an answer, a moan left the old man’s lips. His strength seemed to be fading again, and Aragorn’s tone grew more urgent.

“If you will not tell me, will you at least release him?” he urged. “This body in which you have lodged for too long – I ask you to free him.”

The old man’s rocking motion grew feebler, and his eyelids drooped as the movement stopped altogether. Finally, the frail figure loosened his hold on Aragorn’s arm, and he slumped against the back of the chair.   

A little cry came from Sarawyn where she had stood wringing her hands, and Mathgor rushed to his father. But Aragorn was already placing his ear against the old man’s chest, listening for his breathing and heartbeat, and Celeborn hurried to lay a hand on his brow.

After a few moments of tense anticipation, Aragorn raised his head and looked at Mathgor. “Fear not. He merely sleeps,” he said. Taking one of the old man’s hands, and looking upon the wrinkled face, he added: “See? He already stirs.”

With the hand of the Lord of the Golden Wood still resting on his brow, Mathuil did indeed stir, and although his eyes remained shut, he breathed a little more easily. Loud sighs of relief were heard around the room, and Celeborn moved aside to let the old man’s family approach him and make him comfortable.

Aragorn leant back in his chair, sweeping a hand through his hair. He felt tired and a little shaken by the exchange with the old man as well, and was comforted by the light touch of Legolas’ hand on his arm.

“My lord, it is said that you have the hands of a healer,” Fierthwain spoke suddenly from where he stood beside his aunt. His face, turned towards Aragorn, reflected both anger and desperation. “Can you not help him? Free him from this evil that has a hold of him?”

“That is what I was to trying to do, and I will make another attempt,” Aragorn answered tiredly. “But if I do not first find out where this door is that your uncle kept referring to, if I should fail to find the Forgotten – the Twice Forgotten – they may not leave him alone; they may continue to haunt this valley – and perhaps others.” He studied the drawn faces of Mathgor and his mother, pleading for understanding. “We have to find out more – ”

“No!” Fierthwain protested firmly, clenching his fists. “It tires him out! He almost died! What kind of healer are you?” 

“Why, the impertinence!” Aragorn heard Gimli growl, and even without turning around, the man knew Legolas’ eyes were smoldering.

But remembering Mathgor’s explanation for the man’s hostile tendencies, the King forced himself to speak evenly. “I do not intend to question him further.”

Fierthwain was taken aback and confused by this unexpected answer. “Then… then how – ?”

“Lord Celeborn,” Aragorn said easily. “He will help read thoughts where I cannot.”

“He will not lay a hand again on my uncle!” Fierthwain hissed, stepping between the elf lord and the chair where the old man was seated.

Celeborn’s blue eyes blazed, though his expression remained impassive. “We are here to help, young one,” he said. “Do not encumber us.”

Fierthwain took a step towards the elf lord, but stopped short as the strong elven hand, moving faster than sight, came to rest firmly against his chest, checking his approach with a subtle strength that surprised the man.

“This hand has played the strings of many wondrous harps and crafted things of fine splendor; it is no stranger to gentle ministration and deep healing,” Celeborn stated in a quietly dangerous tone that halted all immediate thought of challenge. “But it has also drawn many bows to take down foes beyond count, and is quite capable of striking you down where you stand.” The elf lord looked deep into the livid but wondering eyes of the man, and finished: “I choose to do the former for your uncle – and the latter to anyone who hinders it.”

When the silver-haired elf lord had finished, the Firstborn looked proudly upon him, and Gimli smirked as he hooked his thumbs on his belt and patted the generous midriff beneath.

“Fierthwain, leave them be,” Mathgor’s mother said, wrapping a hand around her nephew’s arm. “They mean no harm.” She gave him a nod of reassurance as he turned to her. The man gave Celeborn another defiant look, then stepped aside in an unwilling silence.

A little while later, it was the Lord of the Golden Wood who sat before Mathuil, with one hand upon his brow and the other on a thin, cold hand. Everyone stayed as still as mice in the solemn room, watching as the elf lord bowed his head and spoke softly, so softly that only Aragorn, who sat on the other side of the old man, and the elves with their keen hearing, could discern the words.

“Departed soul, make yourself known to me,” the elf lord murmured, his eyes closed as in deep contemplation.

The old man did not wake, but his brows knitted and his face showed signs of faint distress as his breathing quickened a little. 

“If you do not speak with his lips, then speak in his mind,” Celeborn urged.

Mathguil moved a little more restlessly.

“Do not refuse me!” Celeborn commanded. “Greatly do my years outnumber yours, and mine is life that denies death. I bid you speak!”

The old man’s eyes never opened, but his breathing grew rapid, and his face contorted a little as his lips moved indistinctly, and the fair face of Celeborn became a grim mask of concentration.

For many minutes afterward, it seemed that the elf lord and the possessed man were engaged in an exchange of incoherent murmurs, a struggle in which some dark power alternated between revealing itself and drawing back. Resistance was met with insistence, and nod with nod, and sometimes it seemed that a low drone emitted from the throat of the old man. And still the elf lord would not release his hold on the cold brow and hand. The erratic flit of shadows on the walls provided the only other movement in the room, as everyone else watched transfixed in a mute, edgy fascination. Nervous heartbeats marked time, till it seemed that even the very air in the room grew heavy, threatening to cease giving the flickering flames reason to perform their jerky dance.

Then a light rain began to fall, softly washing the walls of the cottage and striking a gentle rhythm on the hard stony ground. But nothing distracted the elf lord and the subject of his thoughts.

The murmurs continued for what seemed an interminable length of time, till finally, the face of Mathguil softened in rest, and he lay back. The elf lord straightened himself, breathed deeply, and removed his hands from where they had lain without relinquishing contact with the possessed body. Celeborn took a few moments to draw a few more breaths with his eyes closed, till his own countenance returned to its state of grave composure. Then he opened his eyes tiredly and looked straight at Aragorn.

“Elessar,” the elf lord said. “Was there not some door, some sign of an opening, that you encountered on the Paths?”

Aragorn knitted his brows and looked at the other three companions who had walked the Paths with him. “My mind was bent on gathering the Dead – ”

“In the heart of the Mountain,” the elf lord prompted. “Some wide space – ”

“Aye, there was a door,” Legolas intercepted, speaking for the first time that evening. The others looked at his bright eyes and reflective expression, wondering. “Aye, it was there in the large cavern – a door of stone – but it was closed fast.”

Elladan nodded, suddenly remembering as well. “Aye, and there was a dead man – what was left of him – in front of it,” the elf recalled.

Recollection now glimmered in the eyes of the King and dwarf.

“Yes, yes, I remember!” Gimli declared.  “I remember his hauberk: it was gilded, and his belt and helm were grand: they held gold and stones.” Legolas could not help a smile; yes, a dwarf would indeed have noticed them.

“He might have been a mighty man once, for his frame was broad,” the elf prince guessed. “And mighty was his sword, yet it lay broken and useless beside him. He must have hewn at the door till the last, apparently to no avail, for so fine were the cracks between it and the walls that it seemed part of the rock.”

“Yes, the bones of his fingers were still clawing at the cracks,” Aragorn added as he too recalled what they had encountered. His thoughts swung to what Mathuil – or the One in him – had told him. “Trying to free them… he was trying to free them.”

Celeborn nodded his head at the old man. “This is he,” he said simply.

A sudden clap of thunder punctuated the elf lord’s terse declaration, signaling the release of a heavier downpour.

The elf lord stood and walked a little distance away before he turned back to look at the bowed head of the sleeping man, upon which all the other eyes were also fixed. “He – the one within – was indeed one of your forefathers, Mathgor.”

Little murmurs of surprise ran around the room at this news, but all hushed when the elf lord spoke again in a rich voice that overcame the harshness of the rain outside.

“Many years after Häthel the Stone-hearted had created his prison of stone, and he and all his folk had passed the span of their natural lives and turned into the Shadow Host we know of, this man – this forefather of yours – learned of the curse, much as you did in this Age: through tales passed from father to son,” Celeborn said to Mathgor. “He also learned that among those held behind the Door, were those from whom he was descended: your kin, Mathgor, and yours, Fierthwain.”

Mathgor and Fierthwain looked at each other, hardly able to believe what they were hearing.

“My forebears?” Mathgor asked. “They were among those imprisoned?”

Celeborn nodded. “And he,” the elf lord said, inclining his head towards Mathuil, “tried – in valor and foolishness – to save them.” Celeborn paused, as if hesitant to reveal what he was going to say next. “Greed, too, called to him, he confessed, for he had heard that great stores of precious stones were hidden behind the Door. The tales had perhaps been… embellished.”

Mathgor looked a little embarrassed, though Fierthwain did not flinch.

“But the tales of the Living Dead and the Holding Gate – the door in stone – were no empty rumors, and he learned that the hard way,” the elf lord went on. “As he was trying to open it by force, he was, to put it plainly, terrified to death by the King of the Dead and those who were not imprisoned.” Celeborn looked at Aragorn and Legolas. “His bones now lie where he died – even as you saw him. And though he perished not behind the Door like the others did, Häthel placed the same curse upon him that he did the others, so that his spirit would find no rest till redemption and forgiveness came from the heir of Isildur.”

“So that was what he meant,” Aragorn said quietly. “He is not one of them, but he’s with them.” He paused, and with the steady pounding of the rain in his ears, he recollected what he had said before the bones at the door:

“Nine mounds and seven there are now green with grass, and through all the long years he has lain at the door he could not unlock,” Aragorn murmured. “Whither does it lead? Why would he pass? None shall ever know! For that is not my errand!”

He turned back to the whispering darkness behind: “Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask! Let us pass, and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!”

Aragorn sighed. “The Twice Forgotten, the cursed ones, were behind the door all the while, held fast by the curse of their king, and I had no knowledge,” he said in such a pensive tone that the men had to strain to hear him above the noise of the rain. “I summoned, but they could not come, and I did not know. I declared them not part of my errand, and though it was in unwitting error, that is what they heard, and it lessens not their torment.” 

“But why is he still here?” Elladan asked his grandsire. “Why did he not leave with the others then, when Estel first summoned them to fulfill their oath?”

The elf lord shook his head slowly, and his expression softened without losing its gravity. “Who knows by what strange force hearts and souls are moved?” he said cryptically. “But if he is to be believed, then we have to accept that he – and those by whom Elessar and Gimli were visited – chose not to leave, for the sake of those held by the Door, for how else would their fate be heard?”

For a few moments, no one spoke, so strangely tragic did this situation seem, and all they could hear was the insistent beating of the rain upon the hard ground outside.

“They chose not to leave,” Gimli echoed the elf lord eventually. He stroked his beard as he pondered that thought. “Well, well, who would have thought that there could be honor among those who do not honor, and loyalty amidst betrayers? Hmphh… still, I would like to tell them that they could have picked someone else to speak for them, instead of defiling a dwarf!”

“How many are there?” one of the Elders asked from where they had been listening quietly. “The ones who stayed?”

“Only a small host, yet they were obviously enough to make themselves heard,” Celeborn replied.

“But it took this many years,” Mathgor observed, still stunned by all he had learned.

“Yes, it did,” the elf lord agreed. “We must remember, however, that they exist in a different realm, Mathgor, one we have little knowledge or understanding of, and discourse with the Living is not as easily achieved as we would expect.”

Fierthwain emitted a small groan of impatience. “Whatever happened before, what’s important now is how to get them – and my uncle – released, and how to put a stop to this haunting of our village!”

As much as the man grated on their nerves, none of Aragorn’s company argued with him, for there was some truth in what he had said.

“He tells you now to lay down arms before the door – force would be of no use against it,” Celeborn reiterated, casting Aragorn a sympathetic look. “Only the heir of Isildur can redeem them. You need to stand before the Door and summon them as you once did the others.”

Gimli snorted. “These were once traitors, Aragorn, and no matter how honorable they try to be, they did betray Isildur! Can you trust their word now? Should you return to the Paths as they wish?”

Gimli’s warning, and his own reluctance to revisit the Paths, threw Aragorn into a thoughtful silence, tempting him to resist the call from the Dead.

“I mean, if all they need is your pardon,” the dwarf continued before Aragorn could say anything in response, “couldn’t he go back to the Paths by himself and tell the others they have it? Do you really need to return? Could it be some sort of ruse?”

Aragorn hesitated only a moment longer. Whether it will be wisdom or folly to answer the call of a host of spirits remains to be seen, but I cannot risk not doing it, he thought. With a heavy heart, he began to voice his decision, but was halted by a mighty crash of thunder – and an interjecting voice that rivaled its volume.

“Return!”

The loud command startled everyone, who turned to see that it had been issued by Mathuil. He had come awake and was staring straight at Aragorn with anger in his yellowed eyes. The black orbs within hardened and the old man sat up, speaking with fresh vigor. “The curse will only be removed if you come and lead us to the Black Stone! You know the oath; you must walk the paths as you once did. Summon them, release us all from the curse!”

Before Aragorn could utter a word of response, Mathuil continued to speak agitatedly despite his wife’s attempts to calm him. “Set us free – or we will fill your villagers with terror! We will render this land inhospitable!” Heavy breaths punctuated the wrath in his words. “We – have – taken – one, we – can – take – more!”

Aragorn was suddenly afraid for the frail old man. “Leave this man!” Aragorn demanded of the one holding him. “I will go to the others as you wish, but release him from this bondage!”

“Nooooo! Noooooo!” A shrill shriek erupted from the throat of Mathuil, for which even the rain outside – now escalated to a howling storm – was no match, and both Aragorn and Celeborn were at his side in two strides. Legolas and Elladan pulled aside the old man’s family as firmly as they could without hurting them, while the elf lord grasped the wrinkled hands and the King placed his hand upon the aged brow.

“Release this body!” Aragorn commanded fiercely against the thunderous downpour outside. “Leave him and I will grant you peace!”

The old man writhed again. “Nooooo! Aaaaa nooo! Do not try to cast me out – we will need to speak to you!” he screamed. “I – must – hold – him!”

“Do you not wish to depart in peace? I am the heir of Isildur and you have my pardon! Release him!” Aragorn persisted as sweat began to break upon his forehead.

“Noooo, not now, not yet!” The protest reverberated with desperation heard even above the rain. “You cannot!”

“I can, and I release your spirit – I command you to leave!” Aragorn declared between clenched teeth. The tension in the room grew as thick as fog that not even the torrents of rain could dissipate, and every mouth went dry with fear.

“You know not what you do!” the voice shrieked. “Noooot yeeeet!” The yellowed eyes were almost bulging out of their sockets as they stared at Aragorn in a fierce challenge.  “Cease this, or I will kill him!”

“Depart!” Aragorn insisted, his clammy hands not relinquishing their hold. “I command you to leave this world!”

Against the ear-splitting crashes of thunder, the frightened, tearful screams of Sarawyn and the angry shouts of Fierthwain, who was being firmly restrained by Elladan, now joined the shrieks of the old man as the yellowed eyes rolled back in the gaunt, wizened face and the thin body thrashed, attempting to escape the strong hold of Lord Celeborn. Sweat streamed down the King’s face like the rivers of rain tracing paths down the cottage walls, and the veins stood out at his temples and from the back of his unrelenting hand as he tried unremittingly to drive away the Dead.

Without warning, the old man fell silent, and for a few moments during which time seemed to stand still and only the storm kept up its fierce, vociferous tempo, Mathuil’s upper body arched upwards stiffly, taut as a bent bow. Aragorn stood his ground, repeating his command for the spirit to depart. When the thin form began to lose its stiffness and grow slack, the villagers, elves and dwarf held their breath, anticipating the release of Mathguil.

But then, as suddenly as the old man had first ceased to move or speak, Aragorn’s own voice grew weak, and his hand on the wrinkled brow slackened and slid off to fall limply to his side. Before the astonished men, elves and dwarf could react, the blood drained quickly from the face of the King, his eyes closed, and his legs began to sag.

A howl of wind and water and a horrified “Aragorn!” uttered by Legolas were the last things the King heard faintly, before he sank into the arms of his friend and a strange, cold darkness.

Note:  Aragorn’s recollection in italics was excerpted from The Return of the King, with a little adaptation.

I have to take a short hiatus to write the subsequent chapters of this story while juggling it with my ‘other’ life. I will return (like Aragorn to the Paths) as soon as I can.

Hugs to the readers who keep reviewing and do not give up on me; you keep me going. To those whom I’ve missed for a while: hope you’re well.

See you on the Paths next chapter!

CHAPTER 13:  PATHS OF FEAR

“Aragorn.”

“Aragorn, can you hear us?”

Mmmpph…?d

“Estel.”

Mmmmph… so dark. Where am I?

“Aragorn!”

Aragorn, that is who I am. I’m here. Uhhh…but it is so dark… Where was I before? Where am I now?

“Estel… can you hear us?”

Heavy dark, so heavy. I’m leaving, leaving now, uuuhhh… spinning… everything is spinning…

Aaaa… what is that roar? Faint, but getting louder. And someone is calling to me – or is that the roar? The steady pounding… pounding…

“Estel?”  

“He’s so pale…”

“Come, Elessar, awake.”

I hear you, I hear you.

Aaah… spinning… I’m leaving…aaaa… the darkness lightens, the weight lightens. And I hear you. I feel you. I feel it… what is in my hands…?

“Keep the Phial close to him, keep his hands around it.”

“Look – he stirs!”

A touch leaves my brow, but not my hands, not my back.

“Estel, awake, my friend.”

I hear you. I hear rain, heavy rain. Aaaa… a little light. Mmmpph… there you are, there you are.

I am coming.

Aragorn’s eyelids fluttered slowly open and he blinked. They closed again quickly, and moments passed while he stayed still – waiting for the spinning to stop, doing nothing more than wait and wonder. He felt himself struggling to rise to the surface from some unknown depth, and when he finally opened his eyes again, the things that filled his vision now remained in one place, but he continued to look around in a daze.

It took some time before he could gradually discern some very anxious faces above him, watching him intently. There was… Lord Celeborn, looking grave; Gimli and Elladan and Hamille, all with wide eyes; Mathgor and the village elders a little beyond them – peering worriedly at him, then turning to speak in another direction. To whom were they speaking…?

He looked away from them and turned to the right. And there was Legolas. The dazed man slowly realized that he was seated on the floor, propped against the elf prince, whose blue eyes looked searchingly at his face and locked with his own grey ones.

“Estel?” Legolas called softly. Aragorn could tell the elf was holding his breath, awaiting a response which did not emerge from his strangely reluctant throat.

“Is he… is he… himself?”  This was Gimli, posing the question in a worried tone.

“Estel?” Elladan called brokenly, his face blanching. At his side, Lord Celeborn and Hamille studied the King with unwavering eyes.

“Estel, saes – say something,” Legolas urged breathlessly, and Aragorn could feel a slender elven arm tightening its hold around him.

The man blinked and swallowed. “Legolas – what happened?” he finally croaked.

A wave of deep relief that had been waiting to break washed over the little group, riding in on sighs heard clearly above the steady beat of the rain.

The elf prince closed agonized blue eyes. “Thank the Valar,” he breathed before his forehead fell slowly against the dark hair of the bewildered King.

  --------------------------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------------------------

“We feared we had lost you to that… that which has hold of Mathuil,” Elladan confessed to Aragorn as their little company sat around a fire crackling in the hearth of the small but clean cottage that had been prepared for the King’s company.

As soon as the rain had begun to lighten, and Aragorn had felt up to walking, they had left the home of Mathgor’s parents and rushed through the wet night to their accommodation for the night.

“Aye, you gave us quite a scare, man!” Gimli declared from where he sat sharing the warmth of the fire with the wet clothes hanging in front of it. “We thought you’d freed the old man, but you passed out so suddenly! What happened?”

Sitting in an armchair, with his fingers closed around a cup of hot tea, Aragorn stared into the flames as he recalled his experience. He shook his head slowly, still feeling a little weak.

“Nothing is really clear to me,” the man explained. “I felt I was sinking into some cold, unpleasant darkness. I seemed to be heading somewhere… yet I was… lost.”

“Did you feel him – it – trying to take you?” Elladan asked.

Aragorn reflected for a moment. “I cannot say for certain,” he admitted with a sigh. “I had the odd feeling of… of going outside myself, and I did not know where I was, but all was dark. Then I heard you call me… and it grew lighter… and I awoke to see all of you.”

Lord Celeborn leaned back in his chair. “Whatever it was that befell you, Elessar, it is fortunate that it was only for a brief time,” he said.

“Perhaps it was the Light of the Phial that brought you back,” Legolas surmised. “Perhaps that is why the Lady sent it: to keep you from being taken, like Mathuil.”  

“Can’t say the same for that poor old fellow,” Gimli said. “Still living with that evil inside him. I thought you’d wrenched that thing out for sure, but it’s like it’s got claws of steel sunk into Mathuil’s soul! I can still hear the shrieks ripping out his throat when we brought the Lady’s Glass near – ”

“Aye, grievous it was to hear,” Elladan recalled. “He – or it – must have feared the Light greatly.”

Lord Celeborn drew a deep breath at his grandson’s words, and a look of doubt crossed his fair face. “Indeed, I perceived his fear,” he said. “Yet – strange though this sounds – it did not seem that he feared the Light itself; his fear was not one of pain. Rather… I thought that he feared being driven out against his will.”

Aragorn tapped his fingers on the mug. “I confess I have been puzzled by the same question – why he fought so hard against being cast out,” he said. “I did not expect him to hold on so tenaciously. I would have thought that he would relinquish the old man quickly if it meant release for his soul, for that is what I offered him. Isn’t that what they desire?”

“They most undoubtedly do, Estel,” Legolas said. “But he kept saying it was not yet time.”

Celeborn looked thoughtful. "One other thing," he said. "When he was saying that Häthel placed on him the same curse as those behind the Gate, I sensed that he was holding back some other truth. But though I pressed him to reveal more, he merely repeated the need to fulfill the oath. I could get nothing further out of him. I wonder if it had something to do with why it was not yet time." 

"It is most puzzling," Hamille observed, "Perhaps that is the reason he said he still needed to speak with you, my lord."

Aragorn nodded. "Possibly," he agreed. "Yet I cannot imagine what else he needs to say. He has made it quite clear – to me and to you, Lord Celeborn – what it is I need to do: summon the others and lead them to the Stone. He could have released the old man by now.”

“Perhaps he is holding Mathuil as surety, to ensure you do return to the Paths and summon the others, before he releases him,” Gimli suggested. “He was ready to take the poor fellow’s life because you would not heed his wish for you to leave him in possession of it.”

“Would he would truly have done it: taken the life of one of his own bloodline?” Hamille wondered.

“Perhaps not, perhaps it was merely a threat, for did he not first go on the Paths in a well-meant, though foolish and impetuous, attempt to free his kin?” Elladan said.

“That is so," his grandsire responded. "Still, they have been walking the Paths without knowing the peace of redemption and pardon for so long that all sense of concern for anyone other than themselves may have fled, and Mathuil – though he be a descendant – may be seen merely as a means of freeing many others cruelly imprisoned in stone for far too long. Desperation of need drives one to acts of folly or careless hurt that bring regret only upon reflection. But for the Forgotten Ones, what time or need is there for remorse? They are certainly desperate enough. It is a wonder that the One in Mathuil has stayed true to the task he appointed for himself.”

Aragorn sighed and took a sip of hot tea before he voiced his concern. “For whatever reason he has chosen to possess Mathuil still, I pray the old man survives this ordeal. I fear that even if the Dead do not claim his life, the exhaustion will drain him of it. Bitterly shall I rue it if he should succumb to this torment, and I am powerless to stop it, and who then shall mend the broken hearts of his wife and son?”

“Let us hope that will not come to pass,” Legolas said. “And be thankful that he allowed Mathuil to await you and the rest of the Forgotten Ones at Erech, instead of insisting that he be dragged back to the Paths first. No carriage could ascend that steep, narrow way, and we can only ride on part of that road, after which – if you recall – we must dismount and walk. I cannot imagine that Mathuil, in his present condition, could survive such a journey.”

“No, he could not,” Gimli agreed. “But horse or no horse, no one could withstand the despair in that accursed, ghost-infested place for any length of time, let alone someone whose sanity and strength already hang by a thread!” The dwarf shuddered as he remembered his experience, and added almost under his breath: “I know I couldn’t again.”

So low had been the whispered lament that ordinary men would have missed it. The roomful of elves and the keen-eared King did not, but they tactfully refrained from showing any knowledge of what they had heard. Legolas, who had been closest to Gimli throughout the dreadful journey on the Paths elven years ago and had witnessed his utter terror, understood his trepidation, and formed a little plan in his mind. He sent Aragorn a silent signal with his eyes, which the King caught easily.

“Mathuil is not the only one we should be concerned about, for your guards will also be unused to the presence of the Dead, Estel,” the elf prince said aloud. “Perhaps your men need not enter the Paths themselves. Some could go ahead with Mathgor, and the others could wait for our return at the start of the uplands.”  

Legolas hoped this observation would offer Gimli the option of joining either group of men, but the elf was in fact making the suggestion for Aragorn’s sake as much as Gimli’s, for he noted the pallor of the King’s face. The elf recalled how grievous the fear of Men and horses had been before the entrance into the dreaded Mountain during the Quest, and how they finally went in only because Aragorn’s will was strong enough to hold them together. They would be using a different entrance tomorrow, but from whichever end they entered, the elf thought, the terror might be the same, as long as it was still the tomb and dwelling of some of the Living Dead. Aragorn – still a little shaken from whatever had assailed him – had no need of yet another petrified group of men to will forward. The elf waited for the King’s answer, and was relieved to see a nod.

“That had occurred to me: indeed, not all of us need to tread the Paths,” Aragorn agreed in a nonchalant tone. “We are not at battle, and even if we were, one or many should make little difference against the kind of host I will encounter. Some of my men will ride ahead with Mathgor, and the others will wait at the start of the ravine, as you propose. Whoever chooses to join them may do so, with no foreseeable consequence to my task; after all, the smaller number would make the completion of it swifter.”

In their wisdom, the elves merely nodded and appeared to reflect on Legolas and Aragorn’s suggestion, giving Gimli a chance to elect to wait with the men. But he merely cleared his throat and scratched his nose, and whatever he was thinking remained unvoiced, so the others left the matter alone.

Lord Celeborn spoke then. “Elessar, I do not yet see the manner in which I am to aid you – unless it was with reading the mind of Mathuil – for it already seems clear that what is to be accomplished on the Paths can only be executed by you, no one else.” He paused to study Aragorn’s face. “But the Lady would not have spoken lightly. Let us see what the Paths have to reveal.”

Aragorn nodded somberly and closed his eyes, feeling weary from the thought that he had hardly emerged from one strange darkness before he had to enter another. “It will be a long, long day,” he sighed.

“One step at a time,” Celeborn said sagely. “And the first steps should take us back to the Mountain.”

Aragorn opened his eyes and stared into the fire. “A step that brings me no joy, but I can wait no longer,” he said quietly. “Once again, my path is laid before me.”

“A path you do not tread alone, Estel,” came the firm and reassuring reminder from Legolas.  “We go with you – to whatever end.”

  -----------------------------------------------<<>>-----------------------------------------------

The next morning displayed a village washed clean by the storm of the previous night. Rain fell no longer, but the sky was grey and overcast, doing little to lift the gloom felt by the King’s company and the villagers.

A quick meeting with Mathgor and the village Elders had imparted the decision made by Aragorn and his friends the night before: Mathgor would ride to the Stone with his father, and they would be accompanied by Fierthwain, who refused to stay behind, and by some of Aragorn’s guards. Everyone else would ride to the Paths – or to the start of the ravine approaching them – with the King.

Hëmuth and Dèormal, along with nineteen or twenty other villagers, accompanied the whole group as they walked to the edge of the village where the horses were waiting. Only the old man – too feeble to walk or ride – would ride in a cart. He had spent a quiet night after Aragorn and Lord Celeborn had ceased all efforts at driving out the spirit that held him and left the cottage. He was reclined now against Fierthwain in the back of the cart, already awaiting the rest of the company on foot. Their ride would be slow and leisurely. It would be day’s end at the earliest before Aragorn could summon the Forgotten and lead them there, and the cart in which Mathuil lay could go no faster in any case.

Walking towards the meeting point, Aragorn noticed other men and women in their yards or kitchens, watching them from a distance. He noted, too, the suspicious looks some of them still cast the elves despite the declaration he had made about their innocence the day before, and the calm manner in which the Firstborn received the looks.

The group had almost reached their destination when a little girl emerged from nowhere and ran up to Legolas, boldly patting his thigh before anyone could stop her. Surprised, the elf prince halted his steps, as did the rest of the company, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Perienna!” Dèormal called to the child and reached to pull her away, but Legolas held up his hand to check him. The elf prince went down on one knee in front of the child, an amused smile gracing his fair face.

“Are you a real prince?” the childish voice asked without ceremony. “Mama says you are.”

Legolas exchanged a quick glance with Hamille before he responded with a twinkle in his eye. “And what if I am, little lady?” he asked.   

“You must live in a palace, like in the stories,” she replied without hesitation. “Can I come see it?” Her spontaneous question drew broad smiles and chuckles from the company, although the Elders could only bring themselves to laugh nervously.

“What do you think a palace looks like?” Legolas asked, indulging the child in her fantasies.

The eyes grew bright. “Sometimes, when the moon is bright, I look out my bedroom window and see it!” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s shining – like your hair.” She reached out a hand to gingerly touch the golden silk flowing from the prince’s head.

“Well, young lady,” Legolas said, looking at her with smiling eyes. “My father’s palace is quite different from what you might imagine, but if you are ever in the Greenwood – ”

“Perienna! Come back here, child! Get away from there!” The shrill voice of the girl’s mother pierced the air as she ran up the path, frantic at the sight of her child in close proximity with one of the strange elven visitors.

“I was just talking, mama!” the child protested as her mother drew even with her and jerked her away from Legolas. Maintaining his composure, the elf rose gracefully and nodded courteously to the clearly horrified woman.

“Please, sir, my child t-tends to shoot her m-mouth off where it - it’s not wanted. Don’t think poorly of her, I beg you!” she stammered, her own eyes wide with fear, as if she expected firebolts to shoot from Legolas’. “You be powerful, I’m sure, but we – we be just plain folk – ”

“And what do you expect to happen, madam?” Aragorn asked quietly, stepping up to stand beside his friend before Mathgor or the Elders could intervene.

The woman quivered and hid her daughter behind her ample body. “B-b-begging your pardon, my lord, sire,” she said nervously at the sight of the King, attempting an awkward curtsey. “I don’t mean offense, sire – just being cautious. My Perienna is but a child, and I have to watch out for her.”

Watch out for what? was the challenge on the tip of the King’s tongue, but Gimli preempted it with an indignant remark of his own. “Do you have scrambled eggs for brains, lady?” he sputtered, making no effort at hiding his bristling anger.

Legolas restrained his friends with a tactful touch on each shoulder. “Have no fear, madam,” he said with a poised smile. “Your daughter is an engaging child, and she was merely asking me a question out of curiosity, to which I gave a short reply. Nothing else happened, and nothing else will, I assure you.”

The woman went red in the face, at a loss to how next to proceed, when Legolas spared her from further embarrassment by nodding and saying: “Excuse us, we must be on our way.”

As the little girl peeked out with an inquisitive smile from behind her mother’s skirt, the elf gave her a little nod and smile, and with a gentle nudge, urged Aragorn and Gimli to turn and resume their walk to the horses.

Farewells and thanks were exchanged, for Aragorn did not expect to return to the village once the Dead had been summoned. He would lead them straight to the Stone to release their souls, and from there, he and his friends would ride home to the White City.

“Till we meet again at Erech,” Aragorn said to Mathgor and the men accompanying him as they turned their horses towards the south.

When the group bound for Erech had set off, Aragorn and his company turned their own steeds reluctantly in the direction of the Haunted Mountain. There it stood, looming grey-brown and dreary in the distance, beckoning them. Aragorn patted the horse he was mounted on and clicked his tongue, signaling the start of their journey. Taking the first few steps, he cast a backward look at the village and the people who were still watching them. Among them was the mother of the little girl who had spoken so ignorantly to Legolas, and the sight of her still peeved the King. He turned to the elf riding beside him.

“You could have said something to put her in her place, Legolas; why did you not?” he asked suddenly, catching the elf unawares. “Why do you tolerate it?”

Legolas looked questioningly at Aragorn for a moment before he understood what his friend meant, and grinned. “Surely you know why, my friend: it is for the same reason you bore the suspicious remarks cast your way when you first encountered Adar’s guards in Mirkwood,” he replied easily. “They expected you to be uncouth and feared you would be treacherous, and you did not want to prove them right.” A glint came into his blue eyes as he added: “Of course, your dour Ranger look did not alleviate their concerns.” Seeing the wry expression that appeared on the face of the man and the tactfully hidden smile on Hamille’s, the elf prince laughed lightly and clapped his friend on the back before he continued on a more sober note.

“You have made it clear to the villagers, Estel, that despite their misgivings, you choose to remain friends with me, and that is ever in their minds,” he said. “What is ever in mine is that the choices of their king must be seen to be good ones. How would it look if the king’s friend acted in rage against some simple folk who merely suffer from a lack of acquaintance with my kind?” The elf tilted his head and smiled at his friend. “Do you not know, Estel? I – as the others do – exercise patience not for their sakes, but for yours.”

Aragorn turned to glance briefly at the calm faces of Lord Celeborn and Hamille riding behind them, then knitted his brows and cast another look at the diminished figures of the villagers behind them, chastising them for their narrow-mindedness, yet feeling sorry for their never having the privilege of truly knowing the beauty and wonder of the Firstborn. He returned Legolas’ smile with a regretful one of his own, and nodded in silent gratitude of the elf’s unwavering loyalty.

Offering thanks in his heart for the company of these elven friends on this day of all days, he turned his face resolutely towards the wretched sight of the high cliff walls – a brackish green-brown in the light of day – marking the southern entrance to the Paths and the site of the unpleasant task that lay beyond.

Cursed still is your fate, ye mountain, Aragorn found himself saying silently, for long should you have been free of the Dead that haunt you, and purged of the darkness that dwells in you, and eyes should be falling upon you now in delight and joy over a high place of majesty. Yet, clouded and shrouded still in their Shadow are you, and thus do your face and air remain foul. Let us hope you will remain blackened no longer, when once my task is completed.

Talk was scarce along the miles as the group plodded steadily across the expanse of the great Vale, and the dismal mood was further dampened by the blanket of clouds overhead. Soon, they were approaching the uprising of the chilly Morthond river and the stream that fed into it, named Blackroot in the tongues of Men, and with good reason, for its water, even if clear as a mountain spring was wont to be, seemed black against the dark bed of the stream. This stream flowed out of some recess in the Haunted Mountain beyond the ravine and fell over many falls, but its strong gurgle, though it would have seemed pleasant in another time and place, sounded strangled, as if protesting the passage it had to take through hidden places in the accursed mountain that no Man’s eyes had yet seen.

The whole depressing atmosphere was starting to weigh heavily on Gimli. Hardly had they left the sad voice of the Blackroot than they arrived at the mouth of the ravine, a great chasm with its looming cliffs, knife-edged against the sky. Between them lay the rocky path going steeply upwards to the Paths. Pausing only slightly, Aragorn set his jaw and led the company into it, riding slowly, two abreast, and soon they were hemmed in on both sides by walls so high that all seemed grey within as the onset of dusk, though it was full day outside. The horses began to grow a little skittish, snorting nervously as they sensed the impending presence of something not quite of this earth. Fighting their own edginess, their riders murmured soothingly to the beasts, calming them and holding them true to their course. The slow, solid clatter of metal-shod hooves against the broken stones and rocks echoed in the dim confines as the horses labored to bear themselves and their riders in a reluctant ascent.

At the head of the company again went the heir of Isildur, grim-faced and determined. A cold wind blew against his tense face, shreds of mist that he imagined must come from the Paths, and whether it was real or by some trick of his mind, it whispered hauntingly to him the call of the Dead:

  Return, return, O King of Men, where the dead do not die.

Beside him rode Lord Celeborn, whose countenance bespoke no emotion, save a hint of wariness. Behind them came Legolas on his white steed whom he had named Amel, for he was indeed a Strong Gift presented by his friend Aragorn; and by his side was Gimli on the small mare of Rohan that Èomer had given him, their two horses being the only ones besides Aragorn’s that had followed the riders on the ship. Elladan and Hamille came next, their fair faces calm, with only the slightest hint of guardedness. 

Behind them all rode Aragorn’s escort, and one look at their ashen faces showed that the horses were not the only ones of the Company that were spooked, for the men were unnaturally quiet.  They had been understandably nervous even before they came, ever since they had learned of their King’s purpose, but duty bound them and they would not willingly abandon their King. And so they had armed themselves with forced courage and placed their trust in the fortitude of Isildur’s heir.

Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Elladan were little less uneasy. Retracing the ghostly footsteps of a journey past, the four friends were haunted by memories, but none more so than Gimli. The dwarf shuddered as he remembered – against his will – the dreadful hours he spent on the Paths. He recalled, with no small amount of self-deprecation, how the presence of the unseen Dead had sent even one as strong and stoic as he to his knees:

Unseen, the murmur of the Shadows grew and grew, pressing upon him, unnerving him, when all at once, a sudden chill blast blew out all the torches, throwing them into an unrelieved darkness. And then silence fell, complete, dead silence, more dreadful than the murmurs. In the oppressive dark, the presence of the Dead was heavy and stifling, so that he could hardly walk, but he tried to hurry and keep pace with the rest of the Company. Yet, faltering in the dark, without a shred of light for guidance, and too frozen with fear to utter a word, he remained ever hindmost. And thus he felt them thronging behind him. They were the Dead, silent and cold, and all he could hear of them was the shuffle of many shadowed feet. And being often last of the Company, he constantly felt them just at his back, felt the groping horror they exuded, and his fear deepened till he shook and stumbled, and fell with a pained, horrified cry. All thought of dignity fled then as he crawled like a beast on the ground, the fear pressing upon him, cowing him, making him seek desperately an end to it, a means of escape. And when he felt he could endure no longer the terror of the pursuing unseen evil, he was in the next instant prepared to scream and run back in madness to face the Dead and put an end to the torment.

A low cry left the dwarf’s throat as he was assailed by the awful memory of what he considered to be some of the most shameful moments of his life, and he closed his eyes briefly.

The slight sound and movement would have escaped the eyes and ears of Men, but not of the elf Legolas, who had been closest to the dwarf throughout their previous journey and who had witnessed his incapacitating fear. He turned to see the ashen face of the dwarf, moist with a cold sweat, and concern crossed his own.

Gimli, are you well, my friend? he had been about to ask, but even before he did, he already knew what ailed the dwarf. Holding back his question, Legolas rode up to where Aragorn would be able to turn and see him with ease.

“Aragorn,” he called, and when the man faced him, the elf again sent him an unspoken message with his eyes and a slight tilt of his head in Gimli’s direction. “Did you not say that you wished your men to remain at the mouth of the ravine?” he asked aloud so that all could hear him.  

“Indeed, I did,” Aragorn answered immediately on cue, “for I recall how grievously the horses feared the Paths, and I can ill afford the time to confront that problem yet again.” Halting the Company with a raised hand and turning Rallias around to face them, he gave the command for his guards to turn back and return the short distance to where the narrow path began its climb.

“I will have no need of an army, for what awaits me cannot be battled by human hands,” he said in response to the half-hearted protest from the men, who, despite their loyalty to the King they served, could not help being relieved that he did not mean for them to walk the Paths with him. “The best service you can render me is to wait for my return at the start of the cliff walls, and there, steady yourselves and your steeds to face the Host who will be at my heels when next we meet.”  

As the men nodded in respect and turned their horses around, Gimli cleared his throat and spoke up at last. “Well, Aragorn, if it’s all the same with you, I’m of a mind to go with the men,” he said, keeping his tone casual. “I can help keep an eye on them for you, you know, in case they get too jittery, not having experienced the journey on the Paths. I could prepare them, so that when they encounter the – er – those Dead fellows, they won’t be jumping out of their livery and boots with shock.”

Aragorn held back a laugh at the image of his brave Gondorian escort rendered nude by fright.

“That would be most helpful, Master Gimli, thank you,” he said tactfully to the dwarf, pleased at the look of relief that flitted across the bearded face. The King cast Legolas a brief glance and found the elf doing the same in his direction. The two friends lowered their faces to hide smiles of satisfaction, for they knew that the dwarf was, without being obvious, choosing not to revisit the Paths he so dreaded, and for good reason.

Legolas now turned to address the brown-haired elf behind him. “Hamille –”

“I will remain with my prince, of course,” Hamille announced quickly, deliberately looking from Aragorn to Gimli, and averting a meeting with Legolas’ eyes. “And he will be with you, lord Elessar. Therefore, I go to the Paths.”

Legolas sighed and shook his head resignedly. Argument with Hamille would be in vain now, much as he would have preferred the elf to keep Gimli company. A hesitant silence fell over the group, during which Gimli prepared to turn back towards the way they had come.

“I will stay with Gimli then,” Elladan declared suddenly. “You would appreciate a companion, I presume, Master Dwarf?”

Caught by surprise at the readiness with which Elladan had elected not to ride on with Aragorn, Gimli nevertheless quickly recovered. “Why, that would be very welcome, my friend!” he replied. “Much obliged.”

Elladan gave him a wan smile, then turned to Aragorn, who seemed as surprised as Gimli had been. “Legolas and Daerada will be with you, Estel,” he said to the man. “As you say, your task is laid out clearly before you now, and I doubt my aid should be needed.”

Still a little puzzled, Aragorn nodded in acknowledgement nevertheless. “My task is clear, and it is demanded of me alone,” he affirmed. “It does lighten my heart that you will be riding back with Gimli, for two are better than one, when we await that which brings no pleasure, only suspense. I thank you, gwador, my brother.”

Elladan then looked towards Legolas and his grandsire, neither of whom demonstrated the least bit of surprise, merely understanding on their brows. There was tenderness in Lord Celeborn’s eyes as he spoke to his grandson. “It is right what you do,” was all he said, a sentiment echoed by the slight nod from the elf prince. Elladan gave them a somewhat rueful smile, and prepared to take his leave.

“Well, be careful where you walk, Aragorn,” Gimli said to the King. Pointing a finger at Legolas, he added: “And bring this elf back in one piece!”

Legolas shook his head and leaned over to give Gimli’s smaller horse a pat on the rear end. “Bear your rider away, Beryn, for he sometimes talks over-much,” he said to the beast, and laughed at the look of chagrin Gimli gifted him in response. “I will see you later, my anxious friend!”

For a short while, the four remaining riders watched the backs of the dwarf and the Imladris elf descending the steep slope. Then once again they set their faces towards the Paths and resumed their uphill journey, wishing with each step that they were heading somewhere else. The heavy steps of their horses, matching the weights on their hearts, soon turned around a bend in the path, and they were lost to sight of anyone who happened to be looking upon them.

Gimli and Elladan were indeed doing so, for they had turned to catch a glimpse of the little group before they were swallowed by the strange mists that no Sun could dissipate. A feeling of love for the four companions welled suddenly within dwarf and elf, and both offered a silent prayer for the safekeeping of their friends, despite the confidence with which Aragorn had claimed the straightforwardness of his task. When the four could be seen no longer, Dwarf and Elf urged their horses on again, riding slowly in silence a little distance behind the Gondorian guards.

“Ere the shadows grow too long, they will be walking past the mouth of the Paths,” Elladan remarked quietly after a while, feeling a lump in his throat.

“Mmmph, that Valar-forsaken place,” Gimli pronounced. “Much as I love that Man and that rock-headed elf, I’m not ashamed to say that I’m glad I’m not going in there again.”

“As am I,” Elladan agreed readily.

“A place most foul,” the dwarf declared.

There was a brief pause from Elladan. “Aye, it was,” he said slowly.

And before he could stop himself, Gimli added in a low murmur: “The horror was ever at my heels and upon my back.” He shuddered, and when he was certain that the men riding in front were far away enough not to hear his confession, he finished: “It chilled my blood.”

This time, there was a longer pause from Elladan before he stated: “As it did mine.”

Gimli’s eyes widened and he turned to look at the elf. “You?” he asked, the word coming out in a whistle. “You too?”

“Aye,” Elladan said. “I did feel some dread, as did Elrohir.”

“But – but I thought elves did not fear the Dead!” Gimli spluttered in surprise before he remembered to lower his voice again. “That’s what that elfling claimed! Was he spinning yarn to make me think – ?”

“Nay, my friend, Legolas spoke the truth,” Elladan quickly pointed out. When he saw the confused look on the face of the dwarf, the elf smiled and explained: “Remember, Gimli, my father is half-elven, and though he chose immortality for those of his line, the blood of my mortal predecessors still runs in our veins. I felt not the difference – till we came to confront the horror of the Accursed Dead in their long-hidden dwelling.”

His face grew pensive as the eleven-year-old memory of their approach to the haunted hollow at the root of the mountain unfolded in his mind:

A dread fell on them, even as they passed between the lines of ancient stones and so came to the Dimholt… they came at last deep into the glen; and there stood a sheer wall of rock, and in the wall the Dark Door gaped before them like the mouth of night. Signs and figures were carved above its wide arch too dim to read, and fear flowed from it like a grey vapor. The company halted, and there was not a heart among them that did not quail, unless it were the heart of Legolas of the Elves, for whom the ghosts of Men have no terror.

Elladan smiled grimly at the recollection. “I was held to the course by the strength of Aragorn’s will, and because I knew he needed our companionship on that most desperate of missions,” he explained. “But truly, Gimli, of the Company that rode through the Paths that day, Legolas alone – who is wholly of Elvenkind – felt not the horror of the Dead. That is why it is best for him and Hamille and Lord Celeborn to remain with Estel today, for they alone will not fear the Shadow People at all.”

“By Durin’s beard,” the dwarf said, stroking his own absently. “I must thank you, Elladan, for what I just learnt. It makes me feel less… psshh… you know… less ashamed of my own dread.”

“Ashamed?” the elf echoed, cocking his head enquiringly. “There is no reason to think that of yourself, Master Gimli. Why, you are one of the hardiest, bold-hearted people I have ever met, and – as Master Samwise would say – that is saying a lot, coming from an elf.” He noted the slight straightening of Gimli’s carriage at his sincere praise, and smiled. “But I do not think the reach of courage is infinite. When it comes to confronting the ghosts of Men – and that host, in particular, for they embody much that is of Sauron’s doing – there is every reason to quiver. I merely rue that I cannot be of much aid to my brother today, but I hardly think it is cause for self-reproach.”

Gimli did not reply, but blushed. He had just re-opened a book long kept closed in a haunted corner of his memory, and he wondered if it was possible that Elladan could have been reading the words of shame he had written on those pages.

“We need harbor no disgrace in the dread we felt, my friend,” the elf said as if he had indeed peeked into Gimli’s mind. “Take comfort in the fact that we prevailed despite it, for we did not abandon Aragorn. Quite simply, we are what we are, Gimli, and none hold that against us, certainly not Aragorn.”

This time, Gimli nodded in firm agreement. “Spoken truly, my elven friend – or half-elven, or whatever part of elvenkind you are,” he quipped. “Indeed, there is much to be said for being who you are, for your father, being who he is, was held in high esteem by both Men and elves. He was somehow able to reach both, if you know what I mean.”

“Aye, Gimli, I do,” Elladan agreed, smiling wistfully at the thought of his adar. “And he would have been the first to tell you of the worth of the Dwarves, and their valor in ages past. You have much to be proud of, Master Dwarf, being one of that race, and being in terror of the Shadow Host does not detract from that honor.”

Smiling, Gimli mused over the elf’s words in silence till they reached the entrance to the ravine and joined the Gondorian guards. And whether it was because they were once more bathed in the light of the Sun – even if it was filtered through a sea of clouds – or because of the reassurance of the son of Lord Elrond, the heart of the Dwarf lord felt suddenly lighter. The Shadow Host would be here before too long, but for now, Gimli felt more able to laugh than he had been for many days.

---------------------------------------<<>>---------------------------------------

Not long after parting ways with the rest of the company, Aragorn and his three elven companions found themselves at the steepest part of the chasm to which Legolas had referred the previous night, and there they dismounted and led their horses slowly along the remainder of the distance. Anor had slipped from its overhead position when the sound of water that had vanished for a while once again reached their ears.   

“That is the sound of the rill, Aragorn,” Legolas said, recalling the tinkle of water that had run out from the mountain at the high-arched door at this end of the Paths. “We are close to the gateway through which we left before.”

True enough, after about ten more yards of the steep incline, the ground leveled a little, and a further ten yards brought them before a looming darkness. The mists parted, and the companions peered through them to behold the gaping hole in the face of the Haunted Mountain – mutely bidding them enter the loathsome dwelling of the Forsaken Cursed Ones.  

Once again, a cold vapor issued forth like the breath of the Living Dead, swirling about the four companions and their steeds as if to draw them in. The beasts snorted and neighed in fear and made to turn about and flee, but their masters held them and whispered soothing elvish words into their ears to calm them. Rallias and Amel, trained by the elf prince himself, responded quickly, as did the steed of Lord Celeborn, one of the few raised in Lothlorien, but the terror that assailed Hamille’s mount was grievous to witness, for it had been borrowed from the stables of Pelargir where it had never encountered anything more fearsome than the bolts of lightning or thunder that accompanied the storms over the town. This noiseless evil emitting from the Paths of the Dead was infinitely worse, for it assaulted the essence of one’s spirit. A sheen of sweat soon appeared on the hide of the poor beast as it cried out pitifully, and only by the combined efforts of Lord Celeborn and Legolas – who had done the same with Arod eleven years ago – did the animal finally overcome its fright to lapse into an uneasy calm.

“We should leave the horses here, Aragorn,” Legolas suggested as he stroked the beast soothingly, “and remount when we leave.” 

Aragorn nodded without a word and moved to secure Rallias’ reins to a sharp shard of rock, while Lord Celeborn spoke commands to the elvish horses and Hamille kindled the torches they had brought along. Legolas led Hamille’s steed to the rocky shard where Aragorn stood and studied the face of his mortal friend for a moment, noting with some anxiety the shadows under his tired eyes and the lines that had appeared on his pale brow within the last few hours.

“Are you well, mellon nin?” he asked quietly, placing a hand on the man’s arm and holding the grey eyes with an enquiring gaze.  

Brushing a hand through his dark hair, damp from the exertion of the steep uphill climb and cold from the vapor enveloping them, Aragorn gave the elf a grim smile and nodded.

“And are you ready?” came the calm query of Lord Celeborn.

A light flashed in the eyes of the King. “I want this resolved quickly,” he said determinedly, “for Arwen and my children, and the people of the village, and everyone concerned.”

Legolas gave him a small smile. “Let us do it then,” he said. “Ta naa luume.”

“Aye, it is time,” Aragorn murmured in agreement. “Let us enter.”

Within moments, the four companions were standing under the high arches, holding aloft their torches and peering into the waiting darkness beyond. Within the elven hearts of Celeborn and Hamille stirred curiosity and awe despite their discomfort, but upon Aragorn and Legolas fell a gloom that came with revisiting an unwanted but necessary past.

Burying any nervousness he had beneath his stoic exterior, and holding to the strength of his elven friends, Aragorn glanced briefly at Lord Celeborn on his left, whose usual grave countenance did not change, before looking to Legolas on his right. The elf prince’s eyes were bright, a-glitter with some inner light as they had been eleven years ago, and they sent the man an unspoken reassurance: Go forth, my friend; I am with you.

The heir of Isildur turned back to the whispering dark before them. Gripping his torch, he took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold to keep his appointment with the Dead.

Note: Part of the content of the sections in italics is excerpted from The Return of the King.

I’ve been feeling a little depressed at work, and decided to seek the companionship of these beloved characters in this chapter sooner than I planned. Sigh… I wish I could hug each and every one who shares this LOTR life with me. 

Thanks to all who dropped me a line for the last chapter. 

CHAPTER 14: THE SUMMONS

It was a sight they were afterward loth to recall. The road was wide as far as they could judge, but soon they came into a great empty space, and there were no longer walls upon either side.

~J.R.R. Tolkien, in The Return of the King~

Few words were exchanged between the King of Gondor and the three elves as their footsteps took them further into the heart of the mountain where they knew the Twice Forgotten would be waiting for Aragorn. Eleven years ago, their steps had been followed by a throng of beings, gathering unseen in the dark but heard as a murmur of growing eerie whispers and the soft shuffle of shadow feet. This time, there was no such throng behind them, no large host to haunt the passageways. All about was mute, and the tread of the elves was altogether silent. All Aragorn could hear were the echoes of his own cautious strides along the paths of memories.

Yet, he felt the fear no less. It lurked around him like a thick mist, for never shall mortal souls be entirely free of that which the unknown forebodes, and the path laid before Aragorn’s feet was as little illuminated as his knowledge of what he would face.  

When their footsteps eventually led them to the large cavern where he and Legolas had come before, he felt he had entered a tomb, which was not so far from the truth, for it was here that he had last issued his summons to a Gathering of the Dead. Now, another sound began to fill his ears: a steady thumping which baffled him, till he realized it was naught but the beating of his heart against its cage of ribs. He hoped that when he came face to face with the Twice Forgotten, this cage would keep his heart from leaping out. He drew his cloak closer about him, for a chill touched him that did not come entirely from the cold of the cavern.

I come to summon them, he thought glumly, but I wonder if their own summons to me has been the stronger.

Standing beside Aragorn, Legolas looked slowly around the wide cavern, remembering and seeking, acutely aware of the bulge of the Phial held securely in his tunic. He stopped searching when his eyes reached the wall far to their right, hardly visible in the dark to anyone but keen-sighted elves.  

“There he lay, Aragorn,” Legolas whispered. “And there he lies still.”

Slowly, the four companions approached the place Legolas had indicated. Something glittered in the gloom as Aragorn’s torch drew near, and when they were close enough, they saw the gems and gold on the bones of the one whose spirit now resided in one of his own bloodline, a frail old man named Mathuil, many miles away. Just as Legolas had remembered, a broken sword lay beside the sad bony figure, useless against the rock he had hewn at. The broken blade reminded Aragorn about Anduril at his side and how even the Flame of the West was dimmed against the power of a centuries-old curse conceived by a servant of the Dark Lord. As they had been eleven years ago, the man’s finger-bones were frozen in place as he made a final desperate effort to pry open the door before him, but the torches showed that the cracks between the wall of the cavern and the door were so fine that not even light could have penetrated them.

The Door, Aragorn thought, his mouth going dry. Were the Twice Forgotten behind this door?

While they stood looking at the remains of the man, wondering at his tragic end, Lord Celeborn’s eyes wandered to a spot above the Door, and moved in a little closer to focus on something there. The others crowded around him, and when he held up his torch to it, they could vaguely discern what he was so intent on. Etched into the stone were some lines of writing in a language they could not decipher. After a moment, the elf lord started mouthing the words in the barest of whispers, but only after two lines, a sudden cold draught blew where there had been no movement of air, and extinguished the torches as it had before.

Aragorn could not stop his heart from missing a beat, and even Legolas and Hamille, used to the light, wide hallways of Thranduil’s palace caves, felt uneasy in the blackness of the mountain tomb.

“Give me the Glass, Legolas,” Celeborn said with a trace of disquiet in his voice. Suppressing his apprehension, Legolas found the waiting hand of the elf lord in the dark and pressed the Light of the Lady into it. Holding the Phial firmly, Celeborn raised it so that its brilliant light fell on the spot on which his eyes had been trained before. And now the others saw clearly what he had been reading: like the writing on the One Ring of Sauron that had once been revealed only in the heat of a strong fire, there appeared on the rock face several lines of fine script, blood-red runes fiercely burned into the hard stone of the Haunted Mountain.

“It is written in the Black Speech of Mordor,” Lord Celeborn stated solemnly, providing a disheartening answer to one of the unvoiced questions of his companions. “I know very little of what it says, having learnt but a trace of the language from Mithrandir when he was still among us, but I believe the first few lines contain the curse that Hathël the Stone-hearted used to imprison his people behind this Door. As for the rest, I cannot yet understand them.”

“So they are indeed behind this door? This is the Holding Gate?” Aragorn asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable at the thought of a stone door being the only barrier between him and a host of desperate, angry souls waiting to be freed. He was surprised at how small his voice suddenly seemed.

“I believe this is the Gate, yes,” Lord Celeborn replied softly.  

As soon as the elf lord had said the words, all four of them felt the hairs on the backs of their necks stand. Aragorn drew in a sharp breath and froze.

“Bridhon nin,” Hamille breathed, and when his prince turned, he tilted his head to either side of them, his bright eyes saying what he did not voice. A quick glance confirmed for Legolas what he had already guessed.

“Estel,” the elf prince whispered, nudging his friend. “They are here.”

Aragorn swallowed. “They?” he asked, forcing himself to turn his head slowly and peer into the dark on both sides of the group. He squinted, but saw nothing. “Man cenich?” he whispered back. “What do you see?”

In answer, Celeborn raised the Phial so that it cast its Light around them. And where there had been nothing but the black of night a moment ago, the light of Eärendil now suddenly blazed in the angry red eyes of the Dead, three pairs on either side of them, just a foot away from Aragorn.

Startled, the man dropped his extinguished torch and staggered backward with a gasp. Then, before he had time to register the presence of the Ones near them, from behind the Door of Rock came a host of piteous wails, loud and intense, penetrating through flesh and bone to their spirits so that they all had to stop their ears.

“Aaaaaaaaaaeeeiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaa!  Elessaaaaar! Elessaaaar!” The name was woven into the keening cries.

Trembling from the sudden shrill onslaught, Aragorn stumbled again, finding the arms of Legolas and Hamille upon his back as they quickly reached out to steady him. Legolas was wracked with anguish for his friend, ever reminded of the Lady’s message to keep Aragorn from harm. He pried off a hand which was clamped tightly over one of the man’s ears, and spoke urgently into the ear.  

“Summon them, Aragorn!” the elf said loudly so that Aragorn could hear him above the cries of the Dead and the pounding of his mortal heart. “Summon them and end the agony for them and for you!”

“Wait!” Lord Celeborn cried unexpectedly, swinging the Phial back to the writing above the Door. “My heart tells me I should find out the meaning of these remaining lines. Perhaps they are nothing, but I wish to commit to them to memory. Hold your summons!”

Reluctantly, but knowing better than to question the instincts of the elf lord, the others waited while he ignored the piercing wails and studied the lines intently, his face a mask of concentration.

Aaaaaaaaaaeeeiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaa!

The shrieks of the Dead grew more desperate, shaking Aragorn to the core. Like a cruel joke, a grim thought flitted across his mind about how the man before the Door must have died from such terror. Sweat broke upon his brow, and he gritted his teeth, willing himself to stop thinking about the six spirits of the Dead about him and resisting the urge to run from the place. Desperately, he called to Celeborn.

“My lord!” he said loudly.

The elf lord did not answer, but continued to read the lines silently.

Aaaaaaaaaaeeeiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaee!

A hiss escaped Aragorn’s lips, for the shrieks of the Dead grew so strong they seemed tangible enough to bind him tightly like cords. He breathed heavily, fighting feelings of anger, helplessness and impatience.

“My lord!” he called again. “Let me summon them now!”

Even with the solace of Legolas’ firm arm around him and the presence of an elf on either side of him, Aragorn felt his terror mounting. Then, just when he thought he could endure no more, Celeborn turned to him with a troubled face and spoke close to his ear.

“I cannot understand all that is written, Elessar,” he said. “Perhaps you should delay your summons – ”  

“Delay it!” Aragorn cried, his eyes widening in horror even as Legolas and Hamille stared at the elf lord in bewilderment. “My lord, I cannot! The old man cannot last long, and the villagers… their torment… what happened to Gimli… my own nightmares…” He shook his head adamantly. “Nay, I cannot delay. I have to free them now!”

Celeborn pursed his lips grimly, his blue eyes studying Aragorn’s distress as he considered the King’s argument. “Then call them, Elessar,” he said resignedly. “Call them, and let us depart from this accursed place!”

Relief flooded through the other two elves, but even more so through Aragorn, who had borne the responsibility and the greater part of the emotional toll cruelly bestowed by the joint curses of his forefather Isildur and the traitorous Häthel, and was more than ready to shed himself of that weight. The King steeled himself for the summons. Tearing his own hands away from his ears, he swiftly unsheathed Andứril and raised it. But as he drew breath and tried to utter the summons, he felt his tongue cleave dryly to the roof of his mouth, and no speech could he form.

Seeing this, Celeborn pressed the Phial into his hand. Grasping it firmly in one hand, Aragorn held Andứril straight with the other. This time, the wails did not bend him. The strength of his bloodline flowed through him, and the light of Kings shone from his eyes and countenance as he called out in a loud, steady voice: “Come forth, ye Forgotten!”

At first, the wailing persisted. But Aragorn cried again: “Come forth from beyond the Door! Leave your prison of Stone! I summon thee to the Stone of Erech!” One moment, he raised Andứril higher as proof of his heritage; then he struck it on the stone door that the Dead had called the Holding Gate, not to attempt opening it, for he knew it would be futile, but to let the root of the Haunted Mountain reverberate with the sound and feel of steel that had cut the Ring from Sauron’s finger, a sword reforged in the elven stronghold  of Elrond.

As soon as the stone began ringing with the voice of Andứril, the wailing of the Dead stopped as abruptly as it had begun, so that when the echoes of the sword had tapered off, there followed an utter silence that seemed deafening. Then, a sound like a long heavy sigh filled Aragorn’s ears, and his heart trembled despite his courage. But though the light of the Phial shone about them, his mortal eyes saw no change. The elves beside him, however, did.

“They come, Estel,” Legolas whispered, and gently drew his friend away from the Door, though his elven eyes remained on it. “Shapes of men, like before,” he continued, knowing the man could not see them but would wish to know what was taking place. “Like shreds of mist, they issue from some hidden chamber… coming through the very cracks we thought no light nor breath could penetrate.” Aragorn turned and saw the glitter in the bright blue eyes of his elven companion, who began to shake his head slowly. “A small host… but more, more than I thought…Much distress on their faces, Aragorn…” The elf prince sighed. “Yet it lifts… yes, it lifts, for you have summoned them, and they hear your call.”

Legolas then turned his head and looked around them, and in the light of the Phial, Aragorn saw that Lord Celeborn and Hamille were doing the same in silence, for this was their first encounter with the Shadow People of the Mountain.

“They gather, Aragorn,” Legolas said, turning back to the King with the same glitter in his eyes. “They know you, and they will follow you now.”

Aragorn looked into the eyes of his friend, clearly weighing a decision in his mind and making the elf wonder what debate the man was holding with himself. But when Aragorn gripped the Phial more tightly and raised it to his breast, Legolas knew.

“There is no need, Estel,” the elf said softly. “But if you must, then fear them not.”

Now Hamille and Lord Celeborn grew curious, but their unvoiced question was soon answered as Aragorn gritted his teeth, turned to the darkness behind him and slowly raised the Phial high, stretching his arm out so that the brilliance of the Light of Earendil was cast into the deep night of the cavern. The elves knew then that Aragorn wished to see those he had summoned.

A large cluster of red eyes came alight and stared back at the King, drawing a small gasp from his throat. As Legolas had said, there were more than he had expected: some sixty or seventy who had been the victims of the cruelty of the Stone-hearted king, and he could see how their eyes – even in spirit form – were filled with anger and agony and pleading.

Aragorn waited no longer and called out once more: “Come, all who will follow me to the Stone of Erech! And let none remain in this Mountain Tomb, for I, Isildur’s heir, release you from it!”  

Without another word, and with the Glass of the Lady lighting the path before him, Aragorn turned and led the little company back along the way they had come, but now a silent host followed them as before, heard only by the shadow-sound of spirit feet. One hour or many that passed, Aragorn did not know as he bent his thought only on placing one foot in front of the other without fleeing from the terror of knowing who it was at the hind of the group. He pressed on, grim and resolute, thankful to the Lady for having sent the Light, and immeasurably grateful for the three elves around him, who separated him from those who might, he imagined, in desperation or malice seize his heart and mind, if not his body.

At last, they heard the welcome tinkle of water as they had eleven years ago, and Aragorn remembered how it had sounded even then: hard and clear as a stone falling into a dream of dark shadow. Then they knew that they had reached once more the mouth of the Paths through which they had entered earlier. Light grew, confirming their guess, and the soft neighing of horses greeted them as they passed under the high, wide arch again, to see with relief the rill that ran beside it. Their horses stood where they had been tethered, but now they grew terrified and tried to free themselves. Quickly, the elves calmed the beasts, speaking soft words of elvish to them and releasing them slowly from where they had been secured.

Soon, the group was descending the steep path between the cliff walls, and they were reminded yet again how deep and narrow the chasm was, so that the sky was dark and in it small stars glinted, though it was not yet sunset of that day. The minds of Aragorn and Legolas returned to their journey more than a decade ago, when they had walked that same road at about the same time of day, and felt like they had been moving through the twilight of some other world.

But they now knew where the road would lead: not to another world, but back to the Morthond Vale and past hamlet and home where dwelt frightened people, then on to the many miles of land that would lead them at last to the Stone. They remounted their horses, ever mindful of those who would follow at their backs no matter how fast they went.

And so they rode, swift as the wind that whipped through the dark hair of the King and the long tresses of the Firstborn. They heard bells ringing in the village of Grimwythë, for the residents already knew who would be passing, and it was the same thereafter in every village they passed. Ithil rose in the night sky as they covered the miles, and her silvery light showed the Shadow Host as a vague mist of shifting shapes. A light drizzle began to fall, but no wind nor rain could disperse the ghostly mist that was ever at the hind of the four riders.

This the villagers saw, and their reactions were the same as those witnessed by Legolas and Aragorn a decade and a year ago:

Lights went out in house and hamlet as they came, and doors were shut, and folk who were afield ran wild like hunted deer. Ever there rose the same cry in the gathering night:  “The King of the Dead! The King of the Dead is come upon us!”

This time, Legolas was certain the people of the Vale were referring to Aragorn, and they fled before his face. And this time, they added to their cry of terror: “Elvish wights are visited upon us!”
 

Ignoring all the cries of fear, set only upon reaching their destination, the four riders crossed the miles on their light-footed mounts, riding like hunters till their horses stumbled with weariness. But as midnight approached, they saw at last, against the dark sky, the flicker of flames from the torches of Gimli and Elladan and the guards of Gondor upon the Hill of Erech. And in their midst, there stood, bathed eerily in moonlight, the rounded top of the Black Stone, awaiting them in grim silence.

Despite the sight of the repulsive orb, they rode the last leg of their journey even more swiftly, for their spirits were buoyed by the thought that Aragorn would at last complete the redemption of the Cursed Ones, and liberate himself and Mathuil and the people of the Vale from the haunting of the Forgotten. In his heart, Aragorn thanked yet again the Lady Galadriel for her gift and aid in this dark hour as they crossed the final miles to the Stone.      

Even from a distance, Aragorn could feel the fear of his men and their horses, and was glad for what he trusted would have been the reassuring presence of his brother and the Dwarf lord in their midst, for the men stood their ground despite the approach of the Shadow Host. He knew their eyes would see only wisps of some strange mist behind their King, but they would surely sense the unsettling presence of the living Dead as he could.

Drawing up to the Stone, Aragorn’s company was greeted with relief by Gimli and Elladan, and no less by Mathgor, who was seated in the back of his cart holding his father in his arms. Gladness warred with tension in their faces at the sight of the King and the three elves returned safely from the Mountain.

“Well, here you are at last, Elf!” the dwarf said to Legolas, concealing his obvious concern beneath a grumpy tone. “My beard’s grown two finger-lengths waiting for you.”  

Legolas’ lips twitched as he dismounted. “My apologies, Gimli. We were a little preoccupied,” he quipped, trying to lighten the mood in his turn, for he felt his friend’s fear. For the same reason, Lord Celeborn quickly walked over to join his grandson.

Yet, the men and elves were all strangely more hopeful than they had been for days, for the attendance of the Dead – though dreadful – meant that they were close to the finish of Aragorn’s grim task and the end of a dark road for everyone. Legolas, who felt still the burden of the Lady’s charge, was no less keen to see Aragorn freed from the clutches of his awful legacy.

The King felt a sense of relief himself, as one who is close to the end of his labors. Remaining on his horse, Aragorn turned so that the pale light of the moon shone on his kingly countenance and on the Stone of Erech behind him. He looked first at Mathuil on the cart before him, then beyond to where he knew the Shadow People were waiting, and raised a hand for silence. But while the murmurs of his men died down, another voice broke in.

“Here we are gathered at last,” it said with deep emotion, and all eyes fell on Mathuil to see him sitting upright, his eyes suddenly alive with an unearthly energy, while his son and nephew stood by mutely.

Eager to complete his hateful task, Aragorn straightened his bearing atop Rallias. In a loud voice, he asked the same question he had posed eleven years ago:

“Oathbreakers! Why have ye come?”

To the mortal eyes gathered there, no forms were seen where their King’s eyes were trained, but a murmur as from afar could be heard. And from his place on the cart, Mathuil spoke for them all: “To find peace.”

“I am the heir of Isildur in Gondor!” Aragorn announced. “And I grant you pardon from your treachery.” He felt a little sense of satisfaction at being able to make that declaration. “Go now in peace, and trouble not the valley again!”

Then the men and elves who had not been with Aragorn the first time he released the Cursed Ones went tense with anticipation, awaiting the departure of the Dead as Gimli had described it happening by the river after the capture of the Black Fleet:

“There, the host could finally be seen as shadowy figures, and when Aragorn cried: ‘I hold your oath fulfilled!’ and commanded them to leave in peace, they bowed low and turned away; and swiftly the whole grey host drew off and vanished like a mist that is driven back by a sudden wind; and it seemed to me that I awoke from a dream.”

Now, eleven years later, Gimli held his breath again. Finally, he thought. They will leave, and I will wake from another dream.

But to his utter horror, and that of Aragorn and Legolas and all who were gathered as witnesses, the dream – or the nightmare – remained. The ghostly mist lingered and vanished not, and it was no dream nor figment of imagination, for it was as real, if not as solid, as the Black Stone upon which the oath and the curse had been made.

None of the host bowed nor moved, nor was a sigh of welcome release heard. Instead, the heart of every man and elf missed a beat as the One in Mathuil, once again speaking for the whole host of the Dead, glared at Aragorn and said plainly:

“You await our departure, heir of Isildur, but that will not come to pass.”

Note:  Much of the text in italics in this chapter is excerpted from The Return of the King.

My gratitude to the reviewers who kept me company in Chapter 13 when I needed it so much.

CHAPTER 15:  PARTING OF WAYS

“You await our departure, heir of Isildur, but that will not come to pass.”

The statement from the Twice Forgotten, issued through the mouth of Mathuil, resounded in the ears and mind of every man and elf as they stood in dead silence on the hill of Erech, too stunned to respond.

Since Gimli’s first encounter with Fierthwain, the dwarf had not thought it possible to ever approve of anything uttered by a man he considered as insufferable as a toothache, but now the dwarf found himself sharing the villager’s fury when the latter yelled at the one possessing his uncle: “What is the meaning of this? You’re not leaving? How can you not leave?”

“Exactly!” the dwarf joined in, forgetting his fear. “You were retrieved from whatever dank, dark hole you were cooped up in for one reason: so you can go –” he waved his hands in the air “ – wherever it is you’re supposed to go, and stop vexing those who still have flesh on their bones! What sort of treachery is this?”

Mathgor shook his head and held out his hands helplessly as if to ask ‘What is happening?’ but his frantic concern for his father rendered him unable to utter a word.

The pale light of a crescent moon seemed to further blanch the faces of Legolas and Elladan as, of one accord, they brought themselves to Aragorn’s side. The man himself had gone a little ashen, too shocked to alight from his horse.

“Why will you not leave?” he asked incredulously, staring at Mathuil. “Is that not what you wish for?”

“Of course it is!” Mathuil replied in a voice that was clearly not his. “But we cannot yet do so, and you should not need to be told why, heir of Isildur. It was your bloodline that laid the curse! And Hathël made certain it would hold!”

As Aragorn exchanged a bewildered look with Legolas, a restless murmur arose from the Shadow Host gathered beyond the circle of uncomprehending Gondorians.

Mathgor found his voice at last. “Please – explain what you mean,” he pleaded with the One in his father, his eyes filled with distress. “Can you… can you not be freed?”

The old man fixed his son with a stern glare. “Yessss, we can be freed!” he said, and Gimli wondered how a ghost could sound so impatient. “But that will come to pass only when it is completed!”

“When what is completed?”  Fierthwain demanded.

The reply came in a guttural tone injected with bitterness. “The one matter that has ruled our fate: our redemption,” Mathuil said, enunciating each word deliberately. “We need to fulfill our oath!”

Aragorn blinked. “Your oath,” he stated. “Your oath to fight Sauron –”

“Yesss!” came the indignant interruption. “The oath that binds us to this accursed fate; it must be fulfilled!”

A rush of understanding washed over the gathering of Men and Elves at that answer, and a collective sigh of relief rippled through it as they realized that the Dead did not mean to haunt the Vale forever. But now there came a new dilemma, which Aragorn made clear in his next words.

“Nothing would please me more than for you to battle the Dark Lord, which you should have done when it was your time to do so, but he is now no more; he has been gone for eleven years,” he pointed out. “How can you hope to fight him?”

Aaaaeeeaaaiiii! A distressed wail rose suddenly from the moonlit mist where the Dead were gathered, making the men tremble.

“It is not by our choice; it was demanded of us: to fight Sauron and redeem ourselves, or no peace shall we find!” the One in Mathuil insisted. “So said the two kings who condemned us to this state – not once, but twice!” The old man clasped his arms about himself and began to wail, growing despondent and desperate like his unseen kin. “No release, no peace! Aaaaeeeeeiiaiii!”

“I gave you my pardon,” Aragorn argued. “Is it not enough?”

“No tool nor hand shall open Door…” Mathuil said as if beginning a slow chant.

“No tool nor hand shall open Door

Save he to whom the oath we swore

To let thee for betrayal atone

And set thee free before the Stone.”

The lines, reeking of the evil of the Dark Lord and uttered in the voice of the Dead, sent icy chills down the spines of the listeners.

“So spoke Hathël,” Mathuil said sullenly, “binding us to the oath, chaining us to the need to atone for breaking faith.” His eyes, shot with resentment, fixed themselves upon Aragorn. “You see now, Son of Isildur: thus were we cursed… and your forgiveness means nothing till our task is completed.”

“Then we are in a proper fix!” Gimli observed morosely. “There is no longer a Sauron, and therefore no task to complete.” 

“Aaaaaiiiiieiiiiiiaaaaaaaa!” The sudden blood-curdling shriek from Mathuil made the dwarf jump.

“Let us fulfill our oath!” cried the old man. “Let us redeem ourselves!”  

The Twice Forgotten continued to bemoan their fate, and so deep was their sorrow that the men of Gondor found pity welling up from within even as their hearts quailed.

“Hush, Gimli,” Legolas advised him. “It’s best not to rile them.”

Elladan shook his head slowly as he watched Aragorn dismount from Rallias in a daze. “They’ve waited this long,” the elf murmured,. “And now…”

“Another nail in their coffin,” Gimli muttered glumly despite Legolas’ counsel. “Not that they had any to begin with, but now…”

“Ai, they move from one horrible fate to another,” Hamille observed from where he stood behind his prince.

“It is as I feared,” Lord Celeborn said, walking up to Aragorn and Legolas.  It was then that everyone noticed how the elf lord had been the only one unfazed by the unexpected turn of events. “I did not think their release would come so easily,” he confessed. “Those verses he intoned… they must have been part of the runes we saw above the Door.”

“The Phial,” Legolas said, remembering what he had in his tunic. “Could it be for this purpose? Could it aid – ”

“Baw, Legolas; no, I do not think so,” the elf lord replied, looking gravely at Aragorn. “The curse laid upon them by the two kings is quite clear: they have to fulfill their oath to gain full pardon and release, Elessar. Somehow, they must prove themselves as adversaries of Sauron, for it was their treachery on his account that led to Isildur’s curse. And, later, their own king made certain redemption did not come easily for them.”

“You led our kin to the ships!” the One in Mathuil interrupted loudly, pointing a trembling finger at Aragorn. “Some of us saw it – they aided you and fulfilled their oath! Do the same for us!”

Aragorn shook his head and ran both hands through his hair. “How? The Dark Lord has been defeated,” he explained. “There are no more such ships, no more such foes. I cannot bring Sauron back!”

Upon hearing his claim, Mathuil suddenly launched himself from the cart with an energy that did not spring from his aged body, and before anyone could check him, he crossed the short distance to slam his bony hands upon Aragorn’s shoulders, nearly displacing the King from where he stood.

“Find a way!” the old man spat into the face of the startled ruler just before an irate Legolas grasped him about the waist and forced him away.

“Mathgor,” said Lord Celeborn, stepping up to the possessed man as well. “Hold on to your father before he hurts himself.”

“Find a way to free us!” Mathuil cried again shrilly as his ashen-faced son and nephew quickly complied with the elf lord’s warning and retrieved him from Legolas’ firm hold. “We must fulfill our oath!”

The old man looked as if he would advance on the King again, but he began rasping as the energy drained from him. He started to writhe as if in silent torment, and in response, the Spirits in the mist and their wails grew agitated as well, shifting eerily in the moonlight and making the Gondorian guards press closer together for courage.

“Fulfill our oath… redeem… our wrongs…” Mathuil forced the words painfully from his throat as he thrashed about restlessly in the cart before he quieted into a rocking motion, whimpering. The wails from the lingering Host gradually diminished as well into an uneasy silence.

Mathgor and Fierthwain stood looking at the old man helplessly, pity and anguish coursing through them. Then the nephew marched boldly up to Aragorn.   

“My lord, we cannot leave him like this; he will die!” he burst out, his eyes flaming. “Can nothing be done?”  

“That is precisely what we are trying to determine, Fierthwain,” Legolas said evenly from beside his friend, matching the incensed man’s glare with a steady one of his own.

“We understand your anxiety,” Aragorn said, sympathizing with the younger man. “But what you can do now is to keep your uncle calm and as comfortable as you can, and let me consider how to resolve this.” 

Fierthwain glowered a moment longer, but when Gimli patted his axe and fixed him with black eyes as hard as the steel blade, the man retreated with an expression dour enough to pickle orcs. The dwarf stared at the man’s back and grunted.

“What do we do now?” he muttered, returning to the problem at hand. “Sauron is gone, no more black ships…”

“If one of his abominable followers were still around, we might have a solution,” Hamille suggested quietly.

“His minions,” Aragorn mused, rubbing his stubbled chin. “That is a thought. After all, the earlier host did not have to confront Sauron himself; it was enough that they aided us in the capture of the Black Fleet that served his needs.”

“Aye, then we need only find someone who had been his servant!” Elladan said, suddenly a little more hopeful.

“Someone like Sarambaq,” Hamille continued, his face contorted with rage at the painful memory of almost having lost his king and his prince to the mad man. “But the despicable beast is dead and gone.”

“If only he were here,” Legolas remarked, giving a small laugh at the irony of the situation. “Where do we find more of his minions? Men, orcs, anyone… perhaps we could hunt for – ”

“I can’t believe it!” Gimli exclaimed. “First, we risk our necks to dispose of those warg droppings, and now we wish we could find them and bring them back!” He expelled a huge grunt of exasperation that stirred even the hairs of his thick beard. “These tales have more unexpected twists and turns than a snake’s crawl!”

“Or worm tunnels,” Aragorn remarked glumly and exhaled a long sigh. He looked apologetically at Lord Celeborn. “You did ask me to delay the summons, and had I known – ”  

“You did not know,” the elf lord disputed quickly. “None of us did, Elessar. You chose what you saw to be the best route to go on, and we followed open-eyed. If you had not summoned them, we would not be learning this from them now.”

“The lines you read, my lord, would have cast some meaning upon all this,” Aragorn suggested.

“That is likely,” the elf lord agreed. “But that is only a strong guess. I still do not know what tale they tell, and even now, I cannot tell if a delay would have been the better choice.”

“At least they would still be kept safely behind the Door,” Aragorn lamented.

“Only for a little while, Elessar; I only meant for you to forbear the summons for a little while; you would still have had to release them,” Celeborn said, trying to assuage the man’s regret. “But who could know how much longer would be necessary?”

“That was my thought, my lord: I could not hold them without end,” Aragorn explained. “I remembered, too, that not all are behind the Door. How long should I allow them to keep haunting the mountain and the lands about it, so that it is constantly unapproachable and inhospitable? My children and their children to come may not possess the same knowledge or wield the same strength I do now. I would not place the responsibility upon their shoulders. “This has to end now!” Aragorn finished resolutely, incensed by the very thought of Eldarion shouldering the consequences of a disturbing legacy.

“I understand, Elessar,” the ancient elf lord said gently, placing a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “Alas that the power of the Three Rings is gone from Middle-earth, and my own foresight is fast fading without the power that the Firstborn once held,” he continued sadly. “But come – what has been done is done, and it may yet turn out for the better. Let us turn our attention to finding a means of redeeming these Lost Ones.”

“Worm tunnels,” Legolas murmured, taking them all by surprise with what seemed a completely unrelated idea. He suddenly gripped Aragorn’s arm and reminded him: “You said tunnels!”

Several pairs of eyes stared at the elf prince, blinking in wonder. “Worm tunnels?” Elladan repeated, uncomprehending.

“What! Release them into – ppffft! – worm tunnels?” Gimli almost shouted with eyes big enough to rest teacups on. “Hoy, did you go daft back there on those Paths, Elfling? Aragorn, I told you to bring him back in one –”

“Not worm tunnels, Gimli – tunnels!” Legolas corrected him and turned back to Aragorn. “And one tunnel in particular.” As Aragorn continued to furrow his brows in bewilderment, the elf prince added: “Cirith Ungol, Aragorn, the tunnel in Cirith Ungol.”

Light began to dawn in the minds of his listeners as the elf prince pressed his point home:

“Shelob, Estel! If Sam’s account is to be believed, Shelob may still live.”

Taken aback for a moment, Gimli froze. Then he began to nod slowly. “Ai… ai, ai! That’s right, Elfling!” he agreed enthusiastically. “That brave little hobbit gave that eight-legged monster something to think about with Sting, he said, but not enough to kill it!”

“Yes, it slunk away, Sam said, back into its fly-and-orc-infested tunnel – no doubt to nurse its well-deserved wounds,” Elladan recalled, growing hopeful as well.

“Then it may yet be alive, still feasting on unsuspecting birds and whatever foul beasts still roam those Valar-forsaken lands,” Aragorn said. “It could have sustained itself on orc carcasses –”

“Ugh, spare us the privilege of your roving imagination, Man!” Gimli griped. “We can paint our own pictures, thank you kindly.” The dwarf turned to Legolas and smacked him on the back. “Looks like you didn’t lose your brains after all,” he said generously, receiving a thump on his shoulder in return.  

“Shelob never really served Sauron, but she did indeed aid him, devouring many of his unwanted prisoners, even the orcs that he spawned,” Aragorn reflected. “We’ve never considered hunting her down, thinking her powerless now, and she is well-hidden in the deep recesses of the mountain. But there is no harm in ridding the land of yet another old ally of the Dark Lord. I could lead the Host there, have them seek her out – ”

“Then do it, please, Sire, and quickly, for the sake of my uncle and the village!” Fierthwain demanded, from where he had stood listening for some time. He turned back to the simpering old man and spoke boldly to the One in him, his fear fleeing in the face of his anxiety. “Do you hear that, you filth? You and them over there – you can leave now and redeem yourselves! Leave us alone!”

“Leave,” the old man mumbled. “Yes, we want to leave…fulfill our oath…”

Lord Celeborn studied the old man for a moment. “It is many leagues away, Elessar,” he observed quietly, his eyes returning to Aragorn. “Many leagues to lead an army of the Dead; it will be quite a task.” 

“There seems little choice, my lord,” Aragorn replied in the same low tones. “But it may not be as hard as we might think. They are desperate for release; they will hear my call and follow me whither I lead them.”

“The Shades of Men were obedient to his will before,” Legolas stated. “But for the greater distance to our destination, it should be no different now.” He paused before adding: “At least, that is what we hope.”

“They are desperate,” Elladan agreed, addressing his grandsire. “They will not leave Estel, nor, I believe, seek to harm the only one who can liberate them.”

“Then it is settled,” Aragorn decided. “That will be their task: to free what remains of the Black Land from one more remnant of Sauron’s evil rule. That will be their redemption. And may it be complete then.”

“Aye, let us hope so,” Legolas said. “Our journey will have to be swift, and largely away from the towns and dwelling places, Estel, or your whole realm will be in terror wherever we pass. You will be known as the King of the Dead before e’er they meet you, till the end of your rule.”

Aragorn smiled wryly before releasing a sigh that carried his gloom. “Another tiring journey to redemption,” he said. “And even farther this time.”

“Should we not first stop at the White City, my lord?” Hamille asked. “To call upon the aid of Master Gamgee? It would be much easier to have with us one who has actually gone on that path, and the City is not too far off the route to Cirith Ungol. There will be no long detour to delay us.”

Aragorn narrowed his eyes and thought about Arwen and Eldarion, and the people of the City. “I am loathe to bring the Host anywhere near Minas Tirith,” he said before conceding the wisdom of the elf’s suggestion. “Yet, you speak truly, Hamille, hannon le. That is what we shall do, but only if he agrees to come with us. Should he choose not to repeat the misery of that experience, I shall not fault him.” 

“Send a man ahead, Elessar, to fetch him, if he will come – and also to keep your family informed of the events,” Lord Celeborn suggested, knowing how anxious his granddaughter must be about her husband. “Sam can meet us on the road, can he not?”

“Yes, my lord, that is best,” Aragorn agreed. “The Host will not come within sight of the City walls if I can help it.” The King spared no small thought for his Steward as well, who he feared would be out of his mind with worry by now.  

“Should we not commence our journey now?” asked Elladan, casting a furtive look in the direction where he knew the Shapes of the Dead were hovering beyond the group of Gondorian guards. “Look at them… waiting... but I suppose they have been suspended here for so long that a few hours or a few days longer means little, as long as they are now assured of the release they seek.”

“Well, I can’t see them, and that may be a good thing to be said for mortal eyes,” Gimli admitted.  “Still, they’re not the only ones keen to get going; I am too. I’m hungry enough to eat the rocks off the ground, and would love a good night’s sleep, but the sooner we have these ghastly fellows off our backs, the better, I say!”

“Hold! Please, my lord, wait!” Mathgor begged, stepping up to Aragorn before anyone could take a step. The man, despite his obvious concern over this father, had remained remarkably composed throughout, but now his face was wrung with anguish. “I have listened to your plans to lead the host to the City, which is many days’ ride from here, and, if I have heard correctly, you head for a place in the mountains beyond the City – a place that I know nothing of, save in the dark stories that speak of its evil and devastation.” The man paused to draw breath, but even before he spoke again, Aragorn knew what he was going to say. “Please – what of my father? He cannot – ”

Aragorn held up a hand to stop him, but not unkindly. “I have not overlooked him, Mathgor, and I speak of your father, not the one within,” the King said reassuringly. “This is where his agony ends, at Erech. Be at ease; he will not be going anywhere.”

Distress drained visibly from the face of the villager as he nodded, too filled with nervous anticipation to speak. He stepped aside as Aragorn approached the cart where his father leaned against the wooden restrains. Fierthwain stood over him, lips pursed in barely suppressed contempt of the people who did not seem to be doing enough to help his uncle.

“Old father,” Aragorn said, addressing Mathuil once more by the term he had used in the village. When the old man sat up and gave Aragorn an acidic look with overly bright eyes, Aragorn said firmly: “I will give you a chance to fulfill the oath you first took to do battle against the Dark Lord, and thereby redeem yourselves of your treachery.”

A look of relief crossed the old man’s face.  “At last,” he breathed, making Aragorn wonder fleetingly how ghosts would express joy if they were not residing in a mortal body.

“Now, leave this man and join your kin yonder so that I may lead you,” Aragorn instructed, indicating where the Host had been waiting a little distance away.

But to Mathgor’s horror, the One in Mathuil unexpectedly refused. “No, I will follow you as I am,” he insisted. “I remain where I am.”

For a moment, Aragorn was too surprised to speak. Then he grew angry at the defiance shown.

“What – remain in this frail old body?” he demanded. “Do you mean to rob it of any life it has left? We shall ride many leagues, and climb a great height on the steep face of a mountain before the end, and he will not survive the grueling journey! No! You will leave him and follow me!”

“Heir of Isildur, there is no other way to speak with you as clearly and easily, not when I am but a Shadow!” the Dead One argued, surprising everyone with his vehemence.

The King found the claim ludicrous. “Speak?!” he asked. “What would we have to discuss?” His hands fisted as he fought to restrain his ire. “Do you not wish to fulfill your oath?”

“Of course!” came the earnest reply.

“Will you fight the ally of Sauron as I command?”

“Yes!”

“Your release from this earth – is that not what you seek?”

“Yesssss!”

“And peace – is that not what you will follow me to find?”

“You know it is – ”

“Then I need hear no longer from you,” Aragorn declared, suddenly sickened by the presence of the Host and overwhelmed by the demands of the bizarre events. “You will do as I command, and when you have fulfilled your oath, I will set you free as you wish, and that shall be the end of it!”

A strange light flashed in the eyes of the old man, but it was extinguished as quickly as it had flared, and his face went impassive. “Yes,” he said dully. “Yes, it shall all end then.”

The quiet words stirred some uneasiness in the elves, but none could understand the meaning behind them. Legolas approached the cart himself and addressed the old man directly.

“Old One,” he said, a hint of uneasiness in his otherwise even voice. “Is there more you need to tell us?”

“Nothing more than what I have said,” Mathuil answered tersely. “But I ask that you let me remain in him till our oath is fulfilled, so there are no regrets.” 

Regrets? the elf prince wondered, looking enquiringly at the King.

In the few moments that followed, Aragorn first stared at the old man, then glanced at the grief-stricken, pleading face of his son, who had never uttered a word of blame against the King since the start of his family’s misfortunes. Then he looked into Legolas’ clear blue eyes and thought of the sweet-faced village child whose simple desire to speak with an elf prince was denied because her elders’ fears drove them to blame the hauntings on a race of beautiful beings who endured their insults for his sake. Finally, despite their ignorance, he thought of the villagers themselves, who looked to him as their King. He closed his eyes and made a decision.

“No,” he stated firmly, his arms rigid at his sides. “The only regret I will have is if he dies because I allowed you to stay in his helpless body. Depart from him!”

“Then let me find another –”

“You will take no other,” the King refused in a quietly dangerous voice that even Legolas did not wish to question. “You have done enough harm, and I will not be responsible for yet another life.” He drew a deep breath, and a cold, white fire flashed in his eyes when he issued his final threat: “Leave him now, or I will not issue the summons, or pardon you again, and you and your kin shall never, ever be free. Choose quickly.” 

The old man locked eyes with the heir of Isildur one last time before he cast them downward and exhaled in resignation. “So be it,” he said.

The three words were like kindling to the flame of hope in Mathgor and Fierthwain, who released the breaths they had been holding and looked at each other with renewed anticipation. But as the cousins moved as one to either side of the old man, they were checked by the voice of Lord Celeborn, who was approaching them.

“Wait!” the elf lord said. “Old One, I wish to know your thoughts – ”

“You will not touch him again!” Fierthwain cried, gritting his teeth and stepping between the elf lord and his uncle. “Hasn’t he suffered enough? He will be freed now. Don’t meddle – ”

The elf lord’s eyes blazed and he raised his hand to move the man aside, but before anything could be done, a strangled cry came from the figure behind Fierthwain, and the startled man swiveled around to find his uncle collapsed in the arms of his horrified cousin. This time, the elf lord did firmly push Fierthwain out of the way as Mathgor sank to the grass with his father in his arms. Aragorn and the elf lord were at his side in an instant, the King checking the old man for signs of life while Celeborn placed his hand on his brow. Both wore anxious faces. 

After a few moments, the King and the elf lord looked at each other, and their expressions softened. 

“He lives, Mathgor,” Aragorn said simply, receiving a smile of genuine relief from the man and feeling a great weight lifted from his own shoulders. “He lives.”

“I believe he is returned to you,” Celeborn added, getting to his feet. “He may be in a faint for a while – but he is free.”

“Take him home and let him rest as much as he needs,” Aragorn advised the villager. “Let us hope he will be whole again before too long.” 

“Sire, thank you!” Mathgor breathed, his eyes misting over with gratitude. “I thank you for my mother and myself. And for my cousin as well – please… forgive him.”

Aragorn smiled grimly and nodded. He watched the cousins lift the old man gently on to the cart and make him comfortable for the return journey before he turned back wearily to the others and the task awaiting him.

“Now comes the next step,” he noted tiredly. “There is no point in tarrying; it has to be done now.”

Hamille walked up to them with one of Aragorn’s guards. “I have briefed your men on the forthcoming journey, my lord,” the elf said. “You will have enough to bear, so with your permission, I will make the other necessary arrangements for you. You need but specify the route.”

Aragorn gave the elf a warm smile. “You have my permission, Hamille, and my gratitude,” he said.

Then the King spent a few minutes in discussion with the elves, Gimli and the captain of his escort to determine the route to be followed in the next few days.

“Tobëas is our swiftest rider, and he will ride ahead to fetch Mayor Gamgee, my lord,” the captain told Aragorn.

“Very well, but send with him my express orders: that neither the Queen nor Eldarion should come to meet us on the road,” the King instructed. “In fact,” he added after a moment’s consideration, “please request that the Lord Steward remain with them behind the City walls.” He lowered his voice as he explained: “These Forgotten People may not mean any malice, but I want Eldarion kept securely away from them, and I shall depend upon Lord Faramir to see to that.”

After Tobëas had been sent off with the King’s message, the discussion resumed. Aragorn and the remainder of the company would return south along the well-used road on which they had come: through Tarlang’s Neck, and as far as Ethring. But from there, instead of following the road to Lindir and Pelargir as they would have done under different circumstances, they would ride east along the plains of Lebennin, keeping close to the foot of the mountains to stay away from the more densely inhabited areas. Thus would they reach the Crossings at Erui and from there rejoin the road to the White City before pursuing the road to Cirith Ungol.

“Well, we’d best get going then,” Gimli said impatiently, looking around but deliberately avoiding the Shadow Host thronged at the perimeter of the group. “As I said, the sooner – ”

“Wait, Elessar, there is… another matter,” Celeborn interrupted. He looked steadily at Aragorn and Legolas before he stated: “I shall not be riding with you.”

The listeners around him could not have felt more stunned than if rocks had fallen on their heads.

“You will not be with us, hir nin?” Legolas asked, hardly believing what he had heard. “But why?”

“I do not mean to leave your company, young ones,” the elf lord replied. “But I feel uneasy about what the One in Mathuil said before he relinquished his hold on the old man. I wish I had been in time to read his thoughts. It may not have been anything sinister, but aside from that, I still feel troubled by the runes I saw above the Door on the Paths. I wish to decipher their full meaning, and I need to study records that can help me.”

“The archives in the Citadel – ” Aragorn offered, disheartened at the thought of the elf lord’s impending absence from this grim task.

“It will hardly contain records written in the speech of Mordor,” the elf lord countered. “I have learnt from my conversations with Mithrandir, however, that there will be records – notes, perhaps – in abundance in the stronghold of Saruman, who was in league with the Dark Lord. They stole from each other’s skill and knowledge to work their evil in many matters, and I should find enough there to help me understand those lines.”

The elf lord looked affectionately at his foster grandson and the child of Thranduil. “I do not abandon you needlessly, my children, nor thoughtlessly,” he said gently. “Where your task in Cirith Ungol is concerned, Elessar… my presence or absence will make no great difference, for it is yours to bend according to your will. But my heart is strongly drawn to those runes, and it speaks yet again that I should examine them. Therefore, let me not neglect them; I must hie away to the Tower of Orthanc at Isengard.”

“Then I shall accompany you, Daerada,” Elladan stated immediately. “But must we not first ride back east? We need to go around the spur of Muindollin before we can get onto the Great West Road to Isengard. And since the City lies there, we would still be with Estel till then at least, even if we do not enter the City itself.”

Though that observation rekindled hope in the face of the King, the elf lord did not seem pleased. “That will brook a delay I do not desire,” he said gravely, lapsing into silence. “I had hoped to follow a shorter, faster route to Orthanc.”   

Elladan gulped nervously before he could stop himself. “Shorter? Faster?” he asked. “You – you are not thinking of going through the Paths – to Dunharrow?”

His grandsire smiled. “Based on all I have heard, that is the shortest way, tithen pen,” the elf lord replied. “But nay, I will not take the Paths again. Even without the Dead, it is an unpleasant place altogether.” Hiding his amusement at the sigh of relief from his grandson, the elf lord continued: “I wonder if there is an alternative route I can take; perhaps Mathgor could help, since he must know this part of the land better than we do.”

“Indeed I can, my lord,” said the man in question as he walked up to the little group. “I could not help overhearing your plans, and I would be pleased to aid you however I can.”

Despite the uncertainty of everything happening around them, it gladdened the hearts of Aragorn and the elves to see the evident change in Mathgor’s demeanor and the lightness in his voice, now that he was free of the anguish he had borne with so much fortitude. They listened readily to the option he proposed.

“There is a pass yonder – ” he pointed towards the north-east “ – that leads over the Ered Nimrais to the Folde and the West Road. It is little used, but accessible in the Spring and Summer. It would greatly reduce the distance you wish to traverse, for you will have no need to travel all the way back to the City to come around again. It is a safe road, and if you would have my company, I will lead you at least to the start of the Pass.”

Celeborn and Elladan looked pleased, but doubt still lingered on the King’s face.

“Yes, I have heard it spoken of, and if you say so, Mathgor, it would be a viable alternative,” Aragorn said. “But… my lord, the Tower is locked, and the key lies in the City where I have kept it securely since the end of the Quest and the demise of the Wizard. You would need to first retrieve it there.”

Gimli, having observed the exchange with some consternation, decided reluctantly to intervene. He walked up to Legolas and cleared his throat.

“Well, Elfling, it looks like we’ll have to go separate ways for a while longer,” he sniffed. Smirking at the elf’s puzzled look, the dwarf turned to Lord Celeborn and made his offer. “I will ride with you to Isengard, my lord, for a lock poses little difficulty to the Miners of Middle-earth, and a trusty axe will make short work of it if one knows where to strike,” he said with pride. “Besides, a fair bit of explosive powder is available at the Glittering Caves nearby, should we need it.”  

In response, the elf lord looked at the dwarf so intently that the stocky figure squirmed and looked away from his gaze as he done once long ago in the Golden Wood where Galadriel had read his heart.

“Great was my Lady’s insight, and her affection well-placed,” Celeborn declared with a fond smile, surprising the dwarf further and deepening his blush. “I accept your generous offer, Master Gimli; it is very welcome.”  

As Gimli blushed as he once had at Galadriel’s beaming smile, Legolas grinned and bent down to whisper in his friend’s ear. “So, you work your way into the heart of yet another of the Firstborn,” he teased. “Fittingly do you wear the name of elvellon, Elf Friend!”

Snorting to conceal his pride and satisfaction, the dwarf patted his belt and waved his friend away with an air of feigned nonchalance.

Thus it was settled that Celeborn, Elladan and Gimli would cross the Ered Nimrais through the pass, the mouth of which began not too great a distance from the Hill of Erech. After obtaining the information they needed in Isengard, they would ride back along the Great West Road to rejoin the company in Minas Tirith or Cirith Ungol.

“I know not what I will learn, Elessar,” the elf lord said honestly, “but I hope it will not be dire, and that my concerns are but empty misgivings. I pray that your business in the Black Land is concluded swiftly, that we may meet again in the City.”

Aragorn nodded. “May it be so,” he said.

“We will return as soon as we can,” Lord Celeborn assured the King, and he graced Aragorn and Legolas with a smile. “May no great dangers lie ahead for you, but should you face any, take care of each other, and keep the Lady’s Glass close.”

“Now at last, perhaps we can understand the Lady’s purpose in sending it,” Legolas suggested, trying to maintain cheer in his voice, “for it was in Cirith Ungol that Sam and Frodo were first aided by the star-glass, as they called it.”

“That might be,” Celeborn replied. “Be alert, young ones, the spawn of Ungoliath will probably be very hungry, and her sting may not have lost its potency.” 

After warm farewells had been exchanged between the two groups who would be riding in separate directions, they were at last ready to depart from Erech. As arranged, some of Aragorn’s guards rode on ahead to warn villagers and townsfolk to remain indoors where the King’s little procession might pass.

Gimli gave his elven friend a scowl. “If you or that human come back half-dead, Legolas, I will gladly finish the job myself!” he warned. “So don’t give me the pleasure!”

The elf prince grinned. “Then pray do not impose the same fate upon Lord Celeborn with the tedium of your trade secrets, Gimli,” he rejoined. “The elves of the Golden Wood have no need of detailed instruction in the two hundred and seventeen ways of cutting crystals!” With that taunt, the elf prince patted his friend on the shoulder, receiving a snort in response, and joined Aragorn at the head of his company.

Mathgor gave Hamille the food that had been generously provided by his mother and some of the less intimidated villagers, and received fair parting words from his King. Fierthwain turned the cart around, with his uncle comfortably settled on blankets at the back, for the return trip to the village. Much of the dourness had gone from the taciturn face of Mathuil’s nephew, but while he acknowledged Aragorn and his royal escort with as polite a farewell nod as he could manage, and even spared the dwarf a brief if indifferent look, he blatantly averted his eyes from the Firstborn.

But such behavior was of little concern to Aragorn and the Elves at this moment, for the King’s thoughts were bent only on the immediate need to summon the Dead to complete their final task.

Looking once more the poised, stern ruler upon his steed, he unsheathed Andúril in one smooth motion and raised it high, so that the night air rang with its Voice, and the rays from the sickle in the sky glinted silver on the Flame of the West, drawing reverence towards its kingly wielder rather than the Black Stone behind him. And though none saw it, there glittered, too, a gleam of pride in the eyes of Legolas as he beheld the strength and stature of his friend who refused to be bowed by the burden of his task.

“Oathbreakers of the Mountain, I call thee by the Black Stone!” Aragorn addressed the Dead in a clear, firm voice. “And by the heir of Isildur shall you be released when the time comes. We ride to the Black Land to free it from the ally of the Dark Lord! Follow me and do as I bid so you may redeem yourselves and find peace! Will you do this in fulfillment of your oath?”

Again, as from far away, a vague “yea!” resounded among the Dead. For a moment, it seemed strange to think of Mathguil’s forefather being among them now, but the moment passed, and Aragorn turned his face south. Armored with resolution, he led the company on the start of their ride to redemption for the last of the Lost and Forgotten People.

Note: Gimli’s remark about stories having twists and turns was a shot at myself, made on behalf of readers who feel the same way.  :–)

For those who have never encountered Sarambaq, he’s a character in my first story For the Love of the Lord of the White Tree.  You’re welcome to meet him there.

My thanks to my wonderful reviewers.

CHAPTER 16:  A FACELESS FEAR

Much of the next few days passed in a daze for the King of Gondor. Never had Aragorn made such a strange ride: with a host of unseen, angry ghosts ever on his tail, a group of otherwise valiant Gondorian guards who were terrified by them, two elven companions who were not, and he himself the only one whose commands the specters would obey.

The company rode over hills and plains, and as fast as they could, but the country roads were rough and rocky and often winding, and the way was not easy. The outriders who went ahead did an efficient job of keeping the townspeople and village folk indoors whenever the company was forced to pass in the vicinity of homesteads. Indeed, their task was not a difficult one, for in many places the news that “the Dead of the Mountain have been released, and the King leads them!” spread like wildfire from tongue to tongue ere the guards ever had the chance to sound the warning.

And the people bolted themselves in, although the bolder and more curious dared to peep out from behind window shades. If it was day, they saw nothing but the King and his shining elven companions, followed by his guards in the livery of the Citadel, and they were oddly disappointed. But if the King passed by night and the waning moon was not veiled by clouds, the keener-eyed perceived the constant luminous haze behind them. And that scene became the stuff of stories told around fires, mugs of ale in the inns and taverns, and market-places the next morning and for days afterward.

Too thrilled with what they were witnessing in their day and age, they spared little thought for what their King was going through, and knew not his consideration of their welfare by choosing to avoid the easier open roads and to ride instead along less-traveled paths – sometimes overgrown and rocky, sometimes steep and narrow – that slowed their progress. 

Aragorn and his guards ate and slept little, and their mortal spirits were low, but the men of Gondor held on to the strength and will of their King, and did their best to ignore the Host that they knew were constantly lingering around them. Some men were always awake lest the spirits suddenly decided to turn treacherous as they once had, till utter weariness seeped under their skins so that they became as walking Dead themselves.

The elves slept even less, for they had not the relief of mortal eyes that could choose to overlook the Dead and leave them forgotten for a little while. To the elves, the ghosts were ever-present, ever within sight, a constant reminder to Legolas to be vigilant – not for himself – but for his mortal friend.

Tonight, the elf prince could see their pale shapes hovering beneath a tall tree a little distance away, always not far from the King on whose mercy they depended. The company was camped in a grassy area beneath an unusually large outcrop of rock that jutted out from a cliff face like a roof, and even though the sickle of Ithil had thinned to a sliver over the past few nights, and was now hidden behind unfriendly clouds so that the area was in deep darkness, Legolas and Hamille could still perceive the ghostly figures. Hamille had indicated the location of the Host to the Gondorians so that they would not wander near them with torches and inadvertently kindle a sudden blaze of fierce red eyes. The men did not need a second reminder and camped themselves a fair bit away.

Aragorn lay himself down in one corner of the dark space under the rock canopy, and soon fell asleep, exhausted beyond awareness. Under the feeble light of a small torch someone had lit and wedged in a large fissure, Legolas eyed his friend with concern, noting how – despite his stoicism – the man seemed to grow a little more listless with each passing day, and his face sometimes took on a wan hue.

“This drawn-out task is taking a terrible toll on his body and spirit,” Legolas observed as he and Hamille seated themselves nearby, leaning against the rock face. “I am compelled to feel pity for the Twice Forgotten, but I loathe them no less for what their presence means to Estel. I would that his agony were ended this instant!”

Hamille turned to eye the Host, sharing Legolas’ sentiments. Then he spoke quietly to his prince.  

“You have hardly taken any rest or sleep either, bridhon nin,” he said. “Even elves need it at some point, and since nothing is likely to happen, may I suggest you find some reverie tonight?”

Legolas shook his head wearily, but before he could voice an argument, Hamille spoke again. “Saes, Legolas,” he pleaded, knowing that his prince found it hard to refuse him when he reverted to the use of his name. “Lord Elessar will need your strength, not your fatigue.”

Legolas sighed at the truth of his friend’s statement, but returned a challenge: “And what of yourself, Hamille?”

“I slept as we rode,” the brown-haired elf replied immediately, and Legolas had to smile, knowing that it was indeed possible for elves to find rest and wander in dreams even as they walked open-eyed on the paths of this world. “I told my horse to follow Rallias’ lead, and left it to him,” Hamille added. “You should have done the same with Amel, but you did not.”

His prince smiled again, amused at how well the elf knew him. “Nay, I did not,” he confessed, “and I do not know if I shall be able to find sleep now, but let me sit here in silence and rest, and if I should fall into reverie, then consider your counsel taken.”

The brown-haired elf nodded, settling for the answer given, but now it was his prince who looked askance at him. “And when were you going to tell me about it, Hamille?” he asked quietly.

A pair of eyebrows rose in surprise, and brown eyes locked with blue in an unblinking gaze before Hamille sighed and hung his head resignedly. “I could not hide it, could I?” he asked, bending over and crossing his arms over his stomach as he abandoned his pretense.

“From other eyes, perhaps,” Legolas replied, draping an arm over the elf’s shoulders, “but not from me, dear friend, not from me. It has been clear to me for the past two days, though you have borne it well.”

“And it is not even anywhere near the Sea, bridhon nin,” Hamille lamented, smiling sadly.

“It is still new to you, Hamille,” Legolas said consolingly, though he shared the elf’s distress. “You feel the keenness of a fresh wound… but it will dull in time, mellon nin. Ai…I wish I could bear this longing for you…”  

Hamille stopped him with a light touch. “Say not another word, Legolas, you have your own to manage.”

A few moments of silence followed before the elf prince spoke again. “Hamille, I do not want you to follow us into the Black Land,” he said. “Leave the road and return to Ithilien at the earliest chance.”

The brown-haired elf looked quickly at his prince, a tiny crease forming between the fine eyebrows. “You cannot – ”

“I can and I do insist on it,” Legolas stated in a firmer tone than Hamille had heard him use in a long time. “Being among our kin will take your mind off the Sea-longing, and our fair woods will be a better balm than anything else you may find. Saes, listen to me this time, Hamille – please.”

An objection was obviously on the tip of Hamille’s tongue, but he bit it back. “We shall see when the time comes,” he said instead. “But let us now seek some rest ere this night passes, and while our Dead companions over there are quiet, for who knows when they might decide to turn violent.”

And so the two Firstborn sat side by side, ever aware of the pale shapes nearby that were speechless but shifting, and always waiting. The elves trained their keen eyes elsewhere when they grew tired of the sight of them, but they never abandoned their caution. Neither elf felt like singing or speaking, but each was glad for the company of the other.

One hour passed or two, Legolas did not know, but as the night grew older, tiredness crept upon him as well. The moon remained hidden, and all was still in the camp, till even the crickets ceased to chirp, as if they had all fled from the presence of the Dead.

Then, in the deepest part of the night, when Men should long have been drifting in dreamscape, the skin on Legolas’ neck tingled… and when he looked up, his elven eyes beheld a dark shape. It was tall and straight, and it emerged from nothingness to stand before him in the blackness.

A startled gasp escaped the elven throat, and in mute astonishment did Legolas stare at the figure. Phantom-like it seemed… yet it did not waver nor vanish. For some reason, it felt both familiar and strange.

The figure continued to stand still before the elf, appearing lost and forlorn, and as Legolas locked his eyes on it, he was assailed by a great sense of sorrow emanating from it, and so keen was its despair that it drew tears from some unknown well within his elven heart. Yet, it was not mere sorrow that the elf prince felt, for he found, to his own shock, that he was also suddenly cold and frightened.

Then the dark shape turned slowly, and after a moment of hesitation, began to walk away, leaving the refuge of the rock canopy. As it walked, recognition flared suddenly in Legolas’ heart. That gait… that stride!

“Aragorn?” he breathed, hardly believing that his lips had formed that name. But the figure did not turn. “Aragorn!” he called again, to no avail, for the figure kept moving away.

Quickly, the elf turned to rouse Hamille at his side, but to his utter shock, where his friend had been moments ago – he found only dark, unoccupied space. Hamille was gone.

The astonished elf swept his eyes over the camp, urgently seeking his elven companion and Aragorn’s guards – but his mouth went dry as he realized, to his utter dread, that he could see no one. Not a single soul. The camp was empty, bereft of life but for himself and the figure walking away.

He swiveled around to the place where the Host had been – but they too were gone.

How can this be! the elf screamed inwardly, peering into the deep dark.

Panic now arose in him, and he jumped to his feet. He did not know where everyone else was, but he could care for nothing else now save the figure walking away, leaving…

“Aragorn!” he cried once more, and ran after the man, taking only a few moments to reach him. He grasped the man’s arm and spun him around roughly. “Aragorn, where are you going?” he demanded.

Legolas knew the feel of his friend’s arm and the shape of his shoulders, but when the figure faced him, his face was covered by a curtain of dark, lank hair, and the black of the night further hid the features from view. Fear flowed like ice through the elven veins.

“Aragorn, why are you here?” he asked hoarsely, gripping the arm.

The voice that replied was known to him. It was indeed that of Aragorn, but the words – slurred and deliberate – were not, for it seemed to come from a lost, empty soul.

“Who are you?” it asked.

The question stabbed at Legolas’ heart as sudden terror assailed him, and his hand fell trembling from the man’s arm. He swallowed and answered shakily: “It is I, Aragorn… it is I. What is happening?” 

No response came from Aragorn. He remained standing before Legolas with his arms at his sides, unmoving and silent. Then it said limply: “I know you not,” and turned away again to continue its journey.

Legolas’ eyes widened in shock as tears stung them.  “Aragorn!” he called again. Clamping a vice-like grip on the man’s arm, he spun him around again, and this time, the elf swept aside the curtain of hair from the face so that he could look into his friend’s eyes.

The elf gave a cry of horror, and his hands snapped back from the figure before him as if scorched. Legolas felt the blood drain from him and his legs grew weak, for, before him – where his elven hands had brushed aside familiar dark hair and touched flesh – there stared back at him a blank face with no features.

Blank. It was blank, like a pale, empty canvas, a flat plane of flesh devoid of eyes and nose and mouth that made a Man a Man.

From whence Aragorn’s voice had emerged, Legolas could not know. But greater than the confusion that had him in its clutches was the pain that seared his heart: for, the friend he held dearer than life had, by some cruel, confounding act of fate, lost his face. And robbed of who he had been, the faceless being had denied knowing him.

The elf stumbled backwards, almost senseless with shock. “Aragorn…” he rasped, choking on his own tears of fear and grief. “Aragorn, what is this? Aragorn? Aragorn…!” 

“Legolaaaaas…” he heard his name being called as from a distance. He stared at the blank canvas before him, trying to understand how a mouthless face could be talking to him. “Legolaaas,” it called again. “Legolaaas…”

The elf shut his eyes in terror, but he felt his shoulders being shaken, and a voice was speaking into his ear. “Legolas! Oh Valar, Legolas, please wake!”  

His eyes snapped open, and he felt as if his self was rushing back from a different time and space. He found himself staring into anxious eyes: not those of Aragorn, but of Hamille kneeling before him, grasping his shoulder with one hand and cupping his chin with the other.  “Legolas, what is wrong? What ails you?” the elf asked worriedly, alarmed by the tears on the fair cheeks.

Blinking, Legolas reached out and ran his hands over his astonished friend’s face, making certain the elf was real, before he looked around in a daze. He found himself seated where he had been before, and a quick look around him convinced him that Aragorn’s guards were where they had been some distance away, and the Shadow Host was still lingering beneath the tree where he had last seen them.

Legolas exhaled and rested his forehead on Hamille’s arm. “A nightmare, mellon nin,” he breathed. “I fell asleep… only a nightmare…”

And before Hamille could ask further, the prince stood in one urgent, fluid motion and strode purposefully to the dimly lit area under the rock canopy where Aragorn had retired. His heart leapt with gratitude when he saw the figure under the blankets; Aragorn was lying on his stomach, his head turned to one side, still sound asleep from weariness.

Walking swiftly over to him, he knelt and first ran a hand lightly over the Ranger’s form from top to bottom, needing to reassure himself that his friend was there, warm and solid. Then he sat in front of Aragorn’s turned head and studied it. Dark hair had fallen over his face, hiding the features from view, and the limp strands lifted with each gentle breath from a nose that could not be seen.

Legolas felt his heart flutter like the restless shadows cast by the flickering torch. With the grotesque images from his nightmare still haunting him, the elf held his breath and reached out a shaking hand to gently brush the strands of hair aside, bracing himself for whatever he might encounter. 

But there it was: the face of the friend he loved. It was lined with exhaustion and a little grimy from the long journey, and the finer aspects could not be completely discerned in the dark. But it was whole and familiar, and every feature was in place.

Legolas exhaled and stifled a sob, and without a second thought, bent to place the lightest of kisses on the forehead. Then he whipped out the Phial from beneath his tunic and placed it on the ground a little distance away, letting the Light of Aragorn’s ancestor illuminate the kingly face – now innocent in slumber. His fears barely eased, the elf yearned to run his trembling fingers over the brow and eyelids, and the high bridge of the nose, and the lips that could be firm and brooding or quick to laughter – just to convince himself they were surely there: each curve, each crease marking worry and laughter, and every undulation of bone and flesh – but the elf clenched his fists and refrained from disturbing the much-needed rest. And he allowed himself only the consolation of visual affirmation.

Then he rose and left briefly, but only long enough to assure a bewildered Hamille that he was well, before he returned to sit next to the sleeping figure once more. He leaned against the wall, content to watch the rise and fall of the man’s back as he breathed, while his own breathing slowed and his tears dried.

For a while, he agonized over what the nightmare meant: was it mere dream… or a foreshadow, a glimpse into some unimaginable fate…?

The question weighed heavily on the elf’s mind, but he found no answer, for it remained as faceless as the frightening vision he had confronted. In the end, he chose not to dwell longer on the horror but drew comfort from the fact that he had not lost the friend most precious to him.

Yet, minutes later, the elf’s heart could not help its painful lurch when Aragorn stirred slightly and his dark hair fell forward again to erase his face from view. Legolas bit back a cry. Without hesitation, he pulled out several strands of his own long hair – golden elven silk strong enough to string a bow with – and with slender fingers that worked deftly even in the dark, wove it into a little cord. Bending down, he gently lifted the errant hair from Aragorn’s face and gathered it behind his ears, using the fine cord he had made to tie the dark hair into a loose pony tail at the back, and so light was his touch that the sleeper did not wake.

Then Legolas sat back and looked at the face in satisfaction. Now, he could see it clearly, and no matter how the sleeping figure turned, it would remain visible to him for the rest of the night. On the morrow, he would have to explain everything to Hamille, and then – because he was determined that the awful nightmare would remain unknown to Aragorn – he would have to provide some reasonable explanation when the man asked why his hair had been bound in threads of gold as he slept.

But for tonight… tonight, the elf would follow his heart.  He would do whatever it took to find comfort in the reassuring sight of a countenance he never wanted to lose.

He kept his blue eyes on the face for the remainder of the dark hours, imprinting every feature of it upon his memory with each passing moment. Patiently, he waited for the dawn to come so that he could put away the Lady’s Glass and watch the rays of the sun kiss the King awake.

  ---------------------------------------<<>>---------------------------------------

Aragorn rose from the depths of drowsiness that morning to find himself greeted by a nervous smile and somewhat troubled expression on the fair face of Legolas.

Surprise turned to bafflement when he saw a hint of dried tears on the elven cheeks, and even more so when the elf held him in an unwavering gaze and said testily: “Estel… I am pleased to see you again, my friend.”

The King could not understand why his companion seemed to wait tensely for a response.

And then, when the cobwebs of sleep had parted enough for the dazed man to reply: “And I you, Legolas – as always,” he could only wonder at the sigh of relief from the elven lips, the radiant smile that appeared beneath moist blue eyes, and the depth of love in the embrace he received. 

Note:  Thank you to all who take the time to review and 'fuel' me on this journey.

CHAPTER 17: SHUTTERS

For two more days after Legolas’ horrifying nightmare, Aragorn’s company and the Shadow Host that was ever at their rear rode along the longer, hidden paths along the southern foothills of the Ered Nimrais, always heading east. They stopped only for quick, meager meals before picking their weary selves up to continue riding: two elves and several bleary-eyed Men of Gondor keeping to themselves, avoiding the eyes of the masses as if they were inflicted with the plague, when in truth there rode the noblest of Men and of Elves – a King and a Prince – with the purest of purposes in their unsullied hearts.

Yet, even the purest of hearts are housed in bodies that must needs be cleansed. Thus when they came across a large stream, an offshoot of the River Sirith, they allowed themselves the refreshment of a bath, and it mattered not that the water was almost painfully cold.

“Brrrr… that was chilly, but aaah…truly welcome!” Aragorn sighed happily as he emerged dripping from the stream, silvery drops of water running off his bronzed skin to fall noiselessly into the soft turf beneath his feet.

“And too long delayed,” Legolas agreed, sweeping his wet hair back from his comely face. He accepted the cloth Aragorn handed him and bent down to towel his long legs. 

Aragorn ceased his movements in the midst of drying his chest, and looked askance at his friend. “Was that remark meant for yourself or for me?”

A small laugh escaped the elf’s lips. “The desire was greater for some; and for others – the need,” he replied obliquely without looking up.

The King smirked and gave the elven arm a light punch. “At least you’re honest, my friend,” he conceded, resuming the task of drying himself before re-dressing. “Some clean clothes now would not be remiss,” he muttered.

“You will find no argument from me on that score either,” the elf mumbled from behind the shirt he was pulling on over his arms and head.

“I heard that clearly, too,” Aragorn snorted before he chuckled. He reached over and helped yank the shirt down over the moist skin. His heart felt lightened, not only by the bath he had just had but by the note of cheer in the elf’s voice. An air of despondency had seemed to surround Legolas since the morning the man had awoken to the tinge of nervousness on the elven face and the unexpected embrace, as well as the discovery of a pony tail that had magically formed during his sleep.

A round of questions from the King had yielded no clarification from the elf other than that he had been worried about the whole situation they were in, and that he had fastened Aragorn’s hair because it bothered him to see it thus unruly. Legolas’ obvious reluctance to dwell on the subject had made Aragorn refrain from probing further despite a lingering doubt. After all, the man thought, this was a difficult time for all of them.

“I am so sorry, mellon nin, that we are all in this mess,” Aragorn said now, brushing his fingers through his dark, wet locks. “Ai, what a tangled web it is that has been woven for us!” 

“But not one thread of it has been by your design,” Legolas rejoined as his golden head appeared from the neckline of his shirt. “And speaking of webs… you must be thinking of what is to come, Estel.”

Aragorn grimaced and cast a glance at where he thought the Dead would be waiting in the deep shade under the spreading branches of a low oak. “Aye, every waking moment, Legolas… like a constant nightmare, even with my eyes open.”

A twinge of pain crossed Legolas’ face at those words, and the keen eyes of the King did not miss it. The elf prince turned his back to his friend so that the man would not read his expression, and began drying his hair. But Aragorn walked up to him and picked up several strands of the elven hair between his fingers to study them before the elf could pull away.

“Will you still refuse to speak about it, Legolas?” the man asked quietly as the elf spun around to face him. “Come, my friend, it’s been two days. What ailed you that night, and why have you slept so little since?” He reached into the pocket of his tunic and closed his fingers around the cord of gold Legolas had fashioned two nights ago.

The elven face paled a little at those questions though the prince’s expression remained unruffled. “I have told you, Aragorn, I had a restless night,” he stated truthfully as he continued to comb his hair with his slender fingers. “But it is past.”

“Then why do you fear to sleep?” the man pressed on, never removing his shrewd eyes from the elven countenance. “And why was my hair fastened – with this?” He held out the finely braided cord.

“I had naught else to use – ”

“But why was there a need to do it in the first place?” Aragorn persisted. After two days of watching his friend’s disquiet, he hoped the elf would unburden himself from whatever was distressing him. Legolas never lied, the man knew, and if he probed long enough, he would discover the truth. He was thus taken aback at the sudden sharpness in the elf’s reply.

“As I said, I did not like to see your hair fall in that manner while you slept!” Legolas said, with an edge to his voice that had not been heard in a long while. “Saes, Estel – do not query me again.” The elf looked pleadingly at him with wide eyes, and to the man’s alarm, the elven lips began to quiver with an obvious effort to hold in some emotion.

Immediately contrite, Aragorn suppressed the urge to question him further, and grasped both of the elf’s arms. “I did not mean to distress you, mellon nin,” he said apologetically. “Forgive me, I will not ask again.” He tightened his grip when Legolas made to pull away, and he locked his eyes with those of the elf. “I’m no clearer about what so greatly disturbed you that night,” Aragorn said. “But please do not drown yourself in so much anguish, dear friend – my task is almost over.”

Smiling weakly, Legolas took a deep breath and nodded to put Aragorn at ease. Then Hamille, whose keen ears and eyes had perceived all that took place, approached them with light, tactful steps. When the two friends turned to face him, he donned an expression of cheer.

“The men have caught and roasted some hare to turn our lunch of stale bread into a veritable feast, my lord,” he said brightly to Aragorn before facing his prince with soft eyes. “And I have found some fresh berries you will enjoy, Bridhon nin. Come, if you are ready - some churning stomachs await our company!”

Legolas looked at Hamille gratefully, and the three companions strolled over to where the aroma of roasting conies beckoned, quipping about the wine and venison they would relish once their task was accomplished.

True to his word, Aragorn pried no further into the events of two nights past. But for each night thereafter, Legolas noted – to his great comfort – that his friend slept with his hair fastened with the soft, strong elven cord, and that he made certain that the elf saw it before he retired.  

  ------------------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------------------

While the days and the leagues passed for Aragorn and his company along the hard paths south of the Ered Nimrais, Lord Celeborn and his companions were traversing a considerably easier route to the ruins of Isengard. Unlike the King of Gondor, they had no Shadow Host burdening them, and after they had crossed the narrow but quiet pass that Mathgor had led them to, they were free to ride swiftly upon the open Great West Road, and to stop where they wished for food and rest.

It was thus that they were able to make a brief stop at the Glittering Caves and then receive the hospitality of King Éomer at the Golden Hall, before they resumed their journey across the plains of Rohan to the former stronghold of Saruman. But where there had been three in the company, there were now five.  

“We will go with you, Gimli – we can ride!” a couple of younger dwarves, Bragor and Dagor, had said excitedly when Gimli brought Lord Celeborn and Elladan to the Glittering Caves.

Gimli’s eyes had gone round and wide as he looked from one brother to the other. “Now, why would that be necessary?” he demanded.

The brothers exchanged glances that carried some meaning Gimli could not fathom. But then they cast cautious glances at the elves and spoke in loud whispers, tumbling over each other in the Dwarven tongue to their friend and chief.

“You may be confident about throwing your lot in with these Elves,” said Bragor, “but we haven’t quite come to the point where we’re willing to cast caution to the winds.”

“Now hold on – ” Gimli had begun.

“Your friend the Prince we’re used to seeing – ” Dagor had said, ignoring the protest.

“Even his father, despite his arrogance – ”

“That was in the past! He was our visitor only recently!” Gimli had reminded them.

“ – but these are strangers – ” 

“Not that we think they will actually do you any harm, no, no,” Bragor had added hastily at the narrowing of Gimli’s bushy eyebrows. “But Aüle knows what fix they will lead you into – ”

“ – and we’d just as soon keep you from landing in hot soup as fish you out after – soggy beard, boots and all!”

“Besides,” Bragor had chimed in again before Gimli could say a word in retort. “We’ve been to Orthanc. It’s as solid as the rock of the Lonely Mountain – ”

“Harder! You can’t nick a dent in that devil-smooth black stone!”

“And even if you tried the door, the lock might turn your axe – ”

– and then you’d be grateful we were around to help!”

Bragor and Dagor had finished with identical glares and arms crossed firmly across their broad chests. Stumped for a rejoinder at the end of their argument, Gimli had simply opened and shut his mouth wordlessly for a few moments before throwing up his hands in surrender.

“Oh come along then!” he said a little impatiently, torn between his irritation at the dwarves for doubting his ability to take care of himself and his secret pleasure at what seemed to be their concern for him. “It’ll be less painful than arguing than you. But mind you keep up with us, or you’ll see nothing but the dust of our horses’ hooves!”  

And so two elves and three dwarves had set off for the ruins of Isengard, with Bragor and Dagor sharing a small horse that – to Gimli’s chagrin – had indeed seen the dust of the elvish horses and mare of Rohan for much of the way, being the bearer of two less experienced riders: the one in front doggedly hanging on to the reins with tightly clenched fists, and the one behind frantically clinging to his brother’s waist with sweaty hands. Huffing and puffing as hard as the horse to keep up with the three riders in front, the two dwarves had eventually abandoned bawdy beer-drinking songs for quick, solid curses.   

“It’s a good thing we didn’t have to lug any of that exploding powder along,” Gimli said as he stole a backward glance at the brothers.

“There is more in the store-rooms, you say?” Elladan asked.

“By Bragor’s account, yes,” Gimli replied. “We didn’t take that much from Saruman’s stores – just enough to help us break up the larger rock remnants at Helms’ Deep. There should be some left. In fact, there’s all kinds of stuff left in the store-rooms – the ones on higher ground, that is – above the water.” Gimli explained how Treebeard and his friends had saved what they thought they should from the pits around Orthanc before filling the gaping chasm with fresh water from the river.

“Who’d have thought the Ents could have turned that traitor’s stronghold into a beautiful place?” Elladan said, recollecting how they had all been pleasantly surprised by the scene that had greeted them after the Quest. Even in the short space of time between the destruction of Isengard and Aragorn’s return to it after his coronation, Treebeard and his Ents had revived Isengard with the planting of fruit trees and created a lake around the citadel.

“Aye, hidden away in Fangorn, old Treebeard may not know the full worth of his efforts,” Gimli agreed. “He has opened up the once-forbidden land of the Treeslayer, for many weary travelers stop to rest at Treegarth as it is now known, to derive pleasure from the fruits of the Ents’ labors – and I truly mean fruits! Why, someone has even left a boat to row on the lake, and you can go right up to the steps of Saruman’s precious citadel. No one can enter it, of course, but it’s close enough to vex that old villain if he weren’t dead. Ha! If he were alive to see it now, he’d die all over again from rage!”  

Elladan laughed lightly. “You make me wish to view it again this instant, Gimli!” he said. “There is a boat, you say? That is good – I had not thought about how we should get across to the Tower. It has been ages since I have rowed one.”

“You shall soon have the chance,” said Lord Celeborn, peering into the distance with his far-seeing eyes. “Already Isengard approaches.”

Indeed, the black, gleaming tower of Orthanc loomed into stark contrast against the sunlit sky before long, rising out of the sea of lush green orchards and shimmering blue waters of the lake. Two sentinel trees greeted them where once had stood the formidable gates of Isengard, inviting the riders onto the green-bordered path that ran to Orthanc. The two elves and Gimli waited at the trees till Bragor and Dagor had caught up, before entering Treegarth.

Despite the beauty of the orchard, Gimli’s memory was not entirely purged of what he had witnessed eleven years ago after the Ents had first wreaked their frenzied fury upon it. In his mind, he began to see the doors of the stone circle around Isengard lying hurled and twisted on the ground, much of the stone cracked and splintered into countless jagged shards, once-arrogant towers beaten into dust, and twisted pillars rearing their splintered stems above a bubbling cauldron of steaming water…

The warble of a thrush brought the dwarf’s wandering memory back to the present, and the images of the spoils of the war on Isengard faded into mist for the moment. For where once Saruman had destroyed and killed, there were now myriad signs of life: thriving green trees, their leaves sighing happily in the breeze; colored blossoms and fruit in abundance; birdsong to trill and delight waiting ears; and the silvery flash of darting fish in the cool, clear waters of the stream and lake.

“The face of the world changes ever, age after age,” Celeborn said quietly as his bright blue eyes scanned the scene around them, his long silver hair framing his wistful expression. “And what has passed – for better or for worse – shall never be again.”

Gimli pondered his words in silence, suddenly aware of the thousands upon thousands of years the elf lord had lived and walked this earth, and the dwarf could not begin to fathom how much the Lord of Lothlorien had witnessed and done, and all the changes that had taken place, and all the lives that had been and passed, while the Firstborn remained and lived on.

“Yet in one respect Isengard has not changed, Daerada,” Elladan said, breaking into Gimli’s thoughts. He looked straight before him at the gleaming tower that grew ever larger in their vision.

And indeed, eleven years had passed since the death of the White Hand that had once been its master; but Orthanc – Mount Fang to the elves, The Cunning Mind to the people of the Mark – still stood dark and strong on its rock island in the middle of the lake, still intimidating, like a silent challenge to its foes even in defeat.

“Do you think its walls still retain their strength?” Elladan asked. “After all, the power of Saruman is no more.”

“It looks as it did when last we set eyes upon it,” Celeborn noted, “but perhaps it was impregnable then only because of the dark wizardry that guarded it and was set in its stone. That force is extinguished – and with it we can hope for some weakening in the strength of his citadel.”

There was indeed a boat at the edge of the lake, and it was the source of quiet amusement for Lord Celeborn as he once again witnessed the lack of love between Dwarves and water-bound vessels. He had first seen Gimli’s discomfort during the Quest when the Fellowship left Lothlorien in the three elven boats, but the dwarf had apparently gained some confidence from that long journey along the Anduin, for here he was chastising the other two dwarves for holding them up with their refusal to get on board. The elf lord watched Gimli expend equal amounts of patient coaxing and what sounded like heated threats in getting his two companions to get into the boat in which Elladan was already seated, waiting to row them across.

“You quaky-livered brats!” Gimli griped. “You whined to come along – to help, you said – and now you’re shying away from a boat?”

“We do want to help,” Dagor rejoined. “But – ”

“Then get on board!” Gimli ordered, pointing to the boat.

“No, we’ll help in our own way,” Bragor said, crossing his arms stubbornly.

Gimli glared at him. “How?” he growled. “By staring at us from across the lake?”

“No, we – ”

“Oh, warg’s rumps! Stay if you wish,” Gimli said, throwing up his hands and preparing to unmoor the boat. “You might as well look after the horses – and don’t get lost wandering about!”

Dagor looked about to lodge a protest when Bragor hushed him. Together, they watched the irate dwarf lord board the boat with the aid of the amused elves, and were glad they had not elected to join them on the wobbly vessel.

From the water, Gimli cast a backward – and somewhat smoldering – look at the two dwarves on the shore, and was annoyed to see that they had tethered the horses to a tree but had remounted their own to ride off towards the north.

“Hoy!” he called out loudly. “Where are you off to, you brats?”

Receiving only a wave from Dagor in response, Gimli let loose a barrage of Dwarvish words too rapid and animated to be interpreted as blessings. Smiles carved themselves on the faces of Elladan and his grandsire.

“And I have heard you call us Elves strange folk,” he remarked, shaking his head and driving Gimli’s annoyance up another notch.

The dwarf decided to ignore him and turned his eyes on the citadel before him. With Elladan’s steady rowing, they were soon standing before the twenty-seven broad steps leading up to the great door of Orthanc.

Walking in front, Gimli recalled how Gandalf had led them up those very stairs in the past, to reason with Saruman and offer him a final chance to repent. The dwarf thought he could still hear, with each echo of his heavy footsteps, the cracked stone ringing with the saccharine response from Saruman, bitter poison coated with sugar. Even the songs of birds seemed to weaken here, as if coming to them through a wall that stood between the dark citadel and the rest of the world. Lord Celeborn and Elladan remained silent and grim.

At the top of the stairs, the three companions paused before the great door and ran their eyes over it from top to bottom. They knew it was locked: a mute, fast barricade against those who had no business to enter without the King’s leave. Gimli whipped out his axe and approached it, with no intention other than to initiate some kind of action.

“We shall see what we shall see,” he muttered before knocking the blunt end of the blade twice against the door. Not surprisingly, the door rang hollow as it had all those years ago when Saruman was still imprisoned within. “No way to break this down,” said Gimli, “or the Ents would have done so. But let’s have a look at the lock,” he said, and the Miner of Middle-earth examined it closely for the first time. It was a huge lock, with many pins to loosen, and he could now see why Saruman would have needed the heavy keys he surrendered to Treebeard, which were now far away in a vault in the White City.

“Hmmrph, it doesn’t look like it’s going to yield to any simple assault from my axe,” Gimli muttered. He peered at it again. “Can’t wedge anything heavy into it to pry it open, either. That old fool was no fool at all – he knew how to keep his home secure.”

Without warning, and with surprisingly precise aim, Gimli suddenly swung the blade of his hefty axe into the tiny gap between the door and its frame with a mighty and deafening whack. The elves saw sparks fly and jumped in astonishment. But when the loud echoes had died off, and they had recovered from their startled states, they saw that the lock and the great door remained stubbornly intact. 

“Great dragon claws!” Gimli exclaimed. “It’s harder to get in than Smaug’s lair! I’d thought for certain my axe would take care of it.” The dwarf was both disappointed and partly embarrassed that two Elf lords had witnessed his failure.

Lord Celeborn drew a breath and composed himself. “Do not fret, Master Gimli,” he said graciously, “Saruman’s craft was considerable; it is no small matter to undo what he has done.”

“But some kind of warning before any attempt to do so would be much appreciated, Master Dwarf,” Elladan said less delicately. “I feared my body and my skin had parted ways for ever!”

Already peeved by his failure, Gimli muttered what sounded like an apology before placing his hands on his hips. “How the hey do we get in now?” he growled. “Blast it!”

Elladan cocked an eyebrow at the dwarf. “Is that what you propose to do?” he asked, and because Gimli could not decide if he was being genuine or sarcastic, he scowled at the elf. Elladan decided quickly not to query further for the moment, and joined his companions in considering other, easier options.

Their eyes roved over the Tower and noted the sharp edges to the many faces of the stone. Many tall windows were cut deeply into the walls, but they peered out over the countryside from their locations in the horns of the Tower, much too high to climb to, and there were no footholds in the walls. Aside from the great locked door, the only possible point of access they could see seemed to be the window above the door, through which Saruman had spoken to Gandalf. It would open out to a balcony hedged with iron bars, upon which Saruman often stood, they guessed.  But the window was shuttered now, and the balcony too high even for the elves to leap up to.

“Bragor and Dagor brought some rope,” said Gimli, “but even if those two were here, we’d still need someone to fasten it to something up there.”

Lacking an immediate solution, the three companions descended the stairs and rowed around the island rock to look for other possible ways to enter the Tower. But when they failed to find anything remotely accessible, they decided to return to the great door.

“Perhaps if we hoisted you, Elladan, you could try to leap to the floor of the balcony,” Celeborn suggested.

“A remote possibility,” Elladan said honestly. “Still, we can but try. I would have to use Gimli’s axe on the window after that, and hope I can make a dent in it.”

“If that fails, we’ll have to try and blow up the door,” Gimli said without much hope. “See if it gives way.”

“Something must, for Estel’s sake,” Elladan said with more conviction than he felt.

“And before too long,” his grandsire added. “Answers need to be found here… my heart tells me so.”

The thought of Aragorn fuelled Elladan to row them back quickly. Still in discussion, the three companions reached the bottom of the long flight of steps once more, but as they stepped out of the boat, Elladan gave a gasp of surprise.

“How in Middle-earth…!” he said, pointing above the door. Gimli followed the direction of his finger, and he could not believe what he was seeing.

The window above the great door that had been shuttered was now opening slowly, the slight creak of its iron hinges accompanied by decidedly non-metallic grunts, snorts and excited chatter. Soon, a short, stout leg appeared over the sill, followed quickly by a broad behind housed in dusty trousers, and the other leg; and then a full head of long thick hair appeared as the owner straightened and dropped himself onto the balcony. A coil of rope made its appearance as it was flung out from the darkness within the window. Moments later, with surprising speed, a second figure followed, aided by the first.

When the two forms were safely on the balcony, they turned as one, and Gimli found himself staring up at the ruddy and bearded faces of none other than Bragor and Dagor, both looking as pleased as bears with their paws in honey.

Upon seeing Gimli and the elves, they gave whoops of satisfaction and slapped their thighs.

“Ah, my lords!” exclaimed Dagor, gesturing towards the open window with a flourish. “Welcome to Orthanc!”

Caught between astonishment, fury, and the memory of two exasperating hobbits who had greeted them in the same manner during the Quest, Gimli could only release a choked splutter as he went blue in the face. At the sight, Bragor broke into a broad grin, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and rocked back and forth on his heels.

“I told you you’d be glad we came along,” he said with a smirk.

Note: A hectic schedule at work has kept me from writing more or sooner, but I hope this will tide us over till the next chapter. Gads, I get lonely in between chapters. 

Thank you so much to all who posted the most recent reviews.

CHAPTER 18: CROSSING THRESHOLDS

Since Bragor and Dagor joined the company of dwarves who resided at the Glittering Caves, there had been few times when they had seen Gimli as astonished, flabbergasted – or as ready to shred them to pieces – as he appeared now.

It had not taken Elladan long to shinny up the rope the two younger dwarves tied to the strong railing of the balcony; then the heftier dwarf lord had been hauled up. Now, with Lord Celeborn standing safely beside him as well, Gimli took a moment to note that they were in a chamber – circular like the Tower – with a high ceiling and no other light aperture besides the window they had clambered through. But he soon turned a storm-cloud expression upon his kinsmen.

“A tunnel!” he exclaimed in disbelief. “You’re telling me you came in through a tunnel?”

“Yes, that’s what we said,” Bragor answered readily, hardly put off by the scowl on Gimli’s face and the bunched fists against his hips.

“Where? How?” Gimli demanded. His clipped questions invited a volley of half-statements as the brothers once again tripped over each other in their eagerness to reply.

“There’s a – ”

“You know that storeroom on high ground – ”

 “ – hidden door in a wall; behind a pile of crates –”

“Remember the Ents stacked all sorts of flotsam there? Of course they didn’t see – ”

“Very cleverly concealed, that tunnel is – ”

“ – goes deep underground, under the lake – ”

“Half a whisker!” Gimli halted them. “The tunnel goes under the lake?”

“Yes, yes! But it has solid, stone walls. Rock above and below, looks like – ”

“ – a little wet in places, but quite dry in most parts –”

“One of Saruman’s well-hidden escape routes?” Celeborn ventured in a whisper to his grandson.

“Aye, it must have been one of those Treebeard could not plug up with water,” Elladan whispered back. “But with the Ents on constant watch, and his powers stripped by Gandalf, Saruman would not have dared attempt to flee.”

“It leads to this tower – ” Dagor continued.

“When?” Gimli interrupted again. “When did you find out about it?”

“When we first came to look for the exploding powder, of course!” Bragor replied. “Our hair curled with excitement when it opened up, and we couldn’t get in there fast enough – ”

Gimli’s eyes would have fallen out if they had not been firmly entrenched in their sockets.  “You found a tunnel and you entered it without asking me?” he asked in an unmistakable tone of annoyance.

Bragor raised his own eyebrows. “What? There was a tunnel all laid out before us – and did you think a dwarf wouldn’t explore it?” he rejoined.

Gimli threw up his hands. “You – you reckless, foolish rascals!” he spluttered. “Did you ever think it could have been dangerous?”  

“But no more than the trip to Smaug’s lair!” Bragor retorted cheekily, referring to the very bold journey that thirteen dwarves and Bilbo had made to the dragon’s lair in the Lonely Mountain more than seventy years ago. “We merely learned from their example –”

“Some risks are worth taking,” Dagor agreed, nodding vigorously at Gimli. “And after all, look at that stash of Longbottom leaf we hauled out of here. You smoked some of it too – and enjoyed it immensely!”

Elladan had to suppress his laughter when Gimli began to resemble a beetroot. “I thought that was what you retrieved from the store-rooms – I didn’t know it was from inside Orthanc!” the dwarf claimed, wishing he could scrub the smug looks off the faces of the two younger dwarves. “Sweet rock of Arda! Why wouldn’t you tell us about this tunnel when we first arrived? Why make us – ”

“We didn’t know if we could still use it,” Dagor explained, suddenly a little meek. “We wanted to take a look first.”

“And besides,” Bragor added in Dwarvish, coughing a little and glancing quickly at the elves, “it was to be our little secret.”

Gimli opened his mouth wide then and gaped at them before he exploded. “Mother’s beards!” he cried in the Common Tongue. “Your secret? Why, you sneaky ferrets – no wonder you were so keen to come along. You came back here for the weed, didn’t you? The weed! There’s more of it, isn’t there?”

For the first time that day, Bragor looked a little sheepish, like a child who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Well, that might have been part of the benefit,” he admitted reluctantly.

“But we did want to help, too,” Dagor added brightly.

Gimli released a roar that made Dagor quake. “If your hide weren’t so tough, I’d chop you up and smoke you instead!” he declared. The outburst, however, did not intimidate the incorrigible Bragor.

“But we brought you in, didn’t we, Elder?” the dwarf pointed out. “That’s all that should matter right now, shouldn’t it?” He looked enquiringly at the two elves beside Gimli, appealing silently for their support.

Celeborn was caught in a rare moment of perplexity, uncertain whether to smile benignly or share Gimli’s exasperation. “That argument warrants some consideration,” he decided with some amusement.

Gimli threw his hands up. “It’s nothing or double for you two scoundrels, it seems!” he growled. “All right, all right – I’ll grant that some good came out of your escapades. But cross me with another ill-chosen secret, and you’ll need that tunnel to hide in.”

“We are not here for pleasantries, but let us not further darken this place with squabbles,” Lord Celeborn reminded Gimli while sweeping solemn eyes over the cold gloom before and around them, where the sun through the open shutters could not reach. “Neither can we spare the time, for we have urgent business to attend to.”

Gimli grunted. “That’s true,” he mumbled reluctantly. “We should start looking for the old villain’s notes – a library of sorts –”

“It’s at the top of those stairs!” Dagor announced eagerly, relieved that he now had a chance to appease the dwarf lord. He ran ahead into the dark to indicate a long spiral staircase that disappeared through the ceiling and led to another room on the floor above.

The little group followed the suddenly sprightly step of the dwarf, going further into the shadows. As they walked, they noted the stone walls and hard, cold furnishings of a former wizard who had lost his love for growing things. Paintings, trying hard to look cheerful, and once-rich tapestries, now dirty and tattered, hung sadly in stark and strange contrast with dark metal contraptions that suggested torture or some other foul use. Dust and echoes arose where the heavy boots of the dwarves landed, agitating the light cobwebs that joined furniture to floor and ceiling to wall.

Directly facing the stairs was a heavy metal armchair upon a slightly raised pedestal – once the seat of Saruman’s power, they guessed. They could almost picture the fallen wizard on it: his long, white hair framing a mean, wrinkled face; while his gnarled hands with long, sharp nails rested in alert repose on the arms. Black-beaded eyes beneath bristling white eye-brows stared at them, and his hooked predatory nose and thin, hard lips seemed ready to strike…

Gimli shuddered and shook off the vision, turning his eyes instead to a sleek column at the right of the armchair: it was waist-high for the elves, carved with intricate designs that looked snake-like, and it housed a bowl-like depression at the top.

“Here must have rested the palantir,” Elladan suggested quietly, “which caused his downfall, in part.”

Gimli frowned, silently thankful for the presence of the elves, whose fair radiance provided the only relief from the depressing atmosphere of Orthanc.

At the top of the stairs, the visitors did indeed find what seemed to have been the library of Saruman. A voluminous collection of books – some loosely bound – lined half the area of the rounded walls, standing like silent witnesses on many tiers of metal shelves that went up to a fair height, the higher ones accessible only by a wooden ladder that rested against the wall. At the side of the shelves sat a long table upon which were laid skulls, knives, spoons, glass and metal goblets of all shapes and sizes, and many bottles that housed liquids and powder, contents that had long changed color, the visitors were sure. Beside the table sat an old stove, upon which Saruman depended  to warm the library in winter, they guessed.

Facing the book shelves was another huge wooden desk laden with writing utensils, and stack upon stack of manuscripts – some more yellowed than others, some filed neatly, and some strewn about. Thumbing quickly through them, Lord Celeborn saw letters, maps, plans, lists, diagrams, and what looked like accounts and reports.

“This is where we might begin our search,” Gimli said, trying not to sound too daunted. He let out a long breath that ruffled his beard. “But what would we even look for?”

“Anything that is not written in the Common Tongue,” the elf lord replied. “It might look like Elvish runes, but I will know if it is the Black Tongue. I can only hope that Saruman made notes that can help me learn enough of it, that I may guess at the meaning of the writing I saw on the Paths of the Dead.”

“Do you think he might even have written down the spell used to imprison the Dead?” Elladan asked hopefully. “As you said, Daerada, they were all of evil mind and possibly in league.”

“For Elessar’s sake, I would not discount that likelihood,” his grandsire replied as his keen eyes then roved over the books on the wall and the volumes of parchments stacked on lower shelves. “This was an old spell, cast long before the time of the War of the Ring. There should be much history in those books and manuscripts. If you wish to look, I would begin with the older documents.”

“We will need more light,” Gimli observed, noting the absence of windows save for some narrow slits high above. “Come, you rag-tag rascals – you can be of some use here at least. You might know where to find some wood for the stove, or candles, or oil lamps.”

“Oh yes, there is wood to be found – dry and brittle, all the better for burning,” Bragor said with certainty. “We’ll bring it here in no time.”

“And the food in the boats – and more in the packs on the horses, we have to bring that up here. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here?” Gimli said miserably. “Like it or not, you two will have to return to the horses with me – in the boat!”

At the look of utter dismay on the faces of the dwarves, Elladan chuckled and stepped up to Gimli. “Let me take care of that chore, Master Gimli,” he volunteered. “It would be faster and easier – both on the rope and in the boat. You can stay here.”

“A finer suggestion than most,” Gimli agreed, albeit grumpily, as he squinted at the dark shadows. “Hurry up with the wood and candles, though, you two! I wonder if Saruman had cats’ eyes that saw in the dark – I thought only that Mirkwood princeling did.” 

“Prince Legolas has cats’ eyes?” Dagor asked in genuine wonder, his own orbs growing round.

Gimli snorted and growled at the dwarf. “Cats’ eyes or not, mind your own business – and mind it quickly now!” he answered. “We’ve work to do – or did you not hear? Lord Celeborn could do with some peace from your incessant chatter, and so could I, and would you know…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Elladan saw his grandsire shake his head in patient acceptance, and he sighed as he ran lightly down the stairs. His thoughts went to Aragorn and Legolas, and hoped with all this heart that they were making greater progress.

  ------------------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------------------

Three more days and nights marked the east-bound journey for Aragorn, Legolas and their small company, and so scarce was rest and respite that they were held upright in their saddles only by sheer force of will. Still, they kept riding, and King Elessar’s human guards found themselves exercising their hunting skills daily, as they were often too far away from settlements to purchase supplies. The sharpening of those skills was the one benefit to be gained from this whole nightmarish ride, and the guards – despite their frequent hunger and thirst and aching bodies – appreciated the instruction from two accomplished elven archers as well as one of the greatest trackers in Middle-earth.

“So this was how you used to live as a Ranger of the North, my lord?” a young guard asked Aragorn one night, as they sat roasting a small deer they had unexpectedly encountered and managed to bring down that afternoon. Pleased at the fare awaiting them, Aragorn smiled and proceeded to recount some of his experiences to an attentive audience who had heard much about their king’s past but never dreamt they would be listening to the noted Ranger himself narrating the tales to them.

Legolas and Hamille watched from the branch of a tree where they sat keeping a lookout for foes that might come from without the camp – or from within. Legolas noted once again how bizarre that moment was: that Aragorn and the men of Gondor should be sitting around a fire in the dark, grilling their dinner and looking for all the world like a party of huntsmen with a successful catch, while a group of Dead spirits hovered not thirty feet away, watching the Men like hungry predators, yet dependent on one of them to be freed. The two elves in a tree observed both groups, worried about what the second might – in a fit of rage and forgotten reason – do to harm the leader of the huntsmen.

The gloom felt by Legolas was deepened by the sight of the shadows that the flames dappled over Aragorn’s face, changing his features in their light each moment. The fear of a horrible dream vision clutched at the heart of the elf prince, and his eyes could not hide its pain. 

Hamille’s brows knitted in a frown. “Will you not let him know, Legolas?” he asked, disturbed at the anguish before him. “Would it not unburden your own heart in the telling?”

Legolas grimaced at the question, but did not answer immediately. “If this were some other matter, Hamille, he would have learnt of it the same day you did,” he said at last, his eyes fixed on Aragorn.

“You have no secrets between you, that much I know,” Hamille reminded him.

“Save this,” Legolas said tersely. “For now.”

“Why do you keep this from him?”

Legolas turned to him then, and Hamille instantly regretted his question when he saw the hurt beneath the blue ice of the prince’s eyes.

“Think you that I desire to, Hamille?” Legolas asked. “Even you recoiled from the horror of it when I told you. How then shall I tell Aragorn?”

The elf lapsed into silence again, and Hamille waited patiently till he chose to continue. “What would I even tell him?” Legolas said eventually. “He had no face… he was leaving… he denied me… it was as if he was departing from all that he knows.” Legolas’ voice grew a little unsteady. “It bespoke of some impending doom so terrible as to rob him of his essence – all that is at the heart of Aragorn… all that is Aragorn.”

Hamille cleared his throat uneasily. “Legolas…”

“How do I speak openly to one whom I love… of… of… oh Valar…” Legolas faltered, “how do I speak of what may be his end?” His breath hitched in his chest and he bit on his lower lip to keep it from trembling.

Hamille’s eyes widened, and his lay a hand on the arm of his distressed prince. “Ai, Legolas, do you think that is what it portends?” he asked quietly.

Legolas shook his head. “I know not, Hamille… I… cannot rightly tell,” he replied painfully. “He denied me, and the Estel I know, the Estel of this world would never do so.” So keen was the sorrow in the voice of the prince that it seemed to reach out and touch Hamille, whose mouth went dry. “I feel the coldness of some horrible fate, Hamille, though I would gladly surrender breath and life to ensure it will not come to pass! Alas that I should be the one to have seen it… whatever it is that will befall him, I fear we cannot get him back!”

“Daro, Legolas, cease this,” Hamille said in alarm, gripping the prince’s arm. “You cannot know if things will unfold as you fear. This whole situation is so strange; so much is happening beyond our anticipation. It may be your own deep concern that has fabricated some scene – ”

“May it be so, Hamille. That is what I pray every waking moment since that night,” the prince said earnestly, though the tremor in his voice belied the hopefulness of his words.

“There is only the matter of Shelob left to settle, before his task is ended,” Hamille added with conviction.

Legolas drew a deep breath and exhaled, weighing Hamille’s words. “Again, you speak truly,” he conceded. “And Shelob cannot be that formidable a foe, such that she would overwhelm Aragorn; many will be with him.”

“Aye, then your reading of the dream cannot be certain,” Hamille insisted.

“I desire it to be in error.”

 “And you should not worry yourself sick – ”

“Then that is reason enough to keep this matter from Aragorn,” Legolas pointed out. “I see no cause to burden him with a dream to which I cannot assign a meaning. He has a great enough load to bear – I desire to lighten the weight of his cares, not add to it.” A burst of laughter from Aragorn and his men reached the elven ears just then, punctuating Legolas’ statement. “I would listen to more of his mirth, but were he to learn of that accursed vision, the grimness of fearful thought shall seal his lips. I will not add the useless weight of an uncertain fate to his misery, Hamille – I cannot!”

Hamille studied the soft glitter in Legolas’ eyes, and moved closer to him. He placed an arm around the slighter elf, and for the next few minutes, he looked upon Legolas not as the stoic elf who had fought against all odds in the War of the Ring and survived, and the prince whom he had vowed to serve, but he saw him once more as the younger elfling who had quaked with him and shared his fear as they eavesdropped on the telling of dark tales among the elders on stormy nights.

“I understand, gwador,I do,” Hamille said comfortingly. “Rest assured that he shall not learn of it from me – though I must tell you that he did try.”

Legolas could not help a small smile upon hearing that. “I know,” he said.

“I only ask that you do not bear it alone,” said Hamille. “If it threatens to overwhelm you, remember I am here.”

Legolas nodded gratefully. “I have never forgotten it,” he replied, his heart already lightened.

Lightened, too, were the hearts of Aragorn and his men when they arrived at the southern foothills of the Lossarnach the day after, for they knew they were close to the Crossings of Erui, and beyond lay the road going north-east to the City. Then one evening, the towers of Minas Tirith – colored in the blazing golds and crimsons of the setting sun – loomed into view against a backdrop of lavender clouds in the distance.

Glad were the hearts of the King’s company, and the King no less. He yearned to rush like the wind across the plains of the Pelennor and ride through the Great Gates of the City into the arms of his Queen and his son, whom he missed sorely.

But he knew with a heavy heart that the time had not yet come. In misery did he look longingly at the towers from far beyond the City walls, as they reluctantly headed across the plains to the road that would lead them to the devastation of the Black Land. 

Crossing the Pelennor, they were pleased to see waiting for them at the fringes of the Fields a small group of Gondorian guards, and the fair face of Elrohir among them. And in their midst too was the small figure of the brave Hobbit who had once battled Shelob, but he was not alone of the little folk.

“Hail, my lord Aragorn! Hello, Legolas!” cried Pippin as the King and elf prince came within earshot. Beside the hobbit was Merry, grinning from ear to ear, and Samwise, looking decidedly less bubbly but pleased to see his friends again nonetheless. 

“Strider, it’s good to see you whole, even if you’re scruffier than before!”  Merry proclaimed, and Aragorn had to chuckle as he swept his hair back from his face.

“Well met again, my friends!” Aragorn called out tiredly in reply as he and Legolas rode up to them. “I am weary, but it lightens my heart to see you again – and the City, even if it’s from a distance.” He looked wistfully at the White Towers of his home. His voice softened as he turned to Elrohir, and asked the question closest to his heart: “Mae govannen, Elrohir. How fare Arwen and Eldarion?”

“They are well, gwador, and they pray you are, too,” answered his foster brother gently, firmly clasping Aragorn’s and Legolas’ extended hands in turn, and sending his brother a look of consolation. He inclined his head briefly towards the guard who had ridden ahead of Aragorn’s company to fetch Sam from the City and said: “Tobëas has told us everything, and we await the completion of that last task – and your return home. You will see them again soon.”

Hearing his name mentioned, Tobëas acknowledged his King with a respectful nod before he set about making arrangements for the journey-weary guards to be replaced with a fresh squad from the Citadel. 

“Faramir and Arwen would have ridden here with us, Estel, but I persuaded them to abide by your instructions,” Elrohir said. “If they had come, Eldarion would have been in tow; you know he would been hard to leave behind. He misses you,” he added, regretting it when he saw the grimace of pain that crossed Aragorn’s face.

Sam nodded in sympathy. “We did not know what to expect, Strider, with the – er – the Shadow Host behind you,” he explained, looking around nervously before he voiced the question that he knew was on everyone’s lips. “Where are they – the Dead?” he asked in a low tone. “Can they be seen? And where are Elladan and Lord Celeborn? And Gimli is missing as well. Have they gotten lost?”

“Nay, Master Hobbit,” answered Legolas quickly. “In answer to the first question: the Host is gathered over there – not visible to you in the light of day, and only vaguely under the moon,” he said, indicating the direction in which the unseen ghosts lingered. “As for your second question: our two friends are in the company of Lord Celeborn, who has found it necessary to head for Isengard on another errand – a rather urgent one. But… perhaps that is a tale best left for the road, for we should not linger too long here. What think you, Aragorn?”

The King sighed and turned fatigued eyes towards the towers of his City. “Hither does my heart lie,” he said softly, “but you speak truly, my friend: we should be on our way again, for this burden grows heavy with each passing day, and I would shed it as soon as may be possible.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, Strider, Pip and I thought we could tag along as well, if only to keep Sam company,” Merry suggested. “Besides, this will make up for my not being with all of you at the final stand before the Black Gates all those years ago. But we’ll keep out of your way, of course, and if we lag behind, don’t worry, we’ll catch up.”

Aragorn smiled. “Your company would be most welcome, my friends.”

“But we won’t be climbing up those steps or stairs with you, though, Strider!” Pippin pointed out quickly. “Sam’s told us how horrible they are, and slippery, and we’d only slow you down. So you go ahead to the tunnel and we’ll wait for you at the foot of the hill.”

“That seems a fine arrangement,” Aragorn replied.

“But – er – the Dead… they will follow you, won’t they?” Pippin asked, swallowing. “I mean… they wouldn’t hang around with the likes of us… would they?”

Aragorn smiled again. “No, Pippin,” he replied. “I’m sure they would not.” Turning to Sam, the King spoke quietly. “Sam, I regret that I have to ask this of you: to enter the Black Land once more and confront the foe that once brought about the near demise of you and Frodo. I would not ask this of you – ”

“Strider, think nothing of it, of course I would come!” the brave Hobbit interrupted. “Let’s put an end to this problem. And after all – the Phial is with us, isn’t it? It scared the ugly monster once; it ought to do so again. No wonder the Lady told me to bring it here to you.” 

“It sits safely here with me,” Legolas assured Sam, feeling the Phial against his body. “and I hope to return it to you soon.”

“Well, let us be on our way then!” said the hobbit, sitting straighter in his saddle and trying to sound jaunty. “Like my gaffer always says: it’s the job that needs doing that’s the hardest.”

So the company started off with a fresh escort for Aragorn. Along with a supply of food, Arwen had also sent – much to the amusement and gratitude of the King – a change of clothes for him. She had even managed to retrieve a clean set for Legolas from his room at the Citadel.

“Ever my queen,” Aragorn remarked fondly when he had been informed about the bundle tied to the saddle of Tobëas’ horse. “They will be welcome when we camp tonight, and I daresay I need mine a great deal more than you do yours, mellon nin.”

“I shall not argue with that,” Legolas replied honestly. 

Aragorn chuckled, then signaled for Tobëas to approach. “You spoke with the Lord Steward, Tobëas? How does he fare?” he asked.

“He is… quite well, Sire,” Tobëas answered carefully, “as could be concluded from his – er – animated speech.”

“Oh?” Aragorn asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did he have a message for me?”

Tobëas cleared his throat. “It was hard to tell, Sire, for he said a great many things,” he answered in an obvious effort to keep his face straight, “particularly when I gave him your explicit orders to remain in the City with the Queen and Prince.”

Aragorn exchanged a quick smile with Legolas before addressing Tobëas again. “I know he would be a good guide to Cirith Ungol, even with Master Gamgee in our company, but I would leave the Queen and Prince in no other hands,” he explained. “What exactly did he say when told of the latest situation?”

The guard looked straight ahead, keeping his expression as emotionless as possible. “He threatened to have my hide if I repeated his words to you, my lord,” the man replied. “And – if I’m allowed to be honest – decency would not allow me to do it.”

Aragorn and Legolas smiled at the reply and asked no more, for they could well imagine the wrath and frustration of the long-suffering Steward. Instead, they turned their attention back to the road before them. It would be dark before long, and Aragorn wished to cross the bridge at Osgiliath before they settled for the night. He desired the Host to be as far away from Minas Tirith as possible, and somehow, bringing Them across the river would give him a sense of safe separation from Gondor.

It would also feel like taking a major stride towards a dreary destination they did not think they would be visiting after a decade: the lair of Shelob in the Black Land of Mordor.   

Note: Once again, my thanks to the readers who have stayed with me despite the weeks in between postings, especially to those who have sent in the most recent reviews.

CHAPTER 19: REVELATIONS

In the quiet of the night across the Anduin river from the vicinity of Minas Tirith, the King of Gondor lay in slumber upon his blanket, weary from the long ride of the previous day. He was perhaps the only one in the camp who truly slept that night, for the three hobbits who lay not far away tossed a little restlessly, two of his guards were on an alert watch, and the rest were rendered too nervous by the presence of the vague Shadow Host nearby, which never slept.

The three other members of the King’s company who were not asleep sat where they were quite at home: in the branches of a tree, watching over the whole camp as was their habit. Aragorn’s guards noted with awe the soft radiance surrounding them that came not from the sliver of new moon, and were strangely comforted by the sight of such beauty in the darkness of a land they frequented little. The men welcomed, too, the sound of fair elvish voices in the musical speech of the Firstborn, even if they knew nothing of what was being said.

“So how would you read his dream and vision, hir nin?” Hamille asked of Elrohir after Legolas had, at his urging, reluctantly recounted his nightmare to the Imladris elf.

Elrohir shook his head slowly and thought for a moment before he answered. “I am tempted to view it as little more than a disturbing dream brought on by the turbulence of recent events,” he said seriously. “But you have a closer bond with Estel than most, gwador, and I feel it unwise to dismiss the possible significance of what you saw – even in dream,” he said quietly to Legolas, knowing how the memory of the horrifying image still pained the elf prince. “Yet, I cannot venture a confident guess as to what that meaning may be. I will tell you, however, that such denial of others, even of oneself, is not new in the world of the Edain, for I have seen it before.”

Legolas and Hamille were instantly alert. “When? Where?” the elf prince asked.

“Throughout the years, the Men whom Adar trusted enough would bring to him their grievously ill, or those with strange maladies beyond their skill to counter,” Elrohir explained. “On more than one occasion, I encountered Men who could not remember their own names, let alone those of others, after severe damage to their heads.”

Legolas and Hamille listened in awe, for the loss of memory was not an affliction known among the Firstborn.

“Some of them had received violent blows in a fight,” Elrohir continued. “Others merely fell from a high place, or slipped in carelessness and hit their heads against an unforgiving hardness. Some of them would end up recalling only part of their past and who they were and where they had lived, while others remembered nothing. It was – as you said, Legolas – as if they had lost all knowledge of themselves and those they knew, even those who loved them most. They became frightened, felt misplaced, and fell into sad depression. It always took Adar and those who loved them time and great patience to aid them so that they could return to a life without fear, without confusion.”

The elves of Ithilien pondered this information in silence. “It must be a frightening place to be: where one sees all, but sees nothing,” Hamille said quietly, attempting to imagine how such victims would feel. “To have known all, yet come to understand nothing… and to have had a life you remember nothing of.”

Legolas felt a chill go through him at the picture Hamille had drawn. “Did they – did they ever recover from the affliction, and remember again?” Legolas asked, his fear for Aragorn renewed.

“Some did… but not all were successfully healed,” Elrohir said honestly.

“And it was caused by grievous hurt to the head?”

“Aye,” said Elrohir. “But hold, Legolas! I do not claim that this is what threatens to befall Estel. Your dream may be just that: a dream, portending nothing.”

“Still, caution on this journey would not be amiss, and less likely to begat regret than negligence,” Legolas countered.

Elrohir nodded, sighing. “I cannot argue against caution,” he said. “We should watch Estel when he is climbing those treacherous steps to Shelob’s lair that Sam described.”

“If that threat has not troubled me before, it does now,” Legolas said. “For if any place on this journey should be of such danger to him, it would be those Stairs, if Sam’s accounts are anything to go by. Elsewhere, I do not doubt the sure-footedness of a Ranger.” 

“Even one whose feet have, for the past decade, measured the length of lush rugs rather than rough tree roots,” Elrohir remarked with a smile. “Still, I did not say that a hard fall was the only cause of one’s failure to remember.”

“Do you know another?” asked Legolas.

Elrohir shook his head. “No,” he said. “But that does not mean there is none.”

“Should you not warn him about it nonetheless, Bridhon nin?” Hamille suggested carefully, knowing how his prince had resisted making his troubling dream known to Aragorn.   

Legolas took a moment to consider Hamille’s question. “I would not wish for him to worry about such a terrible fate lurking about and waiting to pounce on him in a moment of carelessness; he should focus only on his encounter with Shelob,” the prince said. “But under the circumstances, I am compelled to agree with you, Hamille, if only to encourage him towards observing greater care on those steps.”

“There would be no harm in letting him know, Legolas,” Elrohir said, “and telling him would be as much for your sake as it is for his, mellon nin. You may find your anguish eased.” 

And as if the sequence of events had been arranged by some greater hand, or that the talk of the elves had reached his ears, Aragorn stirred at that very moment and came awake. From the cover of the tree, the elves watched him sit up and look around, a little dazed with sleep. Then he pulled on his boots without lacing them, stood slowly and pulled a cloak about himself before walking towards a tree of great girth some distance away, disappearing behind it into the shadows beyond.

Smiling in amusement at Aragorn’s mid-night need for relief, the elves exchanged glances before Legolas stood from his seat on the branch and leapt down gracefully, landing with no sound upon the ground between the tree roots below. Leaving his friends to their rest on the branches high above, he walked silently in the direction Aragorn had gone, and waited for his friend to re-appear.

After a few moments, the man emerged from the shadows, yawning. Squinting at the sight of the elf with the ethereal glow standing in his path, he smiled sleepily and approached his friend, his boots crunching on the grass and twigs beneath. “Have you rested, mellon nin?” he asked quietly in a voice hoarse with sleep.

“Enough for now,” the elf replied. His blue eyes watched Aragorn as the man rubbed his eyes and stifled another yawn, noting that he had bound his hair away from his face as he had done each night since the last mention of the nightmare. “I… er… I wish to speak with you, Aragorn,” the elf said hesitantly, knowing that there would be little privacy for them once the others awoke. “May I do so now – or would you rather wait for the morning?”

Curious, the King blinked a few times and looked at the elf. Even with his wariness dulled, he did not miss the slight tremor in his friend’s voice, a glitter as of starlight in hopeful eyes, and some tension in the elven stance, and he knew that the elf was troubled about something.

“Now will be fine, mellon nin,” Aragorn replied, drawing his cloak closer.

Taking a deep breath, Legolas turned and led the way to a spot slightly away from the camp, away from the quietly crackling fire beside which the hobbits lay sleeping, away from the restless Shadow Host and guards on an edgy watch, and away from the tree where, he knew, two elves were watching them and sending him their strength. Then, sitting side by side with Aragorn against the large bole of a tree, beneath a roof of friendly leaves, Legolas forced himself – much as it pained him – to reveal to the friend most dear to him the horror of the nightmare that had assailed him, the fears and anxiety that had plagued him ever since, and the reason for wishing to keep Aragorn’s hair out of his face when the man slept. Finally, the elf told him about the conversation he had just had with Elrohir, and their concerns about his safety.

“We cannot tell what exactly the dream forebodes, Estel, or if it is even a warning,” the elf finished, “but I beg you, saes, to take care on this journey, and more so on those steps when we get to them.”

Stunned by what he had just been told, Aragorn stared sideways at the elf beside him, all thought of sleep forgotten. Then he leaned his head back against the rough bark and looked up into the dark foliage, his mind running over all he had heard. The strange and seemingly random thought came to him that even at night, with only the pearly glow of a Wood-elf for illumination, he could still see the vague shapes of leaves. Even they still have character…I can still see them…he thought absently. Can anything be so completely void of character?

“No face,” he murmured after a while, without removing his eyes from the leaves overhead. “I had no face?” he asked Legolas. 

Wordlessly, Legolas nodded, disturbed at the reminder.

“And I… didn’t know who you were?” Aragorn asked again, still looking above him.

The elf nodded sadly. “I am not certain you even knew who you were yourself, Estel,” he whispered. “You seemed so lost – and removed from everything.”

Aragorn lowered his head and cast his eyes on the grass beneath his folded legs, sitting still in mute reflection for a while, till Legolas began to wonder with dismay if he had made the right move after all, or if he had now caused Aragorn to be paralyzed with fear.

“Aragorn?” he called quietly, placing a hand upon the man’s arm. “Aragorn, forgive me; should I have told you?” His eyes began to fill with doubt. “Have I erred? Was this better kept – ”

“You should not have,” Aragorn said unexpectedly, cutting Legolas off and making the elven heart sink with dismay. Grey eyes were raised to meet blue ones again as the King looked firmly at the elf prince. Slender elven fingers began to fall weakly from the man’s arm, but calloused ones reached out to hold them in place.

“You should not have kept this from me, Legolas, and I am glad for your having told me now,” Aragorn said, and a breath of relief ghosted past Legolas’ lips as he caught the man’s meaning. “In all honesty, I cannot deny that it might have shaken me. I thus understand why you withheld it, and I question not the love or concern behind your decision.” The King paused and closed his eyes. “Indeed, if I were to examine all things, I would have to acknowledge the wisdom of it, and thank you for allowing my burden to be one worry less on many days of this long task,” he continued. “And perhaps there is no better time to reveal it than this moment, now that I am strengthened by the presence of more of our companions and the assurance of Arwen and Eldarion’s well-being, and now that we are close to the end of the task.”

Upon hearing Aragorn’s words, Legolas managed a weak smile, but his friend was not done.

“Nay, you did no wrong in my mind, my friend,” the man went on. “Yet, I would have wished for you to speak of it earlier to me. The horror must have been intense for you to have been so agonized by it, and what I rue is that you carried the weight of it for us both, that it pained you and distressed you while the bliss of ignorance was mine. Whether or no the dream carries some impending doom for me, Legolas, you should not have agonized alone – ”

“Say not another word, Aragorn!” Legolas stopped his friend. “Were the burden a hundredfold greater, I would still have borne it willingly if I could have spared you from it. You say you do not question the love behind my decision – do not, then; and let me be content to hear the thoughts you voiced before: that my secreting it, in wisdom or foolishness, gave you freedom from one less worry for whatever number of hours or days it afforded. I would gladly do it all again if only to hear you say that. I only regret that we have thought it necessary to make it known to you now, for the sake of greater caution on your part; else, my lips would still be sealed.”

Stumped for a rejoinder, Aragorn could only nod in resignation. “Very well, Legolas, no more should we dwell on what should or should not have been,” he said. “And as for this… this doom you saw, it may or may not come to pass, and may be not as you or Elrohir fear. But I see no good in dwelling on that either, so let me go through what I must, and face what I must, for the task is almost at an end.”

Legolas nodded. “It is,” he agreed, hoping to put both of them at ease.

“Things cannot go that ill, can they, when all around me are those who would not let me fall?” the King said hopefully.

Hiding a wince at the word “fall,” Legolas injected conviction into his response. “Hold to that thought, Estel, and never let go,” he reminded his friend firmly.

Aragorn nodded and went quiet again. “I will not speak about this again after tonight, Legolas, not till my task is done,” he said after a while. “But now I have something to ask of you, mellon nin, if you will allow it.”

Fine eyebrows rose in delicate arches as Legolas responded: “Of course, Estel. What is it?”

The King drew a deep breath to steady himself before he spoke in a voice that seemed both brave and small. “If… if I ever become… lost, Legolas…” he said, causing his friend to flinch at the thought.

“Estel, why are you saying this – ?”

“Just hear me, Legolas. If that ever comes to pass, if I am lost… you will find me?”  

Legolas’ heart skipped a beat at Aragorn’s words, for they constituted both a plea, made in calm acknowledgement of what might befall him, and a statement of trust, expressed in the hope that a friend would not desert him to an unimaginably horrible fate. The elf took his friend’s hands in a strong grip and forced his own voice to be steady as he responded.

“Aragorn, if that ever happened, I would go to the ends of the Earth and beyond to find you and bring you back to all who love you,” he said. “Do not ever doubt that.”

“And even if… if I were to unwittingly deny you,” Aragorn went on, twisting further pain into the heart of his friend, “or I forget – ”

“I would remember for us both, and never turn my back on you!” Legolas assured him, almost desperately, as blue eyes bright with unshed tears bore into the grey ones of the King. “Deny me all you will, my friend, but I shall knock at the door of your heart till you hear me and answer, till you can say my name and know me once more – however long it takes.”

Aragorn smiled weakly, and Legolas gripped his hands again.

“Even if such a fate came to be, Estel, the darkness could not endure,” the elf added, “for if I and those you love reside in you, you can never utterly lose us. Hold on to that!”

Aragorn nodded again, still unable to speak.

“Yet none of that may come to be, Estel,” Legolas said gently. “The Lady did send her Lamp to light the dark paths before you, so you do not stumble.”

“And you are there to bear it before me,” the King said, feeling a little reassured.

“Or beside you, or in tow,” the elf corrected him. “But I will be there with you; we all will.”

Grasping the elf’s hands firmly in return, Aragorn smiled again. The two friends took a few more moments to exchange silent vows and assurances, needing nothing more than for their spirits and minds to touch as they had so many times before, each giving strength to the other. Then they both stood and in silent accord, prepared to walk back to the camp. But before Aragorn had taken two steps, a grip on his arm stopped him, and he turned to face Legolas again. The elf was looking at him, clearly wishing to say something but not quite able to start.

“Legolas? What – ”

“You know everything now, Aragorn,” the elf said quietly. Then he pointed to the King’s hair. “So that cord… the cord I made to keep your hair from falling… it can come off now.”

Aragorn said and did nothing at first, merely returning the elf’s gaze for some time. Then his hands reached slowly behind his head, and his fingers caught hold of the ends of the thin cord of golden hair. With a small tug, he pulled on them to tighten the cord.

“This was a gift, not a fetter, and not lightly given,” the man said, lowering his arms. “I will not lightly discard it without need. Let it remain, my friend; it sits well.”

As he turned, Aragorn caught the small smile of gladness on Legolas’ face, and thought it worth any discomfort that came from the knot of hair behind his head as he lay down to catch what sleep he could till it was time to rise.

  --------------------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------------------- 

At dawn of the following day, the King’s company left their camp by the river bank and resumed their journey east.

“I hardly slept a wink last night,” Pippin said sleepily to Sam as they rode side by side behind a couple of Aragorn’s guards. “What with those dead ghosties hovering about somewhere, and that howling wind… it was enough to spook me silly, even if nothing happened!”

“Aye, I’ll be glad when you fellows start climbing up that hill of yours to meet the Spider,” Merry chimed in. “Pip and I will catch some much-needed sleep while waiting for you to finish being heroes!”

“Hush! There’s nothing heroic about all this!” Sam declared in a loud, annoyed whisper. “It’s a right proper fix Strider is in, none too pleasant at all, and he’ll thank you not to think it an adventure, I’m sure!”

“You’re right as usual, Sam,” Merry agreed, sounding a little remorseful. “Having those Dead Ones lingering around our camp for one night was bad enough; I can’t imagine having the joy of their companionship for days on end!”

“Well, there’s only way to keep my mouth from talking – and that’s by stuffing it with more pleasant stuff!” Pip said dolefully. “Now, where were those apples again, Merry?”

At the head of the company, Aragorn and the elves smiled at the conversation they could not help overhearing. The chatter of the Hobbits provided a welcome light-heartedness to the group, relieving their minds of the presence of the Host for short spans of time. Legolas, too, seemed less burdened with anxiety, Hamille noted with relief, and the prince’s face had lost much of the shadow that had haunted it in the nights past. The golden-haired elf even jested with Merry and Pippin at times, and Hamille found himself thanking the little folk for their presence.

Before long, the company found themselves approaching the stretch that would lead them straight to the Crossroads, and from there, further east into the wasteland of Mordor. It was a road that the elves and Gondorians were very familiar with, for this route from Osgiliath was also the thoroughfare to the elven colony where Legolas and his elves had created a home, but the route there would branch off before they reached the Crossroads, and head north along pleasant paths to fair Ithilien.

It was at this point that Legolas and Hamille had an unexpected encounter, for, riding up to them along the road from Ithilien was Lanwil, who looked just as surprised as they did. At the elf’s approach, Aragorn halted the company.

“Mae govannen, bridhon nin, Hamille!” the elf called out to his prince and friend, his fresh face and clothes arousing a little envy within them. When he had come nearer, he greeted Aragorn and Elrohir as well.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Legolas said. “How did you know we would be here?” Then he frowned as a thought crossed his mind. “Is something amiss? Are the others – ?”

“Baw, hir nin,” Lanwil replied quickly, shaking his head. “All is well, my lord. I bring a piece of happy news – for you, Hamille. Your adar and his brother are here!”

“My adar?” Hamille echoed, his face brightening, as did Legolas’. “When did he arrive?”

“Late eve two days ago,” Lanwil replied. Then a twinkle appeared in his eyes as he added: “I believe they have come on a matter involving… ahem… Faelwen.”

At those words, sunshine seemed to radiate from the smile of genuine delight that appeared on the elf prince’s fair face. But on Hamille’s countenance, there was only a slight blush, and the brown-haired elf lowered his head to hide it. Seeing this, Aragorn smiled knowingly as well, for Legolas had once told him about a certain elleth named Faelwen who had spoken fondly of Hamille since they were all elflings.

“Perhaps there will be a betrothal ceremony to attend before long,” Aragorn whispered to a curious Elrohir.

“This is joyful news indeed, Lanwil,” Legolas said. “And a much needed lift for sagging spirits on this journey!”

“We did not know when you would be home,” Lanwil continued, “and we thought it best to inform the White City so that you would be told the news as soon as you returned. I was on my way there, but it is by a stroke of fortune that I find you both here. Your adar will be most pleased, Hamille!”

Hamille’s smile faded quickly as he realized what this turn of events meant. He had meant to remain with his prince till the end of Aragorn’s task, but with his father visiting...

“Well, my friend,” Legolas said quietly, knowing what the elf must be feeling. “Ithilien calls, and you should listen – particularly when there may be an important affair to discuss.” He smiled at the anticipated dark look of refusal he received.

“Bridhon nin – ” Hamille began.

“It is your adar’s first visit, so do not disappoint or worry him,” Legolas said gently. “I should not be long in following, but you must return now. Do not make him wait longer.”

Lanwil looked from one elf to the other, not understanding why the prince would not be returning with Hamille, and why Hamille looked less than happy. The Ithilien elves had learnt about what had happened at Pelargir from those who returned earlier to the City, but they had expected whatever business their prince was involved in to have been concluded. That did not appear to be so now. The curious elf was about to ask for clarification when he noticed what he had initially missed: the vague shapes at the rear of the company of riders and the strange shimmer that came not from the heat of the sun. The elven eyes widened, but despite his suspicions, Lanwil held his tongue, knowing he would learn the full tale in due time; he was willing for the moment to listen to the exchange between his friend and his prince.

“You put me in a hard place, bridhon nin,” Hamille said glumly to Legolas. “I will not deny that I would dearly love to see my adar, and that I welcome the reprieve from… from…”

Legolas nodded, knowing it was the sea-longing to which Hamille referred.

“Those who await your return would also be anxious to receive news, for they would no doubt have learnt of what has been taking place,” Hamille added, and Lanwil nodded affirmation. “But you go to the Black Land – ”

“Which is already free of the Dark Lord,” Legolas reminded him.

“– and to battle the spawn of Ungoliant!” Hamille continued, causing Lanwil’ eyes to widen. “That vile –”

“Spider, mellon nin,” Legolas supplied. “She is nothing more than a spider,” he insisted, laughing lightly to put Hamille and Lanwil at ease. “And we have faced plenty of those in Mirkwood. She is but another – only bigger!”

Even in their consternation, the other two elves could not keep their lips from twitching, and neither could Elrohir and Aragorn.

“Still, I do not wish to leave you,” the brown-haired elf stated in a last attempt to stay. 

“Then consider it a command,” said his prince. “Gently given – but one you can heed with ease. Look around you, my friend: Frodo and Sam could face the creature on their own. I am more fortunate, for I am with the Lord Elessar, the son of Lord Elrond, these strong guards, Sam himself, and a host of Dead Men. That is good company, if a little strange, and we have the Lady’s Glass to light our way. In addition, we may hardly need to do any fighting, for the Dead will finish half the task for us.”

“Your dream does not still trouble you?” Hamille whispered.

The prince hesitated only a moment before he shook his head. “My heart is already much lightened for having revealed it to Aragorn; it is further lightened by the news Lanwil brings, and my step will no doubt be likewise,” he assured Hamille. ”It will not be long now. Go with ease, gwador… let the fair woods and your adar’s presence soothe you.”

Hamille knitted his brows but noted that his prince’s countenance had indeed brightened visibly since their meeting with the Hobbits.

“It is enough that the demands of the Shadow Host already disrupt the lives of the King and people of Gondor,” Legolas added in a low tone. “Do not let them disrupt ours as well.”

Hamille sighed. “Very well then, my prince,” he relented. “I will go as you ask, but let Lanwil –”

“Return with you,” Legolas finished evenly, but in a tone that invited no argument. “That is my wish – and I repeat – my command.”

The two elves exchanged glances that clearly spelled disagreement, but they knew they could not raise further objections.

“I – we – will do as you say,” Hamille said reluctantly. “But, saes, do not make me regret it. Remember the words of Gimli, and what he has threatened to do if you should come back half-dead; do not tempt me to aid him in completing it… my prince.”

Legolas laughed again and clasped Hamille’s hand in parting. “Farewell for now, dear friend, and send fair greetings to our guests and the others,” he said. “I will return as soon as the business is concluded.” 

And so they parted. With a twinge of envy they could not help, Aragorn’s company watched Hamille and Lanwil ride off to the fairest woods in the realm of Gondor, whilst they turned their faces back to the eastward road that would take them through the Crossroads to dreary Cirith Ungol and the Black Land beyond. Deep in their hearts, they looked forward to a speedy end to Aragorn’s task, and hoped that Lord Celeborn’s errand would prove nothing more than a precautionary measure.   

  --------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------  

Hundreds of leagues away, sunshine spilled with reckless abandon over the fair gardens of Treegarth, warming the birds and bees that basked in the colors of an almost perfect Spring day. Winging their joyful way between the trees and around the gleaming dark tower in the middle of the lake, the happy denizens of the sunlit gardens were blissfully unaware of the glum atmosphere within the walls of the tall structure.

One bee, more curious than the others, followed the path of sunshine that penetrated a window in the black tower; and upon entering the building, it saw beneath it the figure of a fair being, seated before a flat wooden structure and bent over a pile of some yellowing material, while another such being stood beside a wall, moving his fingers over something light that rustled. Yet a third figure, much shorter and broader, with masses of hair on his head and face, stood watching them quietly.

For a few moments, the bee buzzed above and around them, till the stout figure swatted at it in irritation. Deciding that it would find greater pleasure out in the sunshine instead of in the midst of dusty objects and annoyed beings, the bee zigzagged its way out of room, happily leaving the standing figures to the tedium of their task.

“How is he faring?” Gimli enquired quietly of Elladan in the musty library of Saruman in Orthanc, for he was loath to disrupt the concentration of the elf lord who was still poring over the fallen wizard’s notes and books. Elladan shook his head slightly and returned to the pages he had in his own hands.

Gimli sighed, glad that his two younger kinsmen were occupied somewhere else in the Tower, giving the elves the silence they needed. Still, a day and a half of searching, intensive study and little sleep had yielded less than Celeborn had hoped, their most useful find being some very old, almost faded notes likely to have been made by Saruman in the early years of his study of the Black Language. The notes helped him make sense of part of the lines he had read on the Paths, yet what he had learnt was not startling, for they spoke of what they had already learnt from Mathuil: that Men had been imprisoned behind a Gate of stone in the Mountains, and that the heir of Isildur was the only one who could free them.

“Krimpatulûk… burzum-ishi…” the elf lord mumbled to himself, “and again here… holding them all… in the darkness… an opening… the Door, most likely… and darkness again in the last line…” For a few more moments, he stared at the runes he had written from memory, then shook his head, straightened his hunched shoulders and took a deep breath. Looking up, he became aware of Gimli watching him. “Nothing new that is of significance, Master Gimli,” he sighed.

Gimli gave a slight cough. “Do you still think, my lord, that there is more to the runes than the spell that held them behind the Door?” he asked.

Celeborn rubbed his tired eyes and shook his head. “Even ancient elves make mistakes,” he answered. “I cannot say for certain. There are still gaps in the meaning of the latter lines –”  

“Well, whatever they mean… I am beginning to believe that Saruman did have a hand in it,” Elladan remarked unexpectedly from where he was seated, his eyes sweeping over the pages he held in his hands.

“Have you found something?” Gimli asked as he and Lord Celeborn walked over to the tall figure.

“The wizard’s thoughts and experiences through the years… read this, Daerada,” Elladan said, handing the pages to his grandsire. “It is written in Quenya, Gimli, High Elvish – and it says – ”

“ ‘Foolish are they to spurn in blindness the might of the Dark Lord,’ ” Lord Celeborn said, reading from the pages. “ ‘Can they not see what they gain from embracing it… as a gift dropped into one’s lap… to harness that power for… worthy purposes… for by understanding the Dark One, can we hope to stand with him when he writes his name across the lands, and declares his realm. There is wisdom in aiding him, and… Hathël sees this…’ ”

“Aye, there it is: the testimonial that he knew the Stone-hearted king, and that he sympathized with him,” Elladan said.

“Ohhhh,” Gimli said in awe. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but – whew, there was much more to the old villain than we thought then!”

“Do not doubt that, Gimli,” said Lord Celeborn, still running his eyes over the pages. “Saruman was indeed steeped in the knowledge of Sauron and his Dark Arts. Who knows the true depths of his knowledge and cunning – even Gandalf could not fathom them till he had mastered much… too much.”

”Did he fashion the spell for the king of the Mountain then?” Gimli asked.

There was no immediate answer from the elf lord, who continued to read on, skimming over the contents grimly before giving Gimli his response. “If I doubted it before, I no longer do,” he said. “He says here – rather proudly – that his knowledge helped Hathël keep the traitors from further treachery… traitors who could not see beyond the consequences of the day, who did not appreciate the full power of the Dark One...” The elf lord paused, then looked up at his companions. “This seems to me a clear indication of his involvement.” 

“I concur,” Elladan said. “Whether it was Hathël who first approached him, or he who interfered and planted seeds of treachery in the mind of the Mountain King – much as he did with Theoden – it seems highly likely that the old Wizard helped put the ‘traitors’ behind that prison of rock.”

“Ppffft, what irony!” Gimli declared in annoyed disbelief. “Traitors, he considers them, when Hathël himself was the biggest traitor – going back on his vow to Isildur!”

“He did not appear to think very highly of Isildur, or his bloodline,” Celeborn noted, reading again from the pages. “He could not revoke Isildur’s curse on Hathël and those who followed him, although that must have undoubtedly been their hope, but neither did he set much store by the likelihood that one of Isildur’s heirs would free those they imprisoned. ‘What harm is there?’ he writes. ‘I have no fear that a brigand heir to a broken line will turn up to unlock the Door.’ ”

“Huh! So the old coot did not think Aragorn’s kin would ever come into their own again,” Gimli said, snorting. “I’m glad we ran into him after the Coronation then – the sight of the newly crowned King of Gondor must have burnt his guts hotter than roasting coals!”

“He obviously wrote this after the downfall of Isildur, with full knowledge of his curse and while the People of the Mountain still inhabited flesh and blood, but long before Aragorn was ever born,” Elladan remarked. “I wonder how he felt after Malbeth voiced his prophesy.”

“Malbeth,” Gimli mumbled, recalling the name. “Ah, the seer!” 

“Aye,” said Elladan. “Do you recall Estel speaking about him: the seer during the reign of Arvedui, who foretold the return of Aragorn to the Mountain? Saruman must have known of it.” 

“And perhaps feared Aragorn and what he might become, as Sauron did,” Gimli said, nodding. “I hope that made him quake!”

“It worried him, at least,” Celeborn confirmed, having read swiftly through more pages. “Much further on here, he says: “ ‘So a remnant of the broken line lives’… then he writes more about Elessar; it appears that he had kept a closer eye on the son of Arathorn’s  comings and goings than we thought.” More pages rustled under the long fingers of the elf lord before he continued. “Here is more: ‘He may fulfill what has been foretold… but he cannot overcome what has been forged by the union of two great powers.’ ”

“The union of two powers?” Gimli mused. “Was he referring to the War of the Ring to come?”

“Not in these pages; he was writing about the prophesy,” Elladan countered. “He believed that while Aragorn could release Hathël and his followers, it would not be as plain a task to overcome the curse he created in the Black Speech with the knowledge of Sauron’s Dark Arts.” 

“ ‘No ragged left-over shall challenge me and freely undo what I have branded into Stone … I shall see to it,’ ” Celeborn cited, confirming what Elladan had said.

“ ‘A ragged left-over’ – that was what Aragorn was to him?” Gimli growled. “The blind fool! Serves him well that he was left in rags himself at the end.”

“And devoid of color, thanks to Mithrandir,” Elladan added. “But not entirely powerless, even after his demise; he left Estel a repulsive task.”

“One that we hope will come to a quick conclusion,” Gimli said firmly. “What comes now, my lord? Is there more written there that we should be concerned about?”

Celeborn took a moment to respond as he continued to mull over what he had read. “ ‘What I have branded into Stone’ ” he murmured. “I would not discount the possibility that Saruman went to the Paths himself to etch the runes above the Door. It was not done by any ordinary hand.” 

“That may well be,” Elladan agreed. “His own comings and goings were very secretive.”

“Aye – he went about in the guise of an old man, hooded and cloaked,” Gimli recalled. “We saw him with our own eyes in Rohan, and yet knew not it was he. If he hadn't been such a crook, he could have made a fine living as a stage performer!” 

Elladan could not stop a smile, but Celeborn did not share the mirth of his companions. “What concerns me is this latter remark,” he said. “ ‘No ragged left-over shall challenge me and freely undo what I have branded into Stone … I shall see to it.’ What did he mean?”

“Well, Aragorn is obviously not having an easy time undoing Saruman’s curse, is he?” Gimli suggested, stroking his beard. “Look at what he’s going through now: dragging himself and that elf through Gondor and into that accursed Land, with those newly freed Dead folks on their tails! Then to confront an ugly, monstrous eight-legged bag of poison... no small task for a man, even one as great as Aragorn!”

Celeborn did not respond, but Elladan stood and stretched his arms as he spoke. “If there is any good to be gained from these dark discoveries, it is this: if Saruman did indeed compose the spell, he may have recorded it in the Common Tongue, and it may be here… somewhere between the pages of these dusty volumes.” His elven eyes ran up and down the shelves as if they could locate it in that manner. 

“Why, yes!” Gimli agreed. “Mathuil knew what the spell said, so it must have been made known to them in the Common Tongue at some point, if not to chant, at least to understand it.”

Celeborn nodded. “If it is written somewhere, let us hope we can find it quickly, so that we may understand the full potency of the spell – and catch any dark meaning… I do not wish to miss anything.”  

With that hope, the three companions resumed their search through the older books and manuscripts, discovering to their disappointment nothing more than historical accounts of events surrounding the Eldar and Edain, and groups of Men in the wilderness that the readers did not know existed. And while these accounts were of great interest, they did not shed more light on what they truly needed to find.

After two hours, Gimli sighed and laid down some manuscripts he had been reading, raising a puff of dust as the papers hit the table. He decided to go in search of something else instead: two dwarf brothers of whom he was fonder than he would let on, and – much as he hated to admit it – a pipeful of fragrant Longbottom leaf in their possession. Keeping the clump-clump of his boots as unobtrusive as possible as he descended the stairs, he turned his thoughts away from Orthanc, and towards his friends riding in the South.

A little later, as the dwarf blew out a chain of smoke rings, reveling in the smell of pipeweed he found invigorating, he wondered if he would not rather be in the company of Aragorn and the dratted elf, and whether they were yet close to the Black Land. He could not have known that they were already at its fringes, about to set foot across its borders.

Note:  And across those borders is exactly where the Company will be in the next chapter.  If your interest in the story has not waned, hope to see you there.

Thank you to those who kindly posted the most recent reviews.

The inclusion of 'Faelwen' is dedicated to Red Squirrel, who asked about the elleth whose remarks meant so much to Hamille when he was an elfling (from Once Upon a Strongbow). 

CHAPTER 20: STEPS IN TIME

After parting with Hamille and Lanwil, Aragorn and his company continued their journey eastward, feeling a little cheered by the news Lanwil had brought and by the warmth of a generous sun. Before too long, they reached a convergence of four roads, where the group halted and looked about them. Going in a northeasterly direction was the road that was once the thoroughfare leading to North Ithilien, but which was now little used since Legolas’ elves frequented the road that bypassed this junction, along which Hamille and Lanwil were now riding. In the opposite direction, the road would take a rider to South Ithilien. But straight on, running eastward as straight as a ribbon, was the route to a land no one wished to head for, but to which all were compelled to go: the road to the pass of Cirith Ungol, and beyond it, the Land of Mordor.

“Well, here we are at the Crossroads; I expect this is familiar to you, Sam,” Aragorn said, turning around to speak to the Hobbit.

Sam smiled sadly as his eyes glazed with memories. “Yes, Aragorn, here I am again,” he said softly, riding a little way to a grassy place off the more stony paths of the Crossroads. It was much the same as when he and Frodo had been there on that fateful day during the Quest. “It looks a tad different, though, because we approached it from the north, and on foot, if you recall,” Sam added, sweeping his eyes over the area. “But look, Aragorn! There lies the fallen King as we saw him!” he said excitedly, pointing to a spot beyond some trees. “And see, he is crowned still, and with more flowers!”

“Aye, he’s not been moved,” Aragorn said. “Someone else in his lifetime might see fit to do so, but some things I thought best to leave as they are, as reminders of what once was.”

The companions remained still, studying the fallen king for a while and thinking about the old kingdoms that had come and gone. As they watched, a cloud passed overhead, blocking the sun, and a shadow crept over the head of stone just as Frodo and Sam had witnessed before. Sam’s eyes went misty at the memory, but when the facial features on the broken sculpture became hidden in shade, it was Legolas who stiffened and gasped softly at a different memory. Elrohir and Aragorn noticed it immediately and exchanged quick looks. But the shadow passed, and when the face of the King appeared whole again, the elf prince released a breath in relief, casting his friends a reassuring look. He was grateful when Sam spoke and drew everyone’s attention.

“When I was last here, we had to scurry about in fear, always keeping to the hidden paths,” the hobbit recalled. “It feels good to be taking the open road now. And aahh… the air of fair Ithilien now wafts through the place like a fresh, chill breeze on a winter morning!”

Indeed, the wholesome air of Ithilien seemed to fill their lungs. “It’s almost tasty!” Pippin declared, earning light laughter from his companions.

“Trust you to see something edible even in plain air!” Merry teased.

“Not so plain when it is the breath of Ithilien,” Aragorn said quietly, “for blessed are the lands where Elves dwell.” Hearing this, Legolas and Elrohir smiled sadly, knowing that Aragorn was thinking not only of Ithilien, but also of his days of youth in fair Imladris which would come never again.

The company turned back and resumed their journey east, reluctantly leaving the Crossroads where still lingered a reminder of Elvish fairness and Númenórean strength, and set their wills towards the task ahead. Legolas looked to the rear of the Company, and sensed the growing anticipation of the Shadow Host, feeling some admiration for the Gondorian guards who put on a brave front despite the presence of the Dead behind them.

As the mountains of the Black Land loomed ever nearer, the elf prince turned his attention to his friend instead, noting the conflicting emotions that played on the kingly face: anxiety and apprehension warring with a keenness to end the ordeal for all. The elf frowned, wondering if he was imagining the lines of tension appearing on Aragorn’s face with every mile. He wished the journey would come to an end soon.

The Black Land did come upon them quickly, as if they had opened a door and stepped through to a place where the sun was loath to come. Sauron was gone, and Minas Morgul destroyed as Aragorn had vowed, but the repulsiveness of the Dark Lord’s former realm hit them like a gust of foul wind. While Aragorn had reclaimed the Dead Marshes after the Quest to turn it into arable land, he had not had the motivation to do the same for Mordor, for the memories were still too strong, so he had left it alone. Some future generation – for whom Mordor would be a less bitter reminder of death and destruction – could transform it into inhabitable land. For now, however, its unpleasantness still reached out to the hearts of Men and Elves.

No less heavy on that ride were the hearts of even the merry hobbits. “How did Frodo and Sam make themselves stay here for so many days?” Pippin whispered gloomily to Merry, hoping Sam could not hear him. “It’s depressing, like a grey sky with not a speck of sun or cheer. I think I would have run away at the very first chance.”

“That’s why it was they who were meant to come here, Pip, and not the two of us,” Merry whispered back. “They had the courage, and nerves stronger than the brew at the Green Dragon.”

“You’re right,” Pippin agreed. “Me? I just want a good meal and a good bed and a good hearth with a bright fire – not this graveyard!”

“Hush!” Merry chastised. “Don’t speak so freely of graveyards. Have you forgotten who rides at the rear?”

Pippin had spoken less quietly than he thought, for Sam did hear him. But even without the Took’s remarks, Sam was easily reminded of his earlier ordeal here. He began to see in his mind’s eye the land as it had been when first he entered it: a dim, shadowless world fading slowly into a featureless, colorless gloom. Even now, it was a bare, sad land of hard, dry ground as if mourning its past fate under the hands of a careless Lord with a hatred of growing, thriving things. Just as the land of Hollin in the North, once the fair home of the Firstborn, had retained its wholesomeness long after the elves had left, traces of Sauron’s foulness seemed to linger in the air here. Every whiff that reached the noses of the company was laced with a strange mixture of acridity and bitterness.

“Even the very stones cry piteously in despair,” Legolas remarked quietly, his elven senses perceiving more than mortal eyes would. “It will take time before this land is wholly cleansed of Sauron’s fie aura.”

Aragorn said nothing, but rode on grimly, with only the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and an occasional cry of distant crows breaking the silence. Legolas did not like the graying shadows that seemed to darken the face of the adan, and wondered if the man might be thinking about the ghosts following them. He determined to remain close at Aragorn’s side for the rest of their stay in this dreary place. Casting his sharp eyes around for any danger, the elf prince saw, with small delight, some obscure green shoots nestled in the cracks between hard rocks, struggling to find the sun and wind.

“Lo, Aragorn, there is new life!” he said, pointing to the shoots in wonder.

Aragorn looked where the elf pointed and gave a small smile. “There is indeed, life unexpected,” he said.  

“And where there is life, there is hope,” Sam said. “Leastways, that’s what my old gaffer says.”

“Hope indeed, while Estel is with us,” Elrohir said, and their hearts, for some reason, felt eased.

“But now we should be glad that Sam is with us,” Aragorn said, turning again to the hobbit. “For we shall need your guidance now, to show us the way to the lair of our foe.”

The road before them became steeper, and they rode along slowly, often in the shade between stony banks, till at length they came to a long-tilted valley and a deep gulf of shadow running far back into the mountains, which in the evil years had been the City of the Ringwraiths. Somberly, the company led their horses on to the white bridge, now cracked and forlorn, that had led to the rocky seat upon the black knees of the Ephel Dúath where once had stood the Tower of the Moon, Minas Morgul. The remnants of that loathsome structure lay beckoning to them as they passed over the sad, brackish stream in the middle of the valley and followed the deviously winding road leading to the ruins, but they would not be going the whole way.

Sam, who was now riding at the head of the group at Aragorn’s side, studied the stone-wall beside the road as soon as they had crossed the stream, and suddenly halted the company. “Well, I’ll be! It’s still here,” he said, pointing to a small gap in the wall where he, Frodo and Gollum had left the road. “This is where we have to get off our horses and go on foot, Strider.”

Aragorn and the elves dismounted when Sam did, and walked with him to the gap. Peering through it, they saw beyond a barely discernable narrow path overgrown with the creeping roots and stems of some unhappy-looking plant, drawing life from the sickly stream along which the path ran. Pale flowers clung like desperate adornments to the route which wound its crooked way up into the northern sides of the valley.

“The horses could take us on that path, maybe,” Elrohir said, “but this gap is too small to get them through. We will have to walk.”

“How far is it to the Stairs from here, Sam?” Merry asked, squeezing past Elrohir and peering through the gap. He took an instant dislike to what he saw.

“I won’t paint you a pretty picture – there’s still a ways to go,” Sam replied, sniffing. “There’s another entrance into the tunnel from the other side: the way the orcs took when they carried Frodo into the orc tower, but I wouldn’t bet my pants on getting in that way now, what with the tower being nothin’ more than a heap of broken rubble and all. I had the Ring on, too, when I followed them, see, and it all seemed a haze. So, though it’s a pain, I’m afraid we’ll have to take the Stairs at this end, so’s I can recall the way we took, and not miss the tunnel and spend hours going around in circles.”

“We will follow your lead,” Aragorn stated quickly when Sam stopped for breath, to which the elves and men readily agreed.

Aragorn assigned two guards to stay on the road and take care of the horses, while the rest of the company prepared to hike the rest of the way with Sam. They took water-skins and dried fruit, remembering Sam’s warning that it would be a long, tiring climb up the Stairs to the lair. Sam shaded his eyes and looked at the sun.

“It’s getting a wee bit late in the afternoon, Strider, and it’ll be a long way up those Stairs, even for the long shanks on you and Legolas,” he said. “We’ll have to stop for the night halfway up, like Frodo and I did. It won’t do you any good looking for Shelob in the dark; she can see better than we can – even with the Lady’s Light – and that fat spider can be tricky. Even fat and old, she may still have quite a sting, and I don’t relish the thought of any of us getting stung for not waiting till we have a good eyeful of sun!”

“Long shanks cannot proceed as far or as wisely as a mind with experience,” Aragorn said. “We will spend a night on the Stairs as you counsel, Sam, though we will have to find ledges or enclaves large enough to hold these long shanks! But what of Merry and Pippin? What do you counsel them?”

Sam cocked his head and looked at his two companions. “Well, I see no point in your coming with us, unless you two want to camp at the foot of the Stairs,” he said. “You’d be much better off here with the guards, is what I think. You won’t climb with us, of course. Sleeping here’s safer than on a narrow ledge. With your kicking, Pippin, we’d be picking you – and one of us – off some rocks at the bottom before the night is out.”

“Wha – I do not kick in my sleep!” Pippin protested indignantly. “Merry’s the one with the misbehaving legs!”

“Now wait here, Pipsqueak!” Merry objected while Aragorn and the elves chuckled. “You’re the one always dancing a jig when you’re awake – can’t get enough of it even when you’re asleep!”

“Mercy!” cried Aragorn, laughing. “With so many legs up there, we might just end up kicking each other off a ledge! Ease our hearts by camping here with my guards, Master Hobbits, if you please.” 

“Well, if you put it that way, Strider, we’ll stay here,” Pippin huffed, putting on an offended look, though he was secretly pleased at being told to remain in a much more comfortable and safer place. “Our horses might get skittish without us, anyway – this place isn’t exactly welcoming.”

“We never meant to climb those Stairs anyway,” Merry said, turning a sober face to Sam. “But I for one wish to come with you at least to the foot of those steps. I’ll turn back then, but I’d like a glimpse of what you and Frodo… you know, went through… where you went.”

“Well, I’m coming too then!” Pippin chimed in. “Just to the first step, of course. I would keep you company the whole way if I could fly or glide like those Dead Fellows back there, but I can’t.”

“Oh, shush, Pip!” Merry said, glaring in annoyance as Sam adjusted the light pack on his back and set off. “Don’t go making ass-worthy wishes like that! Now’s not the time to be finding anything good about being like – like Them; Strider’s trying to get rid of them! Now, let’s get going, before Pippin here shoots off more nonsense…”

While the two hobbits returned to their argument, Sam started off at the head of the group, picking out a path where the stones were not so loose.

“At least my men will be entertained when those two return,” Aragorn said to Legolas, drawing a smile from the elf. Turning serious, he whispered: “Do They follow?”

Legolas considered his answer. They are practically at your heels, would have been the truthful reply. “Aye, they follow,” he said instead, and moved to walk behind his friend.

The little group trudged along the path, trying to ignore the stench of the once-poisonous stream. Soon, the land grew steeper and more unfriendly underfoot, veering away from the water. Step by step the little group went up steep inclines, Sam leading them on at a fair pace, till the hobbits and men were sweating and panting, and only the elves remained as light-footed as ever. The air here seemed heavier, but the walkers hardly paused for rest despite their tired muscles, for Sam was concerned about reaching the Stairs before dark.

“Are you sure you want to go on?” the King asked Merry and Pippin as he wiped his brow with his sleeve. “You could turn back now.” 

Merry was insistent. “No, I’m going on,” he said, and Pippin agreed, through hesitantly.

“We must reach the Stairs… like I said, we have to… climb… high enough… before we… phew!... stop for the night,” Sam reminded them breathlessly, wiping off the sweat that had dripped into his round eyes. It was a little less strenuous for the younger and niftier Merry and Pippin, but even they felt the rigor of the hike.

As they went on, Aragorn, Elrohir and Legolas, and even Tobëas and his companions, could only look at Sam in admiration, noting how the smallest of them was leading them with such will and tenacity, aware of the import of this journey for Aragorn. But urgency and need were no strangers to Sam, who, with his beloved master, had borne the hardships of a similar trek eleven years ago because of their commitment to an even greater Quest with even more dire consequences in the balance.  

The hobbit’s eyes misted over with each step he took, as he recalled the painful journey of the past. His throat often constricted not from thirst, but from the emotions that welled within him when he thought about the beloved master and friend who was no longer with him, and when he could speak, he pointed out spots where he and Frodo had stopped or faltered or argued with Gollum, in constant fear of being discovered at any moment by the Ringwraiths watching through the eye-holes in dark Minas Morgul. He stood in silent reminiscence when they came to a great hump of bare rock where the Ring-bearer had been forced to rest, utterly exhausted and unable to take another step. There, too, Aragorn and his friends stopped a while to spare a thought for Frodo, and to take a little water before resuming the hard climb.

They listened in awe as Sam continued to recount – often in a hushed tone – the agony of the trek for Frodo, how the Ring grew unbearably heavier in the Black Land, weighing him down so that each step was like wading through a thick tide, and how he would sometimes stop and break down, feeling the hopelessness of being two lost souls in a land of dark foes, not knowing if anyone knew or cared where they were. Sam recalled their despair as they wondered if they would fail and all would be lost, or if anyone would ever know how hard they tried. Then he and Frodo would be overcome with weariness and desolation, hovering between dream and reality, till, from somewhere, thoughts of the Shire would come to give them comfort, and the light of the Lady’s Glass shining through their fingers would rekindle their spirits, and with each new ounce of strength they would pick themselves up to take the next painful step.

Even Pippin and Merry ceased all attempt at joviality as they walked, lost in quiet awe of the fact that they were treading on the paths of a young but great history: humble, stony places that marked a torturous journey to the salvation of Middle-earth, places that few eyes would ever see. But the eyes that did see them this day were moved by the enormity of the task taken on by two little Halflings far from aid, so that they swallowed silent tears and felt anew their respect for Frodo and Sam, whose quiet deeds were not seen on some great battle plain, but performed – on foot, no less – on the cracked slopes and filthy tunnels of the direst, blackest mountain stronghold of a powerful Lord. In bitter irony did these hated mountains bear mute testimony to the indomitable strength of two little souls who strove to bring down those mighty mountains, while their courage lay beneath torn, dirty ragged clothing and in the dry wells of parched throats, largely hidden from the rest of the world.   

The admiration of the company grew even further when, an hour before what promised to be a blood-red sunset, they came at last to a rounded angle and a dark, narrow opening in a rock: the foot of the Stairs leading to Torech Ungol, the dreaded Lair of Shelob. Stopping to catch their breaths, they peered upward. Even craning their necks, they could not see the top, but a large length of the Stairs was in view where they appeared above the dark crevice some distance up. Men, Elves and Hobbits swallowed when they witnessed the danger that two little hobbits had braved all those years ago: slippery, uneven and treacherous steps cut into the steep rock face, almost vertical in parts and dripping with slime and moss, soon to be colored a gory blood-red in a dying sun. This was the dreaded route upon which Sam and Frodo had torturously made their way, and from which one false step would have sent them hurtling to an ugly head-splitting death below. Who had first cut the Stairs into the rock face, no one knew, but there was no time for wonder. Elrohir glanced at Legolas, aware of the concern the elf prince would be feeling not only for Sam but also for Aragorn, and he knew that Legolas would stay one step behind the King the whole way.

Aragorn fought, too, with an anxiety that was welling within, but not for himself. “Sam,” he began brokenly, his eyes fixed on the great height. “For you to climb these again – my heart is heavy – ”

“Say no more, Strider,” the Hobbit said, sweeping his sweat-drenched hair from his shiny face. He tightened his belt and gave Sting a firm pat. “Your Dead fellows can frighten that big-bellied ugliness, but they can’t kill her, so we have to. There’s nothin’ for it; we have to take these steps. So, tell those fellows to wait up there or somethin’, and to be patient – it will be a loooong climb for the rest of us.”

Merry and Pippin suddenly felt too humbled to say anything, but Merry clapped a hand onto his friend’s plump shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “We will not make it up there with you, Sam; we’d best be heading back to the road before it gets too dark,” he said. “But you take care, and stay close to Strider and Legolas.”

Uncharacteristically, Pippin said nothing, but he gave Sam a quick hug, hoping his friend would understand, before he took his place beside Merry and the guard Aragorn had assigned to return with them. 

Sam did not utter anything either, but he gave them his lopsided grin and nodded to Aragorn. Then, turning around, the courageous Hobbit placed his large, furry foot on the first step to repeat history. 

Note: This short chapter stands alone as my modest way of honoring the courage of Sam and Frodo. I hope you all share my respect for them.

My thanks to the readers who brave this journey with me, and to the reviewers who continue to support me.

Ready to start the climb with Aragorn and company?

CHAPTER 21: ELUSIVENESS

From the time Gimli first laid eyes on the Lord of the Golden Wood, the tall, stately elf had, despite his gravity, always appeared indomitable. But it seemed to the dwarf, as he watched Celeborn pore tirelessly over sheaves and sheaves of papers in the Tower of Orthanc, that a tinge of defeat colored his mood. Even the long silver tresses on the bent head, hanging as heavily as the heart of the venerable elf, could not hide the grim disappointment lining his face. 

“Still nothing?” Gimli whispered to Elladan, who shook his head at the pile of open books and yellowed documents before him. Lacing his long fingers behind his neck, he leaned against the back of the chair and gave a wry grin.

“Sometimes I feel as if Saruman lives on in them, mocking me, challenging me to find what we are searching for,” he said tiredly.

Gimli walked over to the table and stared at the documents curiously as if daring them to mock him now, though he unconsciously kept a distance between himself and the papers.

“I found nothing that reveals the meaning of the spell itself, but there is an abundance of other interesting material if you care to wade through it all,” Elladan continued. “Some are in the Common Tongue, including letters and reports that suggest Saruman may have created similar prisons elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere!” Gimli exclaimed. “Do you mean he condemned others to the same fate?”

“Yes, Master Dwarf, it seems so.”

“But why?”  

“Probably for similar reasons: to punish, or to bind,” Celeborn suggested, abruptly rising from his seat to join the conversation. “The true circumstances are veiled, for who can truly fathom Saruman’s reasons for all he did?”

“But… but who would bring about the release of those poor souls then?” asked Gimli. His eyes widened as a thought crossed his mind. “Surely they wouldn’t all be waiting for Aragorn?”

“Nay!” answered Elladan. “There does not seem to be any relation to him, or his bloodline. For all we know, there might have been different spells, albeit with the same outcome.”  

“You asked a good question nonetheless, Gimli,” Celeborn said thoughtfully. “Who would – or could – bring about their release? Saruman may have been demented, but he was cunning. It is conceivable that he would have made certain of a way out for them that he himself could execute –”

“But that is not our concern, is it, Daerada?” Elladan pointed out. “In the case of the Mountain people, we already know that the power to do so lies with Estel.”

Celeborn nodded wordlessly in agreement as he walked slowly around the chamber. He stopped when he reached a spot where a sunbeam had drawn a circle of light on the floor. The elf lord looked up at the ray of sunlight that announced itself through a narrow slit in the wall high above, and he studied the dust floating aimlessly in its path. For a few moments, nothing was heard in the shadowed chamber of the Tower save the faint twitter of birds from outside the stone walls. Then, like gentle ripples on a water surface, the silence broke as the deep, sonorant voice of the Lord of Lothlorien chanted slowly and in low tones the verses that had been heard from the mouth of the old man Mathuil:

"With this Gate I hold thee fast,

From this day forth until the Last.

No tool nor hand shall open Door

Save he to whom the oath we swore.

To let thee for betrayal atone

And set thee free before the Stone…”

The voice of the elf lord trailed off, and all was silent again. But the atmosphere had turned a little more somber and eerie even though the verses had been uttered in the Common Tongue. As one held spellbound, Gimli stared at the silver-haired figure with slackened jaw. Then Celeborn took a deep breath and turned to his companions, breaking the dwarf’s brief trance. Gimli shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

“Have no fear, Master Dwarf,” Celeborn assured him. “I do not believe the curse works in anything but the Black Speech, for thus was it carven into the rock.”

“Brrpthh…” the dwarf exhaled. “It was still mighty unpleasant to these mortal ears!” he grunted.

Celeborn nodded apologetically, turning back to the finger of sunlight. “I was merely reminding myself about what we know so far of the first six lines,” he said. “Elessar is the one who has to release the Dead once they fulfill their oath, and he has already promised them that before the Stone. But there are six more lines left unread.” The elf lord took a deep breath and exhaled. “I know now that there is another mention of darkness in the last line, and if my interpretation is not in error, there is mention of light before that… ”

“But what does it all mean?” asked Gimli. “Darkness... could the old villain have known that Aragorn would have to enter the black lair of Shelob? That Legolas would have to help him with the Lady’s Glass?”   

“Or, he could have been referring to the Darkness from which the Dead would be freed,” Elladan suggested. “And Estel is the one who brings them to light?”

No answer came from the ageless elf.

“What disturbs your ease, my lord?” Gimli asked him. “Are you afraid that Aragorn might be unaware of something he needs to complete the release?”

“Or that something might go awry should he choose to go about it the wrong way?” Elladan added.

“Either of those possibilities, or some other,” the elf lord replied, absently following the dance of the dust particles in the sunbeam.

“Perhaps… perhaps there is nothing more in those lines than a reinforcement of the spell, and we already know all we need to know,” Elladan said carefully. “It seems we have done all we can, searched all we can, short of reading every page in this library.”

A snort of exasperation escaped Gimli. “Didn’t he even hint at what the spell – the whole spell – means?” he asked.

“Well… there was something Saruman did write in his notes pertaining to it,” Elladan said, remembering. “I thought I could hear him laughing in his arrogance as he wrote it.”

“What? What did he write?” Gimli asked curiously, waiting for Elladan to recollect the words.

“ ‘Vainly do mortals seek to understand it,’ ” the elf replied slowly. “ ‘He who wishes to know must look above himself.’ That is what he wrote.”

“ ‘Look above himself?’ Oi, what was he talking about then?” Gimli groaned. “Was the old villain’s mind so bent that he couldn’t say anything straight?”

“I did wonder about it when I encountered it,” said Elladan. “My immediate guess was that he was referring to the answer lying somewhere in the volumes placed on the higher shelves of this library.”

Gimli took a moment to consider the elf’s guess. “Possibly,” the dwarf said. “Or he could have been talking about the runes etched in rock above the Door that you read, my lord,” he suggested to Celeborn. “Someone like me would certainly have to look up to see them!”

“Yet another thought I had is that Saruman obviously considered himself above Men,” Elladan remarked, “so he could have been claiming that the answer lay with him, and that they had to look to him to learn anything.”

Lord Celeborn did not make any comment on any of the guesses, his vision still fixed on the single ray of sunlight from the window above. Gimli’s eyes went round.

“Oohh, do you think the answer is up there?” he asked excitedly, pointing to the window. “Etched in those walls up there?” The dwarf narrowed his eyes, seeking any markings on the wall that could be discerned in the dusty brightness of the single ray.

The dwarf’s excitement caused Elladan to squint at the opening as well. “What does your heart tell you, Daerada?” he asked his grandsire softly.

Celeborn took a moment to answer, and when he did, it was with a slow shake of the head. “I perceive nothing, as far as I am able to perceive,” the elf lord replied. “And for some strange reason, it is not to the stone cold walls I look, but the light of the sun. It is the warmth in its beams which speaks to me.” 

The Lord of Lothlorien then moved so that the light of Anor fell upon his flawless features and brought alive the luminescence of a Firstborn’s countenance. His grandson studied him and thought how morbidly different this Tower was from the timeless mystery of the Lord’s realm.

“You miss the Sun, Daerada, for we have been too long out of it and away from the trees, looking for something that continues to elude us,” Elladan said. He paused to consider the question on the tip of his tongue before voicing it: “Should we perhaps be riding back to rejoin Estel?”  

“That doesn’t seem a bad idea!” Gimli said eagerly before checking himself. “But… umm… it’s your decision, of course, my lord. I’ll abide by it.”

Celeborn did not respond immediately, although he knew that his grandson and Gimli were waiting. When he did, it was with a sigh. “A little longer,” he said. “Let us search a little longer.”

Gimli pursed his lips, and nodded despite his disappointment. “Well, that’s that,” he muttered. “A pretty chase Saruman has led us on, even with him gone. And since I can’t find anything useful up here, I can at least see if I can bring you some food to ease your hunger. Even elves must eat.”

Leaving grandfather and grandson to continue their task, the dwarf descended the stairs in search of Dagor and Bragor, and any food they might have scrounged up. Even if it might be cold and bland, it was still sustenance, and he needed it if they were to stay on. But surely they could not stay for much longer, and he comforted himself with the thought that he might soon be rejoining Legolas and his other companions;. As his feet touched each stone step on his way to the lower floor of the Tower, he wondered where they were and how they were faring.

Little did he know that his friends were already struggling up some stone steps of their own: the Stairs to Torech Ungol, the dark, stinking home of Shelob.   

  --------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------

The day before, Aragorn and his company had commenced their ascent an hour and a half before sunset, moving as quickly as they could, with Sam leading the way. Halfway up, when it had grown too dark to see and climb safely, they had found several ledges at different heights to spend the night.

Tobëas had expressed a fear of falling off, and Sam had, in jest, offered him Lady Galadriel’s gift of hithlain that he had brought along, so that the man could tie himself to some rock. Aragorn had considered removing his boots, but there was a chilly wind at night, and when they started off the next morning as soon as there was light enough to see, the stone steps were too cold for bare feet. So, after a hurried meal of dried meat and fruit and bread flattened beyond easy recognition, the company plodded upwards as cautiously as they could.

As hard as the climb up the dangerous Stairs was for Sam, it was even harder for Aragorn and the three remaining guards. Sam seemed more secure, either because his hobbit-sized feet – though not tiny by any means – were smaller, or because he had already been that way once. But Ranger or no Ranger, Aragorn did not have the lesser weight of a hobbit or the litheness of an elf. His feet were longer, and his heavy boots cumbersome.

Legolas and Elrohir alone felt little of the effort, even with the bows and arrows they had on their backs, but they followed the pace of the mortals, making sure they stayed close to Aragorn. The Dead were nowhere in sight of the elven eyes, which made Legolas assume that they were already waiting at the top. The elf prince was certain that they would not bring any harm to Aragorn, not when they were relying on his staying alive to release them, so he and Elrohir did not spare them much thought, focusing instead on the King, who stayed between Sam and Legolas during the climb. 

Although much of the rock surface was slimy, there were also rough, jagged edges not yet worn smooth by the wind, and the climbers found their hands bruised and chafed from having to hold on firmly to the steps as they hauled themselves up. Step by step they labored on, the wind growing more brisk the higher they went, sometimes blowing the climbers’ hair into their faces so that they had to sweep it aside with one hand, hanging on nervously with the other, before moving on.

After an exhausting hour, Sam halted the climbers for a breather.

“Not much further now… almost… at the top,” he said. His announcement raised their spirits, and when he resumed the climb, the rest of the company unconsciously quickened their pace.

A little later, Sam began going around a curved part of the mountain face.

“One more… short stretch!” he called down to the King behind him.

Drawing a breath of delight, Aragorn opened his mouth to respond.

But the words never came, for the unexpected happened, and it happened very quickly.

As soon as Aragorn rested his weight on a step with a fracture in the stone, a large piece of it broke off with a sharp crack and headed straight for Legolas below. Quick as lightning, the elf averted it, closing his eyes in response. When he opened them again a moment later, he heard a brief cry and saw Aragorn falling rapidly past him, sliding helplessly down the face of the mountain.

With a startled gasp, the elf reached out to grab his friend, but his hand snapped on empty air as Aragorn slid further down. Elrohir, on the steps below Legolas, flung his arm out as well, but the curve of the Stairs was such that Aragorn had gone just beyond reach.

Frantic cries erupted from the elves and the men as Aragorn tried desperately to grasp onto some handhold. But he found himself sliding down too fast to latch on to anything. His face and arms and body grazed roughly against the hard surface as he fell, leaving little bits of skin in the wake of his rapid descent.

With a jerk, Aragorn’s right hand managed to grab on to a small piece of rock that jutted out, his lungs expelling a whoosh of air as his chest slammed against stone. The other hand found only a finger hold, and his legs dangled wildly till his feet met with weak resistance on some uneven surface below that he could not see.

Stretched out painfully, the dazed King managed to remain in that position to maintain his precarious holds, but he soon became fearfully aware that he could fall at any moment, and his breathing grew rapid.

“Hold on, Aragorn!” he heard Legolas cry frantically from above.

Having fallen some distance beyond the last of the climbers, Aragorn clung on for dear life as he watched the elf shed himself of his weapons and climb onto the rock face away from the steps. The lithe figure began a swift descent to reach him, long arms and legs stretching and curling recklessly fast as he moved like the spider they had come to find. Blinking cold sweat out of his eyes, Aragorn tried to caution his friend, but he felt his tongue cleave to the roof his mouth, and his strength failed.

He could hear the frenzied voices of Elrohir and Sam and his men shouting out about rope, but all he saw was Legolas. He looked up at his friend pleadingly, breathing too heavily to utter anything. Sweat snaked down from his hairline, its wet saltiness stinging his face in several places where the rock had scraped off skin and exposed a bloody rawness. His body was aching from the strain of maintaining his slim hold on the rock.

“Hold on!” Legolas repeated, praying that the others would fashion some help quickly. Far below, the elf noted, gurgled a little offshoot of the dirty stream with sharp rocks awaiting a victim.

One false move… the prince thought, his distress escalating when he saw the blood on his friend’s face and flashes of a nightmare came to him. He pushed aside the horrible images and continued to descend as quickly as he could. 

Below him, Aragorn was weakening.

“Arms… tired,” the man grunted, fearing that his aching limbs would yield. His fresh cuts continued to smart, and his sides – torturously stretched – were screaming with agony.

Have to find a closer foothold… he thought. Not daring to lift his face from the rock which his cuts were staining with his blood, he shifted his weight to his right hand and foot, and slowly lifted a trembling left leg from its present hold, seeking some security closer to his shin that would be easier to maintain. Panting against the stone, he slid his booted foot up to feel for clefts in the stone, listening to the grate of the tough leather sole against the hard surface.

“What are you doing, Estel?” Legolas cried in alarm when he noticed the man’s movements from above. “Do not move!” he warned, inching his way closer to his friend.

But Aragorn had already begun and he could not stop. Moving upwards, the front of his left boot encountered a little depression in the hard surface, and he exhaled gratefully. He began to jam his boot in while easing his weight off the other aching leg.

Sudden dismay flooded the man when he realized with a start that this new chink was too small, that his boot would not fit. In terror, he quickly abandoned his attempt and lowered his leg to find the previous hold – but it now eluded him. Panic seized him and he felt about wildly with his leg, unable to look down.

The movement cost him.

In his frantic search, he stretched his leg too far, finding nothing. The effort caused his left hand to slip free of its finger-hold, and the sweaty palm of his right hand lost even its modest grasp. He began to slide again.

“Estel, no, nooo!” Legolas cried, bending down to reach for him. Other urgent voices joined his as the other climbers saw the King’s peril. 

A slight protrusion in the crags brought Aragorn to another jerky halt after several feet down, allowing him a few moments of belabored breathing through parched, bleeding lips. Looking up, Aragorn was strangely comforted by a vision of golden silk billowing about a fair face, and further up, he glimpsed the figure of Elrohir descending rapidly.

But he did not miss the pallor of the face above or the bright dread in the blue eyes – and he knew that the elf realized what he did as well: his torn and aching fingers would not maintain their hold for long, for his feet rested on nothing.

“I can’t – I can’t…” the man groaned as his fingers released their grasp and he began to slither downwards once more.

“Noooo, Estel! Hold on, please!” Legolas pleaded and started to lower himself further.

Sweat blinded Aragorn as his fingers clawed desperately at the harsh rock face that would yield no aid. With an agonized hiss and cry, he tried with every remaining ounce of strength to propel his aching body upward, to clutch at salvation by an elven hand.

But the tips of his bloody fingers met Legolas’ only for a pitiful instant – and the chance was gone. His hands and feet lost all purchase they had had on the rock surface, and an icy stream of fear surged through him.

For a heart-stopping instant, the King seemed to hover in mid-air, his arm still outstretched. He looked up, the sharp terror in his wide grey eyes tearing the heart out of the elf above.

“No, noooooo!” He heard Legolas’ strangled scream.

Then he fell. 

Note: Bye for now.

I wish I could have worked on this a little more, but I will be away in the States for a couple of weeks and wanted to leave you with this before I left.

Hugs and thanks to all those who sent in the latest reviews.

CHAPTER 22: THE UNEXPECTED

There were few times in Legolas’ life that he had been so frozen with fear that he could not move. This moment on the cruel face of a mountain in the Black Land – just after he had seen someone he loved slip from his grasping fingers to fall through nothingness – was one of them.

“Esteeeel!” The cry of pained anguish had been ripped from his elven throat, joined by other frantic exclamations from above him.

Saved from a long fall himself only by the slightest of holds on some hardly noticeable protrusion of rock, he had watched helplessly as Aragorn plummeted downwards, and the only thing that had prevented him from letting go and leaping after his friend was a realization that hit him moments later: that Aragorn’s fall to certain death below had – by some act of mercy by the Valar – been abruptly broken by a small catch in the hard rock face halfway down.

Barely discernable from above, the narrow fold jutted upward like a pouting lip, and Aragorn, after two more failed efforts at halting his descent and slamming against rough rock in the process, had fortunately slowed his downward journey enough to land in the loose wedge of the crag, which now cradled him like a newborn. The elves – the only two members of the Company that had a clear view of what had happened, for the fold was some distance from the Stairs – gasped in incredulous relief. But their fear resurfaced when they saw that Aragorn was still and unmoving: his legs hanging limply over one edge of the fold, and his head bent forward on his chest.

Snapping out of their shocked stupor, the elves moved swiftly. Elrohir shouted instructions to Sam and the men to remain where they were, certain that they would not be able to handle the dangerous slopes, before joining Legolas in an urgent near-slide along the rock surface to reach Aragorn.

Yards away from their target, they saw – again to their immense relief – that Aragorn had suddenly begun to stir. But just as quickly, horror set upon them.

“Estel, stay still!” Legolas called out, afraid that the man’s movements would dislodge him from the tenuous safety of the crag. “Do not move; we are coming to you!”

Even from where they were, the elves saw Aragorn attempt to lift his head, and they heard his moan of pain, but then, either out of incapacity or awareness of his danger, he halted his movements.

Moving dangerously fast and ignoring Elrohir’s warnings, Legolas completed the descent and reached Aragorn first. The man was half on his back, one arm trapped between his body and the rock, and the other lying weakly along the exposed side, the sleeves of his shirt torn in places. Cuts and bruises scored his palms and fingers, and the Ring of Barahir on his forefinger had almost come off in his earlier struggle to retain a hold on the cliff face. But what alarmed Legolas most was the pallor of Aragorn’s face, markedly ashen beneath the bloody abrasions. The man was conscious but breathing heavily and moaning softly in pain.

Fighting off a rising fear, the elf set one slender foot gingerly onto the sharp edge of the fold, inches from where Aragorn lay, and set the other down in the narrow space between Aragorn’s thigh and the rock wall. He released his hold on the rock and lowered himself carefully on to his knees so that he straddled Aragorn’s supine form, avoiding toppling off the ledge himself with the fine balance and grace only an elf could possess. Anxiously, he began to scan the silent form before him.

Framed by dark hair fanning out in disarray, Aragorn’s pale face was bruised and chafed, with cuts above one eyebrow and on his nose. Some skin had been scraped off both cheeks, and his upper lip was also beginning to swell. His eyes were open but staring almost vacantly, sending a stab of fear through the elf.

“Estel?” Legolas called gently, his voice trembling like the hand he placed on his friend’s chest. The man did not answer.

The elf prince could hear the Gondorian guards and Sam shouting to him, trying to learn of Aragorn’s condition, but he could not speak for the lump in his throat. He vaguely heard Elrohir responding for him, telling them that Aragorn was alive, and to wait.

After a few moments, Legolas could hear the other elf above and behind him, and knew that the latter was hanging onto the rock face. The prince began to rise so that Elrohir could examine his brother, but the dark-haired elf stayed him.

“There is not enough space for us to move freely,” he told Legolas. “Remain where you are, and feel behind his head; is he bleeding?”

Following Elrohir’s instructions, Legolas calmed his hands and felt gently all over Aragorn’s head and neck and as much of his back as he could, then checked his arms and badly chafed hands. Aragorn’s eyes became fixed on the elf at some point, and blinked at him, but said nothing.

“I feel a small bump at the back of his head, but no blood seeps there or elsewhere,” said Legolas, still worried despite the relief he sensed from Elrohir.

“It hurts,” Aragorn said suddenly, trying to reach up to feel his head.

“Stay still, Estel,” Elrohir said firmly, and Legolas grasped the man’s hands gently to keep him from moving too much.

“You’re spinning…” the man said weakly to Legolas before he closed his eyes, panting.

“Remain still,” said Elrohir. “Breathe slowly, Estel.”

Knowing how anxious Sam and the men must be, not being able to see what was going on, Elrohir called out – with an assurance he did not truly yet feel – that Aragorn was recovering from the shock of his fall. Then the whole group waited in great anxiety.

Wordlessly, Legolas continued to hold his friend’s hands, and gently swept aside the hair sticking to the bloody welts and cuts. He could not stop recalling everything Elrohir had told him about how Men could forget everything they had known after a blow to their heads, and he could not stop thinking about his nightmare and about Aragorn being lost. Pleading silently with the Valar, the elf watched the grimace of pain leave Aragorn’s face as his breathing grew steadier.

“He must not sleep, gwador,” Elrohir said softly in warning to Legolas. “Is he – ?”

Before the elf could finish, Aragorn opened his eyes again.

“Aragorn?” Legolas said quietly, holding his breath.

The man’s swollen lips parted. “Stopped spinning,” he croaked. Then he fixed unblinking eyes on Legolas for what seemed to be an endless moment, till an unnerving thought crept into the elf’s mind. Legolas narrowed his brows and swallowed.

“Who?” he asked anxiously. “Who has stopped spinning?”

The silence from Aragorn screamed like a harsh, cruel answer to the waiting elf. “Who –” he began again.

“You,” said the man hoarsely at last. He lifted his grey eyes to look beyond the golden elf straddling him, to the tall elf behind, and the rock and sky above. “Everyone,” he whispered. “Everything.”

Legolas was not appeased. “Who… am I?” he asked with quivering lips, hardly daring to breathe. “Who am I, Estel?”

The man looked at him, knitting his brows a little, perplexed at the question. Then a glimmer of understanding seemed to enter his eyes. He smiled weakly and answered: “Legolas.”

Audible sighs of relief escaped two pairs of elven lips, and Legolas’ grip on the man’s hands relaxed. 

“Move your fingers, Estel, and your legs,” said Elrohir. Aragorn’s face registered pain and great discomfort, and his movements were slow, but to the elf’s great satisfaction, he complied. “I know that caused you pain, but at least your limbs do not seem to be broken,” Elrohir said consolingly. “Where else does it hurt?”

“My back feels like it has been pummeled on, and I have a headache,” Aragorn replied. “But nowhere else.”

The elves’ eyes traveled over the torn elbows of the man’s sleeves, to the bruises they knew were hidden beneath his leather leggings, and finally to the cuts on his face. And they exchanged a quick glance that said: He will soon feel them.

“Rest there awhile, Estel,” said Elrohir. “I will fetch water and herbs for the cuts. Stay with him, Legolas.”

The elf left, climbing up the rock to meet with some men and a hobbit who would undoubtedly be relieved beyond measure. Legolas could hear him calling out instructions to Sam about using the hithlain, and to Tobëas about the rope he had brought. The elf prince hoped that the men’s efforts would not cost them their already shaky grip on the steps.

Then he turned his attention back to the grey eyes beneath, pinning Aragorn with an expression that spoke volumes. “Frighten me again like that, Adan, and I will be sorely tempted to push you off this mountain myself,” he said teasingly, masking his deep concern. “Wait till Gimli hears of this; he will nag at you – at us – no end.”

Aragorn chuckled despite his pain. “Fortune was on my side,” he said quietly after a while.

Legolas smiled grimly. “Aye, mellon nin, it was,” he said softly. “That it was.”

Aragorn’s eyes showed his agreement. “But I – I did think… that it would be the end,” he added thoughtfully.

“Not by a long fall, mellon nin,” Legolas countered, trying to lighten the conversation.

“I thought about what would happen if I… if I had gone,” Aragorn continued. “The task would be unfinished, Eldarion would have to…”

Legolas raised his eyebrows. “You thought of all that while you were falling?” he asked incredulously.  

Aragorn remained somber as he responded. “You cannot believe how quickly things flash across our minds, Legolas, when we think the end is here,” he said forlornly, closing his eyes.

“But it is you who are still here, Estel, not the end,” Legolas said firmly. “Not the end… thank the Valar for that.”

The look on Aragorn’s face softened as he attempted a nod. “Not the end,” he echoed. “And your dream – it did not come to pass… it was nothing, just a dream… for I still remember.” He opened his eyes and gazed at his elven friend. “I still know you.”

Legolas placed his hand lightly on Aragorn’s. “Yes, you do, Estel, you do; hannon le,” he said, smiling. “And what is more, you still have all your features on your face as well.”

As soon as the words had been spoken, Aragorn began to raise his hand to his cheek, but was stopped by the elf. Though Legolas’ heart ached over the battering his friend’s face had received from the rough rock, he hid his distress beneath a light tone.

“It’s somewhat improved by the removal of some dead, unsightly skin,” he quipped, receiving a grim smile in response. “And would you know, the Host is as relieved as we are, Aragorn.”  

Even in agony, the man’s surprise came through in his voice. “You can see that?”

“I sense it,” the elf answered. “They would have not wanted to lose the one person who can release them, not when they are so close to their target.”

Aragorn nodded slightly and grew thoughtful again at the reminder of his task. Legolas encouraged him to lie quietly till Elrohir returned.

After what seemed an eternity, Aragorn’s cuts and bruises had been cleaned with water and treated with herbal pastes Arwen had wisely sent along, while soothing ointment was applied to the parts that had had skin scraped off.

“That will have to do for now,” Elrohir said.

Next came the torturous task of helping Aragorn finish the interrupted journey. Sam and the Gondorian guards had completed the climb to the top of the Stairs, where Sam had tied both ropes securely to a huge stone. When Aragorn felt able to bear some of his own weight, Legolas and Elrohir gently freed him and looped the ropes around him. Then, with the ropes and the elves supporting him, he made his slow, agonizing way back along the cliff wall to the Stairs to resume the climb. It was a long, strenuous effort, but after numerous stops, they all completed the remainder of the journey to the top, where the King was greeted with much relief by his anxious guards and one nervous hobbit.

“I just ’bout forgot how to breathe back there, Strider, the fright was so bad!” Sam lamented, his round eyes telling the story as expressively as his tongue. “Nothin’ good came of this horrid mountain when Mr. Frodo and I last dragged our poor selves here, and you near lost it all too this time. I’ll cheer no end when the job’s done and we can leave this ghastly place! Here, Strider, you set yourself down and snooze for a bit. That old big-bellied beast isn’t goin’ anywhere.”

Wearily, and fighting the pain in his head and back, Aragorn allowed himself to be led to a fairly open space with a level surface, beyond which lay a large, dark opening in the rock face.

“The tunnel,” he murmured in awe as he gaped at it. “Is this the tunnel?”

“That’s it,” Sam confirmed quietly. “That’s the front door to Her Creepiness’ palace, and if she’s still here, she’ll be cooling off in some dank sticky hole deep inside – probably dozing and a-waiting her next meal.”

Tobëas and his friends swallowed nervously at Sam’s words, but Aragorn’s face showed no expression. 

“It’ll be some job getting her to show her hairy face,” Sam remarked. “That’s one bug you can’t poke at with a stick!”

Still the King said nothing, but Legolas could read the question in his mind, and assured him that the Shadow Host was already waiting there, silent and expectant and tense.

Satisfied, and too tired to worry about them for the moment, Aragorn let Elrohir and Legolas help him change out of his torn clothes and feed him water, then lay down while they tended to him and his men fashioned some shade for him from the glare of the noonday sun. Feeling exhausted from the recent ordeal, he studied with dismay the injuries to his hands and fingers, and thought about how the pain in other parts of his body would slow his movements. Wordlessly, he lamented that it had taken place so soon before the meeting with Shelob.

“Worry not, Aragorn,” Legolas said reassuringly, sensing his distress. “There are many of us to manage her, and you need but deal the final stroke.”

The King nodded gratefully, and despite his fatigue, his spirits were buoyed by the thought of completing the hateful task. It had taken too long, and he was keen to have it ended. Indeed, this would have to be a brief respite, he told himself, for they did not have the luxury of time. Shelob would have to be confronted while daylight hours were still plentiful, as Sam had warned.

Yes, the brightness of day would be best for the encounter with the Beast, he sighed as he closed his eyes. And best, too, he thought, for the release of the Living Dead.

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In the cool dimness of Orthanc, blissfully unaware of what had befallen his friends, Gimli began to drowse after having quietened his rumbling stomach with something paltry that the two younger and resourceful dwarves had scrounged up. Their meager rations were depleting rapidly, barely enough to satisfy what he considered an already undemanding appetite, and so he heartily hoped that Lord Celeborn would decide to return to Gondor by the morrow, whether or not he found what he sought.

“Well, if I can’t get something else to eat, I might as enjoy a nap,” he had muttered to Bragor and Dagor while tightening his belt. “One can be as delicious as the other, I suppose.”

He leaned back in the armchair he had chosen for his afternoon constitution and closed his heavy eyelids. He had just begun drifting into that delicate state between waking and sleeping, when a noise began its gentle but persistent intrusion into his rest. Tap tap tap, it went.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap.

Go away, be quiet, he thought in his half-asleep state, rearranging his ample body on the armchair. And for a while, it seemed as if his wish would be granted. But the rhythmic invasion soon resumed.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap…

Gimli snapped awake, feeling grumpier than a moose with a rump full of nettles.

“Confound that racket!” he roared. “Can’t a dwarf get some peace around here?”

The tapping halted instantly, and Dagor – who was seated with his brother on the floor nearby, enjoying his pipe – looked apologetically at the Elder dwarf. Bragor, however, barely concealed the roll of his eyes, which further irked the sleepy dwarf lord.

“It’s bad enough that my stomach is crying out for food,” Gimli grumbled, “without you knocking on that… that…” He furrowed his bushy brows at the two younger dwarves as he sat up. “Just what are you thumping on there?”

A quick movement of Dagor’s hand told Gimli that he had tried to push something out of sight that he had been knocking on with his pipe.

“It’s nothing,” the young dwarf muttered as nonchalantly as he could.

“Nothing of worth,” his brother added, shaking his head.

Gimli was not the least bit convinced, for he had caught a glimpse of a bone-colored object partially hidden by Dagor’s generous waist. “Bring it out here!” he instructed in his most commanding tone, jumping to his feet and striding towards the seated dwarves, who began to look decidedly uncomfortable. Growling, Gimli peered around Dagor’s girth, and his eyes widened. “Is that – is that what I think it is, you brats?” he asked.

Bragor shook his head again. “Whatever you think it is,” he said, “it’s not.”

Gimli exploded. “Bring it out now!”

Red in the face, Dagor slowly drew his hand out from behind his back and yielded the yellowed skull he had been trying to conceal.

“By my beard!” Gimli exclaimed. “Did you take that from the library upstairs?”

“Aye,” Dagor admitted timidly.

The dwarf lord’s beard fairly bristled. “Well, what are you doing with it?” he demanded.

“We were bored out of our skulls!” Dagor declared, then clamped a large hand over his mouth. “Oh… no, I didn’t mean that – ”

“That – that’s somebody’s head, you ninnies!” Gimli spluttered. “It’s not some plaything!”

Bragor shrugged his shoulders. “No disrespect meant,” he said with a hint of an apology before puffing on his pipe. “But this fellow’s been dead for… for who knows how long? And who knows how vile a creature he may have been?”

The hefty older dwarf gaped at the brothers, wondering for a moment how he could be dumbfounded by a pair of youngsters.

“And it’s not like he can feel anything now,” Dagor added eagerly, tapping his own pipe against the skull and spilling a large wad of hot ash on the rounded top. “Oops, ummph, that wasn’t deliberate,” he said, looking up at Gimli sheepishly.

The dwarf lord threw up his hands in defeat.  

“You’re young and sprightly now,” he said. “But when you’re dead and gone, and that’s all that’s left of you – ” he pointed to the skull, “you’ll thank the Living not to fool around with your bony head then!”

Too sleepy and annoyed to carry on the tirade, Gimli turned and headed towards the spiral staircase. It was time to leave this miserable place, he thought, and he would suggest to Lord Celeborn that they do so on the morrow, whether or not they found what they had come to find. But a shout of surprise stayed his step.

“Whoa, whoa, look!” he heard Dagor cried excitedly. “Hammer and tongs, Elder! Look!” 

Alarmed, Gimli turned and returned quickly to the brothers. Then three pairs of dwarven eyes grew wide and round at an unexpected sight.

Note: I’m afraid I cannot write any faster at this point and may have had people jump ship along the way  *eeeep* ...  but thank you to everyone who’s reading and reviewing faithfully.

Chap 23 will be something you probably won’t want to miss, my friends… Hope to see you there.

Note: Chapter 23 was meant to take the story to a particular point in the plot, but it grew too long to be a single chapter, so the latter part of what I initially planned has now got to be in 24.

CHAPTER 23: REAWAKENING

The wind whipped through the dark hair of the King of Gondor as he stood facing the mouth of Shelob’s lair, his bruised face grim and determined, even if his legs were still a little unsteady and his body throbbed with pain that had set in once he had lain down and had time to feel. Yet, Aragorn had not rested more than an hour before he had pronounced himself able to confront Shelob, and despite the impassioned protests of his brother and his guards, they had understood his desire to complete his task so that they could all return home.

Thus here he stood, the bandaged fingers of one hand gripping the hilt of the Flame of the West, and the other hand resting on the arm of his elven friend, whose long, golden hair glinted as brightly as the blade of Andứril in the light of early afternoon. A round-eyed hobbit and the striking elf of Imladris were only a step behind, Sam no less tense despite having met Shelob once before. Three resolute, if slightly nervous, guards stood attentively behind their King. They were all as silent and anxious as the Shadow Host that awaited the command of the heir of Isildur.

Unseen by all save the elven eyes of the Firstborn, and their presence dreadful to all but the Prince of the Greenwood, the Dead hovered with the keen and tense anticipation of those who would soon be freed from a lifetime – many lifetimes – of bitter punishment. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to do but the will of the King.

With the aid of the elf prince, Aragorn faced them, sensing rather than seeing where they were. “Find her and bring her out,” he said steadily, with his chin held high. “And when I can bring about her end, I will consider your oath to aid the line of Isildur fulfilled.”

Like a soft breath of wind, the Dead turned swiftly and disappeared into the dark recesses of Torech Ungol to rouse their prey. Then Aragorn and the others stayed on either side of the opening to await Her: She who had once been Sauron’s covert ally, and She whom they wished to bring into the open now as the solution to Aragorn’s dilemma.

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Many leagues north, in the stronghold of yet another being who had once been the ally of Sauron, a different kind of turmoil was going on. It swirled within the mind of an elf lord, pushing him towards a decision he was loath to make.

Lord Celeborn was tired, and growing more so. Orthanc had not been occupied by such a watchful resident as it had during the long, recent nights, when moths that had wandered into the chamber through the window high above had been attracted not only to the light of a burning stove, but also to the subtle glow of a figure in the dark, head bent studiously over papers, his silver hair shimmering with the glow of starlight that had touched it for thousands of years.

Now the noon sun was already sliding in the sky, and Celeborn had still not eaten. Elladan saw him wearying as he seldom had before, the spirit of the venerable elf lord seeming to sag beneath the weight of frustration. The younger elf peered over the hunched shoulders and found the ancient elf staring at the lines written by Saruman that he had discovered earlier: No ragged left-over shall challenge me and freely undo what I have branded into Stone … I shall see to it.

The ominous declaration disturbed them all greatly, he knew, but when he saw Celeborn pass his hands yet again over fatigued eyes, Elladan made the difficult decision for all of them. He stepped around the chair so that he was face to face with the seated figure. 

“It is time to leave, Daerada,” he said simply, with no hint of a questioning tone. “We can do no more.”

Elladan stood straight, expecting words of calm protest to emerge from the elf lord’s mouth, composing yet another reason to stay a while longer. He was thus surprised to see his grandsire lift his head and nod tiredly at him.

“My heart is torn in two, child,” Celeborn admitted, sighing. “I am still disturbed by these words of Saruman and would learn more about them – yet I feel that Elessar will need us where he is.”

A hopeful smile ghosted across Elladan’s face. “Then we should go where we know he is, Daerada, rather than seek something we cannot find, nor even know exists,” he stated.

Celeborn said nothing in response, but closed his eyes and went still, appearing to descend into deep thought. His grandson could only sigh in silence.

  -----------------------------------<<>>-----------------------------------

Time oft passes slowly for those who wait, and so it did for Aragorn and his company, who sat concealed behind rocks on either side of the front door to Shelob’s home. For hours it seemed they did nothing, though in truth it had not passed even one since the Host vanished into the darkness of the cave to execute the command of the King.

The notion of meeting with a foe around which terrifying tales had been spun made the waiting more grievous for Tobëas and his friends, who found solace in the thought that they would be able to depart from this depressing place when the King’s task was over. Sam, however, made his wait more bearable in true hobbit fashion: by filling the empty minutes with yawns and snatches of sleep, and his empty mouth with snatches of food, “to keep up my strength up, you understand,” he explained, “seein’ as it might be needed.” And the elves smiled, knowing how the brave hobbit was occupying his time to keep from thinking about a dreadful monster that had once almost taken his life.

Aragorn, at Legolas’ bidding, had used the time to rest quietly again, his light moans – uttered in a half-waking state – drawing deep compassion from they who loved him. He had mercifully fallen into light slumber despite the nagging pain that had set into too many parts of his body to be named. But the two elves remained watchful, their sharp eyes ever on the mouth of the lair, and their keen ears alert.

“What are they doing in there?” Sam lamented after yet another gulp of water. “Haven’t those dead fellows found her yet? Is Creepy Legs still around?”

“I believe She is, Sam, and I think they have found her and roused her,” Legolas said, keeping his voice low to avoid waking Aragorn. “You may not have heard it, for it was faint, but there were sounds of a scuffle sounds deep inside a while ago.”

“Aye, as well as the shrieks of the Dead Ones,” Elrohir added. “They were hardly to be heard, like muffled screams through many layers of cloth… but they were there.”

Legolas gave a nod of concurrence. “Shelob apparently needs some coaxing to leave her home,” he remarked.  

“Oh,” Sam said in a small voice, putting down his water-skin. He coughed lightly and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Can’t say as I heard anything, but she must still be alive then, at any rate. If she’s near to showing her ugly face, you’ll tell us in plenty of time, won’t you?”

“We will, Sam,” Legolas replied, and they settled down again, watching the dark opening like vultures awaiting prey. But as the minutes went by, with no sign of anything emerging from the darkness, even Legolas grew weary of the delay. He cast a concerned look at Aragorn, whose restless slumber did little to ease the lines of pain on his face. “It is taking too long,” the elf said.

Then, as if in response to Legolas’ grievance, a shimmer – perceived only by the eyes of the Firstborn – appeared at the mouth of the tunnel.

“The Host is back!” the elf prince whispered hopefully and stood up, only moments before he frowned. “But they seem agitated.”

“And there is no sign of Shelob,” Elrohir added, training his eyes on the darkness beyond. “Do you think… she refuses to emerge?”

Legolas lowered his head in disappointment. “It appears so,” he agreed.

“What – they couldn’t bring her out?” Sam asked, dejected. “Are you sure? Can’t you ask them or something?”

“They do not speak out that easily, Sam,” Legolas reminded him. “Do you remember what Aragorn narrated to you? The last time they spoke, it was through the mouth of a Man. And we do not wish for anyone here to undergo the same kind of… possession… by Them. What I can sense from them ought to be enough.” After a moment of silent deliberation, the elf prince turned to Elrohir. “I will go in and draw her out,” he stated.

“Whoa, hold that thought!” Sam said, sitting up abruptly. “You – you’re going in there?”

“Aye, Sam,” Legolas replied.

“Do you have to?” the hobbit asked plaintively. 

The elf rested his eyes on Aragorn again and lowered his voice. “He needs to be brought home,” he said. “We can tarry no longer. I must go in.”

“Not alone,” Elrohir argued, preparing to rise.

“Estel will need you,” Legolas stated immediately, gripping the other elf’s arm.

Elrohir looked about to protest, but after casting a look at Aragorn, he conceded and nodded wordlessly. Then Sam rose to his feet.

“It winds every which way in there, and you won’t know the way,” the hobbit said. “If you must go in to give that ugly bag of poison a prod, I’m coming with you.”

“No, Sam, you have done enough by coming here,” Legolas said. “And the Host will guide me –”

“Look, Mister Legolas, I know as well as you and Strider that being in a deep, dark, closed place isn’t exactly your favorite pastime. Don’t think I don’t know about that little wager between you and Gimli, and how you were drug down ‘em glittery caves only ‘coz of the bargain you made with him,” Sam said boldly. “Now, Shelob’s tunnel isn’t going to be any easier; in fact, it’s a hundred times worser: no glitter, no shine! And when you’re in there, you’ll hanker for a friendly voice, take it from one who’s been and back!” 

Exchanging a glance of amusement with Elrohir, Legolas smiled gratefully at Sam. “In that case, I should be honored to have your company, Master Gamgee, if you are certain about going in with me.”

“Yes, and time’s a-wasting,” the hobbit sniffed, giving Sting a pat. “Best we go now.”

“Where?” a husky voice asked, and Elf and Hobbit turned to see a groggy Aragorn looking up at them with dulled eyes. “Go where, Legolas – ?”

Legolas knelt at the man’s side. “To give Shelob a nudge,” he replied, wishing he could remove the shadow of pain from his friend’s face. “It seems the Host can do no more. Sam and I will bring her out as soon as we can, Estel. Wait here with Elrohir, and be ready when we return.”

The objection Aragorn raised was short-lived, and he pursed his lips in defeat. “It will be dark, and She will be angry,” he said resignedly. “Be cautious, both of you.”

“Just be prepared with that shiny sword of yours, Strider,” the hobbit said. “Off we go now!” 

Legolas laid a hand lightly on the King’s shoulder and turned to follow Sam, when a bandaged hand stayed his arm. Grey eyes – filled with fondness even in distress – bored into his clear blue ones.

“Do not give me grief, Elf,” the man said quietly, his voice hoarse with concern. “I ache enough outside.”

Legolas gave him a small smile. “Give me none in return, Ranger,” he rejoined. “You taxed my heart once today; that is all you are allowed. When Shelob arrives, attempt nothing beyond your strength, I beg you.”

With a parting nod to Aragorn and Elrohir, the elf prince and Sam stepped out from behind the rock, signaling to Aragorn’s guards to remain hidden.

“The Heir of Isildur bids you lead me to his foe,” Legolas said to the waiting Host, hoping they would. And it seemed they did indeed know his intentions, for they turned and disappeared once more into the gaping mouth of the tunnel. Then, taking a deep breath, Legolas and Sam followed them and passed into the darkness of their enemy’s lair, leaving an elf and a man to resume their anxious wait.

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Time seemed to be ticking by too slowly for another elf in a different part of Middle-earth.

Elladan felt he could hold on no longer, groaning inwardly at the continued lack of response from his grandsire. But just as he was preparing to attempt yet another debate, the brilliant blue eyes opened, and the elf lord said: “We shall leave.”

Breathing a sigh of delight, Elladan loosened his tense shoulders. “I will inform Gimli and prepare the boat and horses,” he said, “and you, Daerada, should eat something along the way.”

The elf turned in the direction of the stairs with the intention of announcing what he knew would be welcome news to the dwarf, when his steps were arrested by the loud cry of the very person he was going to seek.

“My lord, my lord Celeborn!” Gimli hollered, his boots clumping loudly on the stairs as he ran up, followed by two equally excited younger dwarves with reddened cheeks. He ran right up to Celeborn, his rapid breath agitating the hairs of his beard. “My lord! Hooo! Elladan! Ooooh!” he said breathlessly. “Look at this… see… see what’s on here!”  

So saying, Gimli held out the old bony skull Bragor and Dagor had been toying with. Puzzled by the dwarf’s exuberance, Celeborn hesitated a moment before his long, slender fingers reached for the proffered object.

“Wait, wait!” Gimli said, retracting the skull before Celeborn could touch it or utter a word. The dwarf lord looked down at its rounded top with a frown and turned to the figure beside him. “Dagor! Here, more of the stuff – be quick!”

As the surprised elves looked on, Dagor stepped up eagerly and puffed swiftly on his pipe till the finely shredded Longbottom leaf glowed red-hot. Then he knocked the hot embers out of the pipe onto the skull surface and nodded proudly. Gimli spread the burning residue quickly with the stem of the pipe, then brushed it off before extending his arms again towards Celeborn.

“Too small for my miner’s eyes to read without my eyeglass, but – there you go!” Gimli said, hardly able to contain his excitement.

Their curiosity kindled, Celeborn and his grandson bent their heads over the rounded top of the skull. Then, even the eyes of the wizened elf lord, who had witnessed more through the Ages than the three dwarves could ever conceive, shone with astonishment.

  -----------------------------------<<>>-----------------------------------

While awe glistened in the eyes of the Lord of Lothlorien far north, the Light of his Lady’s lamp was guiding the steps of an elf and a hobbit in the depressing gloom of a tunnel. Barely ten steps from the entrance of the lair, Legolas and Sam had found themselves in utter and impenetrable dark, and the elf had quickly brought out the Lamp. Even with the Host leading the way before them, Legolas was glad for the comfort of the starlight, for he was, as the hobbit had said earlier, distinctly ill at ease in a place so cut off from the trees and water and Sun with which a Woodelf bonded so closely. The Light was to him a breath of wind in an airless place. In the eyes of the immortal elf, green, gold, silver and white flecks danced in its gleam, as if the touch of Varda, Queen of Stars herself lived in its beams, breaking the tide of darkness in Torech Ungol as it did the black skies above the World.

Before long, however, the elf very reluctantly returned the Lamp to the safety of his tunic, robbing the tunnel of its reassuring brightness. The loss of the comforting rays drew a startled whimper from the hobbit, for the sudden dark hit them like a thick vapor, absorbing all light, all thought, and all hope. The Shadow Wraiths before them seemed to be blended into the black fog. Even the glow that always came from the elf prince at night was swallowed by the consuming dark.

“I regret subjecting you to the blackness once more, Sam,” Legolas whispered, his fair voice falling dead in the stagnant gloom, and sounding just as heavy. “But the bright light would put fear into Shelob and drive her further in rather than draw her out, would it not?”

Sam frowned in the dark. “You’re right, Legolas,” he agreed miserably. “We have to keep it dark, even if it’s like walking in a tomb. It's just... well, this is a proper rotter! I’m supposed to be showing you the way, but fat lot of good I’m doing you in this tunnel when I can’t see my own hand afore my nose.”

“I am glad for your company nonetheless,” Legolas said kindly, and with much truth. “Since you cannot see your hand, here, take mine, and I will lead you as best as I can, for this deep night strains even elven eyes. The Host goes before us, and I shall follow their lead.”

Sam placed his plump fingers in the slender elven hand whose luminescent outline he could just discern because of its closeness, but he did not move from where he stood. “You know, Legolas, I’m a-thinking…" he began to say, and even  though his features were not visible in the dark, his tone made it clear to the elf that he was struggling with a decision. "I'm thinking that... maybe I shouldn’t be in here after all," he contnued. "I really can’t do you much good ‘cept slow you down with my fumbling and stumbling about in this creepy ink-black spider-hole. And shush, don’t be denying it either. I know you mean to be polite, but real’s real, and in this place… well, I’ll be about as useful as a pancake. Come that hairy eight-legged hunter, and as likely as not, I’ll be squished under her big belly with only my foot sticking out. The last thing you’ll need is worry about a flattened hobbit!”

Legolas could not help the small smile that touched his lips. But neither could he stem the tiny current of trepidation that coursed fleetingly through him at the mention of an eight-legged hunter, for his experiences with the giant spiders in the neighborhood of his forest home had been far from pleasant. Never far from his mind were those memories, and he expected Shelob to be far larger, and far more dangerous.

“I was lucky to escape with my skin the last time, but by no easy means," Sam continued. "You'll have your hands full, Legolas; we can't have you worrying about me. So, it’s best for you that I turn back and maybe get one of those Men to go with you. The entrance isn’t that far off.” 

Legolas took a few moments to consider Sam’s proposal, and decided to accept it, not because he did not appreciate the hobbit’s company, but because he thought Sam would be in far more danger here if Shelob should attack them, which she in all likelihood would.

“You place too little value on yourself, my friend, yet I shall not question your counsel in this matter,” he said. “But neither shall I make one of the guards endure this terrible darkness with me. I shall go in alone.”

Sam shook his head. “Oooh, Strider’s not going to be too happy about that,” he said.

“I will be back before he can say anything, Sam,” came the reply. “Let me guide you back to the entrance at least.”

“No, no need for that; it’s close enough that I can feel my way back slowly,” Sam said, wishing there was a bit of light to see despite what he said. “I wonder, though, if you wouldn’t want someone – ”

“Shh!” Legolas suddenly hissed in caution, gripping Sam’s shoulder and startling him. “Hush!"

Sam moved closer to the elf. “What?” he whispered fearfully in the dark.

"I hear something.”

Sam went cold, his thoughts immediately flying to Shelob. “So soon – ?”

Legolas did not answer, but Sam thought he could hear him draw out – ever so lightly – his long knife. The hobbit swallowed and placed his hand on Sting as well, going as quiet and as still as the elf. He could see nothing in the utter dark, but he would not question Legolas’ keen hearing; if something was approaching them, it was likely to be very large, horrifying and hateful. For the next few moments, Sam hardly dared to breathe for fear he would be heard, and he wished he could do something about the thump-thump of his heart that he was certain would give them away.

They remained unmoving, and Sam was so filled with mute terror that he felt he needed to scream. “Legolas,” he whispered. “Is she coming?” He waited for an answer from an elf he could not see, but none came. He decided to risk another question before he exploded from the tension. “Is it – ”

“Aragorn?” Legolas uttered, and even in the dark, Sam could hear the surprise in the elven voice. “Elbereth! Is that you, Adan?”

The hobbit wondered if he was imagining the light laugh that came in the dark. In the next instant, he wondered no longer, for Legolas had brought out the Phial and shone its light on two tall figures approaching them slowly, and apparently not as lightly as they had hoped. The less-than-steady gait of one suggested that he was in some discomfort.

“Strider!” Sam expressed his own surprise, his eyes going round at the sight of the King and Elrohir. “Jumping juneberries! Why have you come?”

“That has been my question since he began insisting on following you in here,” Elrohir said in exasperation.

“I could not sit idly and do nothing,” Aragorn answered in a tone that made Sam wonder if he was making a justification or an apology. “After all, it is my task.”

“And that has been his argument,” Elrohir added. “There was no want of trying on my part to stop him, Legolas, but you know him well enough.”

Legolas was nonplussed. “But… where are your guards, Aragorn?”

“Outside, flexing their bows,” the King replied easily. “They’re ready, my friend, ready for her – whenever we can bring her out.”

“We?” Legolas asked incredulously, still struggling with the unexpected arrival of Aragorn in a place that he considered too dangerous for someone so recently hurt. The elf was dumbfounded for a moment, running worried eyes over Aragorn’s arms and legs. “Can you even stand steadily, let alone run, you obstinate man?” he asked at last. 

“Better and faster than you think I can, Elf,” came the reply and a lop-sided grin. “I had a good rest.”

“Of course, it slipped my memory,” the elf prince said dryly, “deep was your slumber in between the tossing and turning.” He shot an icy blue glare at the King, beneath which lay his concern. “I do not know what possessed you to come in here after us, Estel, and I do not think it was any of the Twice Forgotten who among us are the only ones capable of possession, so it must have been your own mistaken illusion that you are now fully healed.”

“Exactly,” Elrohir agreed in a long-suffering tone.

“But here I am regardless, and here I will stay,” Aragorn stated flatly, staring the elf prince in the eye till the latter sighed in resignation. 

“I suppose I can no sooner make you turn back than lure Shelob out quietly with lembas,” Legolas lamented, “so there seems no other road to take but the way forward, which we should follow without further delay.” Then he approached Aragorn till his face was inches from the King’s, and spoke softly. “But it will be dark in here, Estel –”

“I know,” Aragorn said.

“ – darker than Moria, and we will be at a disadvantage when we meet Shelob.”

“I know.”

“Thus, stay close to me or Elrohir. But if I ask you to flee – with or without us – I pray you do so, without argument.”

“Well – ”

“You will put as much distance as you can between yourself and Shelob, till you are out of this tunnel.”

“But – ”

“And be warned: if you refuse, I shall not hesitate to pick you up and run out with you draped unceremoniously over my shoulder,” Legolas finished. 

“He is quite capable of doing it, too,” Elrohir added, amused. “Do not test him.”

Aragorn smiled. “I shall not, mellon nin,” he assured Legolas meekly. “I will do as you say, but I will not retract my steps. Whatever we face in this place, it cannot be any harder than waiting outside without knowing the turn of things in here.”

“That remains to be seen, Aragorn,” Legolas said seriously. “Come, we need to move on. The Shadow Host awaits us. But we must first see to Sam.”

“No need for further thought here, Legolas!” Sam declared, turning his eyes upon Aragorn. “Now that you have another one to see to – I think it’s even a right-er choice for me to wait outside. But even with those Dead Fellows leading you, I’d feel better giving you a fair idea what to expect on the way – just so’s your feet know where they’re going, if you know what I mean.”

And before anyone could stop him, the hobbit quickly told the King and the two elves just what he did mean, and what their feet should expect in the tunnel. At the end of his explanation, Sam gave his friends his best wishes, and – at Legolas’ insistence – let Elrohir lead him back to the entrance with the help of the Lady’s Phial.

As the two figures departed and the Light of the Lamp grew dimmer, Aragorn turned to Legolas and whispered: “Where are the Forgotten?”

“Close by, and their patience grows thin,” Legolas replied, turning to study the restless shapes. The elf then directed his own question to Aragorn: “Why did you choose to come, Estel?”

“Why would I not?” the man asked evenly.

“Because we will need speed and strength to face Shelob in here, failing which, we will need the same speed to draw her out to the entrance,” Legolas replied. “But you – by your own confession – ache everywhere.”

Though Aragorn could not conceive of anyone listening in the tunnel, save the Twice Forgotten, he leant forward and whispered into the elf’s ear. “If you can choose to brave this dark tunnel, my friend,” he said in Sindarin, “I can surely choose to ignore my bruises.” 

As if to prove his point, the last beams of the Star-glass followed Elrohir and Sam around the bend in the tunnel just then, throwing Legolas and Aragorn once more into the stifling dark. Legolas felt his breath hitch. Without the comforting touch of the Glass against his body in this airless enclosure, the elf prince fought to even his breathing and suppress the unease that began to well up within him.

The Light will be back soon, he told himself. He began to reach for the tunnel wall, but found Aragorn’s hand, which drew him close.

“Estel –” the elf gasped uncertainly.

“I’m here,” the man said soothingly. “And here I will stay, my friend, as I said I would.”

The elf fell silent, listening to the King’s steady breathing and letting it calm him. “You came in here for me,”he whispered after a while.

“As you came in here for me,” Aragorn replied.

Moments passed in the dark before Legolas spoke again. “I wanted you to face Shelob in the safe light of day,” he said.

“Not by letting you bear the strange Night in this tunnel while I wait,” the man rejoined. “Ask it not of me.”

Warmth flooded the elf’s heart at Aragorn’s words, and he smiled his gratitude, not caring if his friend could see it. No more did the debate proceed, and they waited together in silence, breathing in rhythm and leaning on each other for strength against different hurts, till Elrohir returned. Then Man and Elf watched the welcome glow of Eärendil’s light creep steadily again – like a slow sunrise – into the darkness of Shelob’s tunnel.

  -----------------------------------<<>>-----------------------------------

The attention of Lord Celeborn and Elladan was riveted upon a different sight appearing before them in the Tower of Orthanc.

“Elbereth,” the elf lord breathed as he and his grandson gazed in wonder upon what was emerging on the skull in the elf lord’s hands. Where the hot embers had been poured onto smooth bone-colored nothingness, there were now revealed to them lines of fine flowing script, etched into the top of the skull. And so the Lord of Lothlorien looked upon the craft of Saruman reawakened, just as Frodo had first set eyes on the runes of the Dark Lord appearing on the One Ring more than a decade ago, when Gandalf had passed the Ring through flame to see what only fire could reveal.

Now, here was another solemn declaration made bare: a curse born of malice, a spell wrought by an evil mind, seared into the bone of Man – and lo, here it was, in a language of Men. Only the first few lines were revealed thus far, and they were already fading as the ash cooled, but they were enough to show Celeborn that here at last was what they sought: the companion lines to the runes he had read above the Door of the stone prison on the Paths of the Dead, written in the Common Tongue.

“This is it,” Celeborn whispered. “Elbereth, this has to be it.” His rich voice went soft with awe as his eyes traveled over the lines so far visible:

With this Gate I hold thee fast

From this day forth until the Last

No tool nor hand shall open Door

Save he…

And there the runes had faded.

“These lines were the ones Mathuil cited, and they merely begin the verses above the Door,” said Celeborn. “There must be more.” The elf lord ran his fingers hopefully over the rest of the skull, seeking the remainder of the lines through his touch.

“To know the answer, ‘Man must look above himself’,” Elladan said, shaking his head in awe as he recalled what Saruman had hinted in his notes. “Man’s own head! The crafty scoundrel was pointing to the skull the whole time!”

“The remainder of the lines!” Celeborn said urgently. “We need more heat for them to show.”   

Gimli turned immediately to the brothers. “Hear that, young ‘uns?” he asked. “More heat, Lord Celeborn said. More heat is what we’ll give him!”

Bragor and Dagor looked at each other, their beards almost wagging in their exhilaration.

“More pipeweed!” said Dagor, reaching for his pouch.

“Puff harder!” said his brother, reaching for his own pipe. 

Gimli groaned and rolled his eyes. “No, no, you mushy-brained ninnies!” he cried. “The stove! Stoke the fire!” He pointed a stubby finger towards the glowing embers in the stove. “Now!”

The brothers fairly raced to the stove in response, mumbling what sounded like “could make it clearer…” while Gimli grunted and followed them with his narrowed eyes.

“Those two will whiten my beard before its time,” he muttered to the elves. “But I suppose they’re worth it. Noodle-brained as they are, they made this discovery. By accident it was, but even so, if not for their foolish antics, we’d still be looking everywhere but here.”

“And we would have left without knowing,” Elladan said, “for that was what we were preparing to do. So, rue not their coming here, Gimli. They have proved their worth several times over now.”

“Hmmph,” Gimli agreed fondly, with a hint of pride in his voice. “But mind you don’t fill their heads with praise just yet, or they’ll grow too big for their boots and spin endless yarns when they return to the Caves.”

“Let us join them,” said Celeborn, anxious to read the remainder of the lines. “Once and for all, let us find out what the verses have to tell, and whether they will lay to rest my fears for Estel – or justify them.”

  -----------------------------------<<>>-----------------------------------

Instead of moving towards a source of illumination like their companions in the north, three figures in the tunnels of Torech Ungol doused theirs, throwing themselves into deep night.

As soon as Elrohir returned with the Lady’s Lamp, Legolas hid it again in his tunic and led the others on in the dark, following the images of the Shadow Host. Depending on the elves for guidance, Aragorn trod cautiously and as lightly as he could, though there were no echoes. All three were glad for each other’s company, for the deeper they went into the tunnel, the more dismal it became.

One hour followed another, till Legolas wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Sam said that this place looks and feels the same, but he neglected to mention that it probably smells as foul, if not more,” he said.

“We can expect no less from a graveyard of rotten and half-devoured prey,” Elrohir said softly, darting keen eyes in every direction before them. Repugnance filled his elven eyes at the dim images of what seemed to be remains that littered the floor of the tunnel: feathers, bones, and other dried, indiscernible material that may have once been meat.

They soon came to the part of the tunnel that Sam had described. Fumbling in the dark with his free hand, Aragorn felt uncertainly along the stone wall. “There’s more than one passage here, as Sam recalled,” he said, “but we are to stay on the main passageway, which should go upward soon.”

“That is the path the Host is taking,” Legolas affirmed.

True to Sam’s recollection, there were several openings to their left and right, but the main path remained straight and sloped upwards before long. They plodded on, not being able to move as quickly as the wraiths that led them. Legolas kept a close eye on Aragorn, wishing his friend did not have to endure the misery of this tunnel or the stress of having to be on constant alert. The King’s weariness was constantly on his mind, and whenever the man strayed from the path, he or Elrohir quickly found him again.

Time and distance lost their meaning, and still the vague images of the Twice Forgotten – visible only to the elves – drew them forward. Hardly exchanging any words, the three companions bore the growing stench of decaying carcasses – evidence that Shelob was still very much alive, and still capable of catching prey. They brushed away unseen and unidentified things that brushed against their heads and their hands, repulsed by their touch.

More so here than in the comforting light of the outside world, the elf could imagine the dreadful power of Shelob, descendant of Ungoliant, and was reminded that She had lived much longer than any of them had, had heard the cries of elves when they walked upon the earth in early days, had nursed her hate of the Firstborn as Sauron did, till it festered – and had in all likelihood feasted with relish upon elven captives the Dark Lord had thrown to her for her amusement and consumption…

Yet, it was her hatred of elves that the prince was counting on when the time came to lure her out.

Deep in those terrible thoughts, he was startled when something moist and as thick as a rope swept across his face. In an instant, he was slashing at it with his knife, breathing quickly.

“Halt, Estel, keep away!” he hissed, and drew out the Lady’s Phial to illuminate this new obstacle. The elf gasped, for the light showed that they had run into a thick barrier. It was soft and yielding, yet strong and impervious, through which air could pass but the star-light could not penetrate; even the rays of Eärendil were swallowed by the coarse greyness.

“Her webs!” Aragorn said, remembering Sam’s earlier recollection about the vast, densely woven web that had stretched across the tunnel when he and Frodo were last here. When the hobbits attempted to cut through them with an ordinary blade, the cords had lashed back at them like plucked bowstrings, and only Sting, elven blade of Beleriand, had been able to sever them.

Now Legolas drew out his long knife that had been forged for him by the elven smiths of his forest home. He began sweeping it through Shelob’s webs, and the bitter white blade that had tasted the blood of hundreds of Mirkwood spiders sheared through the tough strands like a scythe through grass, just as Sting had once done. Elrohir and Aragorn followed his lead with their own elvish blades, on which were engraved fair words in High Elvish. Stroke after stroke they dealt, swallowing their disgust as they worked, and still there were more.

After many strokes, Legolas looked across at Aragorn, noting how the man’s movements had slowed and how the pallor had returned to his face. The elf reached out and stayed the arm of his friend. “You tire, mellon nin, and you suffer many hurts,” he said gently. “Leave this to us, for the trek here has strained you enough, and you will need your strength for a more crucial task.” 

Aragorn nodded silently and halted his movements, his easy compliance evidence of his weariness. “It would not do me harm to rest awhile,” he agreed, sweeping a hand across his eyes before he sheathed his sword and stepped back to let the elves continue the work. He made his way to the wall of the tunnel and leaned against it. Then he slid slowly down to sit next to one of the numerous openings leading to deep places – perhaps one of Shelob’s many haunts – that he dared not even think about. Exhausted, he crossed his arms across his knees and rested his bent head upon them.

Elrohir shared the worry on Legolas’ face as the latter’s eyes followed the movements of his friend. “Your uncertainty is also mine, gwador,” he said to the elf prince in a tone barely above a whisper. “Even Sting could not end the life of the beast, though Sam shoved it into the softness of her underside. The only way for Estel to truly defeat her is to mount her hideous body and drive his sword through her head, and perhaps more than once, for her flesh will be, I imagine, thick as armor. But does he have the strength now?”

“Strength will not be the only lack if we encounter Shelob here, with these webs in the way,” Legolas responded quietly, turning back to the mass of fibers before him. “If she is as monstrous as Sam says, she will fill most of the tunnel space, and we will have precious little room to evade her huge mass or her poisonous sting.” He swept his knife through yet another tangle of thick cords. “If there is clear danger to Estel here, we must revert to the plan I had when first I entered: for Estel to face her at the entrance. Lead him back there, Elrohir. I will distract her for that purpose, and once Estel is safe, I will then lure her out.”

“That will not meet with his approval, you know that,” said Elrohir.

“It will not be easy,” Legolas concurred, “You will need to help him follow that course of action.” He and Elrohir continued to sweep at the webs, envying the Shadow Host whose immaterial forms could pass through the abhorrent mess.

The Host, Legolas thought, abruptly ceasing his movements. Where have They gone? In his fervor at cutting down the web, he had failed to notice that the wraiths had vanished. He began to peer into the deep dark around them. Then suddenly, he stilled the hands of the other elf.

“Hush,” he whispered, turning his head to the left and listening. Elhohir joined him, puzzled.

But soon, the Imladris elf knew what it was that had drawn the attention of the elf prince: Legolas had heard Them and their muffled shrieks. And - he had heard Her. The Host and Shelob – they were both there: beyond the opening to the side of the tunnel where Aragorn was resting.

The elves drew close to the gaping aperture. Their keen ears heard the repeated scrape of hard skin against stone from within, and they knew that the beast was scurrying about once more, agitated by the ghosts of men. They heard the desperate scampering of her feet as she sought to run from spirit forms she could not escape, and sensed her terror at something she could not strike.

But then her attention turned. And Legolas the Woodelf, who had lived most of life in the company of such beasts, knew that she had sensed their presence: his and his companions’. He heard the bubbly hiss that had filled Mirkwood elves with dread thousands of times before, and through his elven senses, he tasted the venom of her hate though no sign of her they saw. His sharp intake of breath alerted Aragorn, who rose to his feet and stood beside his friend.

“She’s near,” the King said in a hollow voice. At the elf’s whispered “yes,” the man gripped the hilt of Andúril.

Legolas quickly concealed the Phial again and reached for Aragorn. “Come back here into the shadows,” he said softly, pressing the man against the wall. Elrohir positioned himself on the other side of his brother.

Legolas grasped Aragorn’s shoulders. “Wait for her to come nearer,” he said, “but saes, do nothing till Elrohir and I have distracted her.” In the dark, Aragorn nodded, and the elf removed himself to the other side of the opening, poised at the edge.

Silently and tensely they waited, hearing the Host and Shelob approach them yard by yard. Aragorn could now hear the ugly hiss of the beast and the creaking of some great jointed legs moving with slow, deliberate purpose, and his nervousness grew despite his efforts to remain undaunted.

Then finally, She was here. They could all smell the reek from her as her great form reached the opening, and they felt her malice bent upon them. So bitter was it that she ignored even the wraith forms that followed her, and so intense that Legolas felt it as a black fume spewing from her. The elf’s breathing quickened as he reached slowly for the Glass of Galadriel at his bosom.

As the beast stepped through the dark opening, Legolas drew out and held aloft the Lamp, and in the presence of this ancient evil, even the light of Eärendil seemed to glimmer dimly like a rising star struggling to cast its light through earthbound mists. But soon it kindled to a silver flame, a small heart of fire, as if Eärendil himself had come to Earth with the Silmaril upon his brow.

Standing closest to Shelob, Legolas beheld the monster at last. And even the elf who had led patrol after patrol against similar beasts that had threatened his forest home was taken aback at the huge, repulsive creature that appeared like a nightmare in the circle of light. He heard Aragorn gasp on the other side of the beast, and understood why: two great clusters of many-windowed eyes, menacing and evil, neared them and held them in frozen awe for terrifying moments.

Shelob turned to her right where she had heard the gasp from Aragorn, and upon seeing two strange figures in her domain, her fury arose. A wet hiss sprayed across the empty yards to fall upon the two startled figures. Disgusted, Aragorn unsheathed Andúril, and before Elrohir could stop him, he stepped forward, holding the sword before him.

“So we meet,” he said firmly.

“Nay, not yet!” Legolas cried in alarm. As Shelob bent her huge jointed limbs in response, preparing to propel her body forward in a charge at the King, the elf leapt in front of the beast, drawing her focus away from Aragorn. He thrust the star-glass in front of the great eyes, just as Elrohir appeared at his side.

“Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima!” the elf prince called out the words that Frodo once had, though he knew not from whither they came and whence they wove themselves upon his tongue.

And as it had once done, the star-light startled the beast. From the recesses of her long memory came the vision she had witnessed years ago: the Light in the hand of a small being, as sharp as the suppressed fear in the wielder. But now, shining in the hand of a tall elf, the Light appeared to be a globe of fire emanating from elven flesh, reflected in the radiant countenance and bright eyes of two of the Firstborn, eyes that burned with revulsion.

Shelob’s charge faltered, her long legs poised but halted by a moment of astonishment and terror at the fierceness of the elven expressions. She scampered backwards beyond the opening from where she had come, increasing the distance between herself and the star-glass, the thousand facets of the great, baleful eyes hurt by the burning brightness.

Yet her charge did not remain arrested for long. Far back in the deeps of the world’s history, She had known the Firstborn. And though she hated the star-light, stronger still was the hatred for elves that lies in all the allies of Morgoth since the First Age of the World. That hate now surfaced and began to simmer. Anger gathered and seethed once more in her belly and she prepared to mobilize her legs. As her despise grew, a pale light flickered in her own monstrous eyes, kindled by some deep pit of hideous delight at the thought of devouring sweet elven flesh.

Legolas and Elrohir sensed her recovery, and reached the same thought: they had to lead her out into the open, and her hatred of elves was what they needed to make her pursue them to the entrance of the tunnel. But they had first to see to Aragorn’s safety.

Swiftly, Legolas thrust the Lamp into Elrohir’s hands. “Make for the entrance, gwador, and please, see that Estel does not linger,” he said urgently, walking quickly to where Aragorn stood.

“Legolas –” Elrohir began.

“Go, go!” the elf prince pressed him. He then faced Aragorn. “Now comes the time to flee, Estel, as you promised, and do not look back!” he instructed, turning the man forcefully in the direction of the entrance.

Aragorn was aghast. “No!” he protested.

“Aragorn, please!” Legolas pleaded. “I will stall her to give you time. Go now!”

“No!” Aragorn insisted, shaking off Elrohir’s grip on his arm. “Without the Light – ”

“I can still see!” the elf insisted, growing alarmed at the delay. “Go! Trust me, please!” Legolas’ hair swung in a golden arc as the elf whipped his head around to peer into the depths of the tunnel again. Then his steely blue eyes faced Aragorn. “Run fast, and do not falter!”

The elf prince sprinted back to the opening where Shelob would be reemerging soon and stood in front of it like a sentinel of stone.

Biting back his own protest, Elrohir led Aragorn back down the tunnel at a run, gripping his protesting brother’s arm like a vise. The elf held the Light high before him in one hand and supported the tired man with the other. Behind them, Man and Elf could hear Shelob’s legs and body move again.

Then a cry of fury halted them and they turned, and their eyes widened with alarm at what they saw.

Perhaps it was the Lady’s Light that had goaded her, or the prospect of crushing two victims instead of one; or perhaps the painful efforts of one of the fleeing forms were clear to her thousand eyes, marking him as easy prey – whatever reason had guided her decision, Shelob had, when she reappeared, chosen to ignore Legolas and pursue the fleeing man and elf instead. Her legs lumbered down the tunnel toward them, moving with surprising agility. Anger gave speed to her form, and she was fast gaining on them.

“Run!” Aragorn heard Legolas’ urgent cry, and he and Elrohir did not hesitate. They turned and resumed their flight that had suddenly turned desperate. Elrohir held forth his grandmother’s Lamp like a beacon of salvation, for it was the only source of illumination for them. Indeed there was nothing else, save the hand of his brother, that could lead Aragorn along the dark, uneven ground of this deadly foe’s lair.

Along this rough surface Aragorn now sped at a frantic pace, his feet doing their best to evade bumps and depressions that threatened to trip him in the dense darkness. Again and again, Elrohir supported him, righted him, and led him in turn; and ever, there was the sound of Shelob in furious pursuit, her legs sweeping against stone. Beyond that, there was the voice of Legolas urging them on, himself still unable to pass the huge beast in the narrow tunnel. 

Aragorn’s head began to spin as he ran, hurting from his earlier wounds, his tongue seeming to cleave to the parched roof of his mouth. He felt his weariness now, and wondered if at any moment, his legs would falter and fail him, and he would fall and lie helplessly in the path of his determined pursuer.

Then, as if his dismal thought had chosen to take form – that moment came. Stumbling into an abrupt depression in the ground, his foot caught roughly and threw him forward. So fast and hard did he topple that he fell against his brother, knocking into him too forcefully for even the quick elf to avoid crashing to the ground himself. A small cry left Aragorn's lips as he felt his ankle twist - but louder still was the gasp of dismay from Elrohir as he watched the Lady's Glass fly out of his hand and trace an arc of silver in the thick dark before landing with a sickening series of clinks on the path several yards away.

By elven hands in enchanted Lothlorien had the Glass been wrought so that it did not break even against the stone of Torech Ungol, but a distant comfort it seemed to Aragorn now. He and his brother lay sprawled in the path of their pursuer, stunned and, for the moment, helpless. He felt Elrohir raise himself after a moment, heard him as he raced away to retrieve the Lamp, and – as Shelob drew ever nearer – heard the elf’s voice desperately urging him to rise; he heard the frantic cries of his friend from behind; he could even sense the anguish of the Shadow Host in the darkness beyond.

But above all that, he heard the approach of Shelob and her evil hiss and her quickened pace. He imagined her many-faceted eyes beholding a thousand images of him: a creature fallen and vulnerable. He sensed her wicked glee as she headed straight for his prone form, delighting at the pitiful gesture he made: his arm raised feebly in defense, a vain attempt against her powerful jaws and hideous sting, even as the elves tried feverishly to come to his aid.

Too slow were his own movements, too weak his attempt at further flight, till his heart was the only part of him racing, its beats like the strikes of a hammer in his ears.

Then, once again, he smelt a foul reek, felt the moistness of a hiss, and sensed a merciless malice close by. And the heir of Isildur knew without a doubt that Shelob, the beast he had come to challenge, was almost upon him.

Note: Some of the descriptions of Shelob and her lair are taken from The Return of the King.

Please excuse errors, as it’s been a struggle for me to find time to even get to this point in the story. Thank you to all who kept me going.

Pre-chapter note:  Ths is a loooong chapter. Coffee may be a good idea.

CHAPTER 24: FULFILLMENT

Shelob was beside herself.

For reasons she did not know, some awful wraith forms that she could see with her own evil eyes had tormented her and driven her from the safety of the hidden depths in her dark home. She had been forced to emerge from her rest, and her precious eyes had been hurt by a glaring light: star beams she had shied from many years ago, and which she thought she would never have to endure again. But they had been there, cold and sharp and piercingly bright. She had cursed the wraith forms for driving her out against her will.

But now, she could not believe her good fortune.

For here, lying helplessly before her and directly in her path, was a fallen being: Man-flesh, no less; an easy prey who could no longer flee.

Shelob had not devoured the sweet flesh of Elves and Men for too long, she who had had to survive on the stinking carcasses of tough orcs and black beasts since the fall of the Dark Towers.

But now, here was one Man that fate was offering to her for the take.

The scent of blood was on him, on his hands and on his face… aaahhh… it drew her on. He would be easier to capture than the little one who had stung her and run away all those years ago.

Oh yes.

No more would she wait, nor would she toy with this newcomer, lest he too tricked her and fled! She would end his struggle, first with her sting and then her jaws – and then she would tear him apart, and fill her gnawing hunger with the sweetness of his fresh meat.

The welcoming thought of the waiting feast turned her movements from a heavy lumbering gait to the swift approach of a predator ready for the kill. In moments, she was before him. Then she raised her head in one smooth lift – and struck.

“Aaarngh!” Aragorn cried out as the pain shot through him.

It was all happening too fast for his mind to follow, but he had managed to evade the deadly sting of Shelob through his abdomen by bare inches, but only by twisting his body violently, jarring his twisted ankle and sending the sharp pain up his leg. 

He could hear a thin screech from Shelob as she withdrew her sting from the hard ground where it had struck, and heard her creak as she raised her head again for a second strike.  Panting, he wrenched Andúril from its sheath with his bandaged hand and held it upward desperately. He gritted his teeth, knowing the gesture was but a vain, pitiful attempt against her next attack.

Elrohir, with the Phial in his hand, turned back towards his brother and the beast. His horror at the danger Aragorn was in froze him for an instant; then he began racing frantically across the yards of tunnel space that separated him from the prone figure.

Aragorn’s cry spurred Legolas into furious action.

More swiftly than either the man or the beast could expect, the elf leapt onto Shelob from behind and ran lightly along her back to reach her head. The sight of Aragorn lying helplessly before the beast, having narrowly escaped her vicious attack, drew forth his own cry of rage, and he plunged his knife into one of the gigantic eyes beneath him. It did minimal damage, he knew, but it was enough to stop a second assault by Shelob. He jumped aside to evade the spurt of sour-smelling liquid from one of the thousand sacs, but that move cost him his footing as Shelob jerked sharply in both pain and shock. The beast bucked with such sudden force that the elf prince found himself being thrown off the massive head, and he landed on his back in front of her.

Now Shelob was filled with even greater rage, for her eye burned from the searing bite of the elven knife. As the elf was rising, she began to turn her attack on him instead: he who dared to defy her, though countless of his kin had, in ages past, fallen to her might! Half-blinded by pain, she thrust her sting straight towards him, aiming only to kill.

And now it was Aragorn who was filled with alarm for his friend as the beast turned on him. “People of the Mountain, I command you to stay her!” he cried out desperately to Shadow forms he could not see, hoping only that they would obey.

No Host did the King’s eyes perceive, but he saw Shelob shrink suddenly in fear, and he knew that the Host was indeed keeping her back. Then Elrohir was standing tall beside Legolas, holding forth the Phial of Galadriel and crying: “Back! Back, foul beast!”

And Shelob, hurt both by elven blade and elven light, retreated once more into the darker recesses of her lair. How long the Host could hold her there, Aragorn did not know, but it was enough time for Legolas to right himself fully and reach him in three long strides.

The elves knelt at Aragorn’s side, and by the light of the Phial, their bright eyes ran across along the length of his form. They could see no new injuries, but Elrohir asked nonetheless: “Are you hurt, Estel?”

“Only my ankle,” Aragorn replied. “Legolas, you –?”

No answer came from the elf prince. Wordlessly, he slipped his arms under his friend and picked him up with a strength that belied his slender form. Standing quickly, he set the man gently on his feet, supporting him so that his weight was off his twisted ankle.

“That, Estel, was a closer call than you were allowed!” he chided the King, though his voice was thick with relief. Turning to Elrohir, he spoke urgently. “Keep going, gwador; you need to get Estel to the entrance,” he said, relinquishing his hold of Aragorn to Elrohir. “Shelob will come back in anger, and I will stall her advance to give you time, but it may not be for long, so hurry!” Then he turned to his friend. “I will meet you at the entrance, Estel; do not look back.”

Aragorn gripped Legolas’ arm and gave him a piercing look. “Keep your word, Elf,” he growled softly. “I’m holding you to it.”

Legolas placed his hand over the King’s bandaged one and held it briefly. “Wherever you are, I will come to you,” he said with a wan smile, and he slipped out of his friend’s grasp to run towards the beast.

Steeling themselves against the urge to turn back and stay with Legolas, Elrohir threw one of Aragorn’s arms over his shoulders and wrapped his own around his brother, half-carrying the man back along the path of their interrupted journey. They raced on as fast as they could with Aragorn’s painful ankle, and they did not look back, driving themselves on determination and need, till Aragorn was sweating and breathing rapidly, and he had to sweep aside his long dark hair that kept falling into his eyes. Yet, the yards seemed to fall away on the return journey, for they could now use the Light without reservation, and Elrohir was more confident, having traversed the path once.

After they had gone a fair distance, they could hear behind them fresh sounds of Shelob’s fury and the steps of many feet, and they knew that the beast was catching up. Of one accord, they slowed and turned to risk a quick look. There in the distant dark, they could discern the vague form of Legolas, his glow marking him as he stood tall and unmoving in the center of the path that Shelob would have to take to get to them. With his outstretched right hand, the elf prince was pointing his long white knife into the shadows where Shelob waited, the gleam of his blade – like that of his golden hair – growing dull in the gathering dark. 

“Stay, spawn of Ungoliant!” they heard the elven voice cry out firmly. “Not yet can you come for us. Stay!”

Aragorn hated the dangerous game the elf was playing with the malicious beast – staying her and luring her on in turn – so that he and Elrohir could reach the entrance and prepare to face her. Fear for his friend sorely tempted him to halt, but the strong grip of Elrohir kept him on his path and forced him to resume his flight. “Come, Estel!” the elf urged, brooking no debate.

Yielding to his brother’s elven strength and hoping in the wisdom of Legolas’ strategy, the man ceased his struggle and followed Elrohir’s lead with a heavy heart, his mind  ever on what might be happening to the friend he loved. He made himself go on in a half-limp, half-run, ignoring his sore ankle, with the Star of his ancestor guiding him and Elrohir lifting him over the more uneven parts of the ground. But by some grace of the Valar, he did not falter again, though his breaths had become short and painful and his eyes filled with tears of exhaustion. All he could think of was placing one foot in front of the other, till it seemed his lungs would no longer take in air and he was out of his bodily form.

“A little longer, Estel!” Elrohir urged him, sensing the end of his endurance.

No more, Aragorn thought wearily, too tired to lift his head. Valar, no more.

But just as the man felt ready to collapse, Elrohir said to him: “Look, Estel!”

When Aragorn raised his head, he saw what Elrohir did: a pale gleam of light in front, and he half-sobbed in relief, for he knew that at last, they were approaching the mouth of the tunnel.

Encouraged, he moved on. Close now, he urged himself, willing speed to his legs – when suddenly, a grip on his shoulder from behind arrested his run abruptly, and he gave a startled cry.

“No!” he said fiercely, reaching to draw Andúril, but a fair hand clamped on his arm and stayed him.

“It is I, Estel!” said Legolas, appearing before him with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, like a welcome vision of hope.

“Legolas!” the man gasped breathlessly, glad beyond measure.

“It is good to see you!” said Elrohir. He took a quick look behind the elf, but saw no sign of Shelob.

“I have outrun her, but she is not far behind,” Legolas answered the elf’s unasked query evenly, hardly demonstrating any sign of the tiring effort it had taken Aragorn to flee the same distance. “But now I must ask for the Lady’s Lamp once more, my friends. The entrance is close, and the light from it will aid you the rest of the way. Keep going, be prepared, but stay hidden till you see her. We will be there before long.”

“Wait!” said Aragorn. “Why are you going back in?”

“She will be afraid when she senses so many of you out there, and she may try to turn back,” Legolas explained urgently. “The Host and I have to block her retreat and force her to go out.” Thus speaking, the elf took the Glass of Galadriel from Elrohir. “Trust me still,” he said, forestalling Aragorn’s protest. “Go!”

Without another word, the elf ran back into the tunnel, and just in the nick of time, for in the light of the Star-glass Legolas held, Aragorn could now see the huge beast bearing down upon them, fury shining off her many eyes. Legolas stood before her, again using his knife to taunt and threaten her in turn.

“Valar, look after him,” Elrohir said, and pressed his brother on. The exit they were seeking came upon them sooner than they expected. Turning two more gradual bends in the passage, they ran into a wider space and a welcome ray of warm sunshine straight ahead. Their feet pounded along the remainder of the tunnel, and barely were they past the entrance than they heard voices call out: “Aragorn! Sire!”

In an instant, four figures stepped out in front of them, framed by the wide arch of the tunnel mouth. The three Gondorian guards, sharp relief written clearly on their faces at the sight of their King, had their bows drawn, while Sam held Sting.

“Hide! Not yet… wait… for her… to… come out!” Aragorn said in short spurts, coming to a stop before his guards and bending over to catch his breath. The King looked pale and fatigued as he turned around to peer into the darkness of the tunnel with tired eyes.

“Legolas… leading her… out,” he gasped. “Be ready… he says… but keep… out of sight… till…”

A shrill wail emitted from the tunnel then, cutting off Aragorn’s words. It was the voice of the Twice Forgotten, and it startled those standing outside, freezing them to the spot for a moment. Then a dreadful thought struck Aragorn.

“Legolas…” he breathed, and began to limp back into the tunnel, shaking off the hands that gripped him and ignoring his own aching ankle. Wordlessly, Sam ran in front of him.

But they did not have to go far. From out of the dark shadows there came Legolas running as lightly as the wind, the Lady’s Lamp once more hidden in his tunic.

“Aragorn, she comes!” the elf called out at the sight of the King. “Conceal yourself!”

But the warning was in vain, and it was too late to go into hiding, for behind the elf prince, almost filling the gaping mouth of the tunnel, appeared the monstrous eight-legged beast they had come to find. The hideous sight of her overwhelming mass made the hearts of the Gondorian guards skip many beats and their knees weaken. 

Yet, the fear was similar for Shelob, for she could not remember when she had last seen the Sunlight, and now its brightness began to hurt her great eyes. And when she saw all the figures before her as well, confronting her with angry faces, she suddenly grew afraid again, and began to retreat, trying to turn her large mass around to return to the safety of shadows.

“No!” cried Legolas, and before the others could even react, he had run towards Shelob and leapt high to trip lightly across her huge body, descending on the other side once more.

When Shelob turned, the elf was already there, holding the Lamp and thrusting its blazing radiance into her eyes. And there came a wail from the Host, helping Legolas prevent her from running back to the deep holes where it would be nigh impossible to lure her out again.

Shelob drew back in confusion, and turned around to face the sunlit entrance again. But now… the figures had gone. Seeing only a clear space before her, with no more visible foes, she began to head slowly for the exit. Then she hesitated, but from the rear, Legolas began to prod her with his knife, and she moved forward again.

Of a sudden, where there had been empty space, Aragorn’s guards leapt out.

“Now!” Tobëas called out, and the men released arrows into her eyes. The sharp objects were but pins in comparison to the enormous bulk of her many hundred sacs, but they still stung. She began to emit a thin, shrill shriek, rearing her legs and trying to retreat yet again.

But now Elrohir and Sam ran out to attract her attention, taunting and challenging her. Between the fierce elf and phantoms at her rear and the foes in front, the beast grew befuddled and frenzied. Then, all at once, she saw someone she knew – someone small, who had once brought her agony with his impudence and his sword – and she grew crazed with rage at the painful memory. She released a vicious, vengeful hiss and charged at the smallest of those who were taunting her: the hobbit she had encountered many years ago.

With a whimper at the sudden approach of the gigantic face, Sam retreated in panic. His uncertain backwards steps betrayed him and he fell, and in the twinkling of an eye, Shelob was on top of him, ready to kill.

In those fleeting moments, Sam’s mind revisited the pain and grief Shelob had caused him when he thought his beloved master had died at the end of her sting. Unsheathing his own Sting and gritting his teeth, he yelled: “Come on, scumbag! Sting has not forgotten you!”

Twisting his body beneath the monster, he drove the elven blade into Shelob’s belly as it had done many years ago. The beast went wild at the sudden intrusion, and she shrieked with pain and shrank backward, exposing the grim-faced but shaken hobbit below.

“Get Sam!” Aragorn yelled to Tobëas as he, Elrohir and his other guards held Shelob at bay with their swords.

Her wrath beyond all measure now, overcoming even her pain, Shelob attacked, and with one swift unanticipated move, seized Aragorn with her two front legs and lifted him off the ground. Horrified, the guards picked up their bows to shoot at her, but Elrohir stayed them for fear that they might hit Aragorn in error. Instead, the elf leapt onto one of her legs and began to hack brutally at the joint, trying to make her release the King.

From behind, Legolas had scaled the beast once more, and seeing Aragorn’s predicament from atop Shelob’s head, he shone the sharp rays of the Phial into the injured parts of her eyes, sending a scorching pain through them. Shrieking, the beast dropped Aragorn and tried to turn around to seek shelter in the tunnel again. But the Dead stood in her way on all sides, and they frightened her. Circled by enemies of different kinds, she scampered about blindly, frenzied with fury and raw fear.

Balancing with grace atop the beast, Legolas saw Aragorn’s guards draw their bows below, and he called out to them. “Wait! Stay your weapons!” he said. “She will tire; we need for her to settle!”

Heeding Legolas’ instructions, the company below remained vigilant but held off their attack. From above, the elf prince watched and felt Shelob slow from weariness, waiting for a pause in her distressed movements. As soon as it came, he called crisply to the King below: “Now, Aragorn, now!”

Already poised on the ground, Elrohir immediately hoisted the King up onto one of Shelob’s legs. With his own uninjured leg, Aragorn stretched and reached for Legolas, who – with one swift movement – pulled his friend up. Quickly, the elf led him to the front of the beast so that they stood atop her head. Kept steady by Legolas’ strong arms about him, Aragorn unsheathed Andứril and raised it high with both bandaged hands for the downward strike.

But now that Shelob was helplessly weary, the King – to Legolas’ alarm – stayed his sword. Aragorn held the Flame of the West in a firm grip, and his grey eyes glinted with grim determination – yet his own fatigue-lined face softened as he felt a rush of pity even for such a vicious beast.

Then just as quickly – and from where the thought came, he could not tell – he remembered all the lives she had taken through the ages, and all the Elves and Men she must have devoured with relish and without an ounce of regret.

And the quiet voice of Legolas spoke in his ear, making clear the purpose of his deed. “She has lived too long in darkness and evil, Estel,” the elf said without malice or vengefulness. “End the misery of her futile life, and complete your own task.”

With that final note of conviction written upon his heart, Aragorn took a deep breath and drove Andứril through the head of Shelob with all the strength he could muster. Legolas pulled Aragorn out of the way as the sword was withdrawn and black blood spurted out from the deep, fatal wounds. A terrifying shriek and gurgle emitted from within the beast that startled her foes and seemed to shake the walls of the tunnel entrance. Hardening his heart, Aragorn struck twice more to end her life as quickly as he could.

As Shelob curled in upon herself, and before she could writhe violently in her death throes, Legolas held Aragorn firmly and led him to the edge of her broad back. Then, clasping him close, the elf brought them both off Shelob’s back in one smooth leap, landing with ease on the ground below and setting his friend down gently without even jarring his ankle. They quickly moved some distance from the dying beast before turning back to look at her.

It was an ugly sight to behold: the agonizing demise of a monstrous, ancient creature, born and bred in malice, finally succumbing to death at the hand of he who had also brought about the downfall of the Dark Lord she once aided in her own way. None of the witnesses gathered there – Men, Elves and Hobbit – were untouched. Their hearts were filled with relief, but also pity and horror. And even the Shadow Host, the elves could sense, were silent. 

As the moments passed, Shelob’s jerky movements slowed and grew further apart, till – after one final shudder – the massive form went completely limp, and moved no more.

After long years of hiding and living off death in foul, unnamed places of the Black Land, the spawn of Ungoliant – remnant of an ages-old evil – was finally dead.

Shivering from both pain and weariness, Aragorn closed his eyes and leaned into the strength of his elven friend. “It is done, mellon nin,” he said.

The long sigh that passed the parched lips of the heir of Isildur was rivaled only by the wind that fanned his dark hair and cooled his aching body as he sank slowly to his knees in relief.

----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

While Aragorn and his company were feeling the bittersweet relief of their victory over Shelob, a small group of elves and dwarves gathered around a stove in the Tower of Orthanc, awaiting the fulfillment of their own task.

Lord Celeborn held the jaw of the skull – now a precious item – firmly in his hands as he placed its rounded top as close to the roaring flames as he dared, hoping that the heat from the fire would be enough to reveal the lines they needed to see.

The skull soon took an orange glow that brightened slowly in hue, and the warmth around the elf lord’s fingers grew like the tension surrounding the waiting group. Yet, the craft of Saruman was such that no smell of charring bone assailed their noses despite the intense heat.

When Celeborn felt that the skull had been heated as much as it needed to be, he withdrew it from the fire and studied its dome, while the others watched in suspense. The grim features of the elf soon softened in satisfaction, for there appeared before his keen eyes the glowing red runes he hoped to see.

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

Unknown to Celeborn and his company, a fire was also being lit many leagues south.

Still a little stunned by their battle with Shelob, Aragorn, Sam and the elves had first sat down to rest, too tired and shaken to think of anything else but the huge carcass before them, and even the Shadow Host stood forgotten for a while.

After a brief discussion, during which Elrohir treated and bound Aragorn’s ankle, the company had decided not to let the grotesque carcass rot in abandon and foul the land further. Instead, they would burn it, for Sam had, with great forethought before the journey, brought along a supply of oil and flint.

To their dismay, Aragorn’s men found that their supply of fuel was hardly enough to cover the enormous head, but they proceeded to spread it over as much of Shelob’s body as they could, expecting that the carcass would burn slowly over many hours. Solemnly, they set it aflame and moved a fair distance from it. Covering their noses against the initial acrid smell of Shelob’s fluids and then the odor of her burning flesh, the little company watched the red flames lick the body of Shelob languidly, turning her flesh into dark fumes that rose to the skies, just as the spirits of the Witch King and Sauron had been borne away by the winds of change more than a decade ago.

----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

Redder and fiercer than the flames on Cirith Ungol were the lines of fine script that reappeared clearly on the skull in Lord Celeborn’s hands as he stood in Orthanc. As stern as the eye of Sauron, the flaming runes began at the front of the head and progressed towards the center.

A tension that Lord Celeborn seldom felt gripped him as he viewed them once more:

 With this Gate I hold thee fast

From this day forth...

“These are what we saw earlier: the lines Mathuil chanted,” the elf lord said. “The start of the spell –”

“But there’s more, isn’t there?” Gimli cried impatiently. “Towards the back of that head – what comes next?”

“Thereafter, the lines are too faint,” Celeborn said, carefully replacing the skull near the edge of the flames. “We need more heat on this side…”

“Gimli, be careful you do not lose your hair!” warned Elladan, placing a restraining hand on the dwarf’s shoulder as the bushy head followed the path of the skull.

“Ooooh, look!” the dwarf cried again, heedless of Elladan’s warning. “Look, there’re new lines now. Look!”  

A hush fell on the group while Celeborn retracted the skull from the fire and examined the other half of its dome.

 ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

Silence, too, reigned over Aragorn’s company as they watched Shelob’s carcass burn, and nothing was heard above the crackle of the flames, save a sigh that seemed to ripple through the Dead standing some distance away from the fire.

But as the flames rose and licked the air, a loud gasp escaped the lips of the elf prince. Clutching Aragorn’s shoulder, Legolas suddenly went pale, and Elrohir caught him as he stumbled backwards.

Aragorn gripped his friend’s arms and peered anxiously at the ashen face. “What’s wrong, Legolas?” he asked.

No reply came from the elf, who stood stock still and continued to stare at the fire.

“Legolas?” Elrohir prompted, narrowing his eyes first at his friend and then at the flames, wondering what it was that had troubled Legolas so suddenly.

The elf prince seemed to be fighting some rising turmoil within him. Then he shook his head. “N – nothing,” he stammered. “Perhaps… it is the smoke.”

Aragorn and Elrohir exchanged a look that clearly spelt their doubt, for Legolas’ face betrayed his denial, and they waited for him to say more.

But the elf prince descended into silence, trying to suppress the current of cold fear that coursed through him. He did not know what to say to his friends. He did not know how to tell them that he had seen – or thought he had seen – in the rising columns of smoke, an apparition of the faceless form of Aragorn that had appeared in his nightmare.

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

The face of another elf much further north was also turning ashen, arousing the anxiety of his grandson and the three dwarves around him.

Lord Celeborn studied the new runes that appeared on the back half of the skull, mouthing the lines voicelessly, and as he did so, his features turned grave, and his knuckles went white from the pressure he applied on the bony tablet onto which Saruman had written his curse.

“Daerada?” Elladan said worriedly.

“What is it, my lord?” Gimli asked, sharing the elf’s concern.

No…no, Celeborn said in silence, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. Oh Elessar…

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

Aragorn’s features softened in regret as he studied the wan face of his elven friend, unaware of the true cause of the sudden pallor.

“This accursed place has taxed your strength,” the King said. “We’ve been here too long. It’s time to issue my pardon to the Dead and depart. Worry not, mellon nin, we shall soon leave this misery.”

Then the King turned to where the Twice Forgotten had been waiting in silent anticipation.

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

Receiving no response from his grandsire, Elladan removed the skull swiftly from his hands to read the new runes before they could fade again. Now, as the sharp eyes of the younger elf moved rapidly from left to right, and his lips moved voicelessly as his grandsire’s had, he too went deadly pale. He looked up at the elf lord with frightened eyes.

“So this is what he meant?” he breathed. “That is why he said: ‘No ragged left-over shall challenge me and freely undo what I have branded into Stone’ … Oh Valar!”

Celeborn suddenly straightened himself, and a hard look entered his blue eyes. “We need to reach them,” he said to his grandson.

Elladan returned his gaze. “Can we?” he asked.

“We have to try,” came the firm reply.

Looking from one elf to the other, Gimli was growing both impatient and deeply anxious. “Reach who?” he asked, throwing up his hands. “What’s happening?”

“Later, Gimli,” Elladan answered gently before locking eyes with his grandsire.

Gimli and the other dwarves half-expected the elves to head for the stairs. Instead, to the dwarves’ surprise, the Firstborn extended both their hands to each other. Grasping them, they closed their eyes and bowed their heads, and their faces took on expressions of deep concentration.

Bewildered, the dwarves huddled together and watched in suspenseful silence as the elves began to utter something quietly in their tongue. And even though the elven voices were fair, Gimli’s hairs stood on end as he heard the tall forms whisper in Elvish. But none of their speech could he make sense of, except for two words: Elrohir and Legolas.

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

As if in a stupor, Legolas watched Aragorn turn to the Dead.

The elf prince knew what the King was going to do next: as had been his purpose from the beginning, he would issue words of pardon, the key to the release of the Condemned Ones, now that they had fulfilled their task. They had all anticipated this.

Yet, something troubled the elf. Murmurs as from afar came to him, whispers of solemn warning that were not perceived by his ears, but by his heart, and they filled him with dread.

“Legolas,” he heard someone say softly – and this time, the voice came from close by.

Turning, he saw that it had come from Elrohir, and to his surprise, he noted that the Imladris elf, too, now seemed ill at ease. The dark head was bent in deep thought, and when it lifted, Legolas saw that the grey eyes and fair face of Elrohir were clouded with some grave doubt.

“You feel it too, gwador?” the elf prince asked quietly.

At the other elf’s nod, Legolas sucked in a breath and turned quickly to the King, who was already facing the Dead. The elf prince looked over to where the Shadow forms were waiting in grim silence, and after a moment’s debate, he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Aragorn,” he said hesitantly. “Aragorn… no … not yet.”

At those words, both Aragorn and Sam swung round in surprise, uncertain that they had heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?” the King asked.

“Do not… do not release them yet,” Legolas whispered uncertainly, knowing how hollow his voice sounded.  

The astonishment on Aragorn’s face was plain as he stared at the face of his friend. “Why?” he asked, incredulous.

Legolas glanced at Elrohir, struggling to find a convincing answer and failing. “I – I cannot yet explain it,” he said. “But I bid you wait, Aragorn, please. Do not release them!”

Puzzled, Aragorn looked over at Elrohir, who, to his surprise, looked as disturbed as Legolas.

“The reason lies not on my tongue either, Estel,” the elf said. “I can shed no light on this matter. But… I share his unease. Listen to him.”

Aragorn continued to blink in incomprehension. “For how long?” he asked Legolas.

“No clear answer can I offer you, Estel, not at this moment,” the elf said helplessly, his blue eyes filled with disquiet. “But I beg you to wait!”

At Aragorn’s side, Sam and the three royal guards fidgeted and exchanged bewildered looks.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn,” the hobbit said, scratching his head and looking uncomfortable. “Err… what are do we do with those dead fellows now?”

Feeling lost and immensely confused, the King turned wordlessly from the elves to cast his eyes where he knew the Host was gathered.  He was in a quandary. Now that They had completed their part of the agreement, he had to honor his part of it and release them, but how was he to ignore a warning from two elves he trusted implicitly? Yet, what caution was he to heed, when the elves themselves could not fathom it, nor provide a plausible reason for it?

Aragorn stood still like a figure of stone, and tension fell upon the whole group as he wondered what he should do next.

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

The tension was mounting, too, for the companions in Orthanc.

Lord Celeborn and Elladan were growing more anxious by the moment as they continued to bow their heads. They were no longer speaking, not even in low tones, but had lapsed into mute concentration, which only heightened the anguish for the three dwarves. The trio remained as quiet as church mice, knowing naught save that something serious was taking place.

Gimli, in particular, was growing deeply troubled, for in his heart, he knew it had something to do with his friends far in the south.

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

“Legolas,” Aragorn said, running the bandaged fingers of both hands through his dark hair as he struggled for words. “I know you would not ask this of me were there not a need, but can you not enlighten me: why would you have me wait?”

The elf gazed at his friend uneasily. “My heart bids me do so, Estel,” he replied. “I know that seems too lame an explanation, but… I can give you none fairer.”

“But the Forgotten Ones… if I don’t grant them release, they will not leave me,” Aragorn argued, trying to keep his voice even, “and I cannot carry them around like unwanted baggage!”

“Saes, Aragorn,” the elf pleaded, his blue eyes growing wide with distress. “Perhaps some understanding will come to me… to us… soon. But, please, hold your pardon in the meantime.”   

“That, too, is what I counsel, gwador,” Elrohir added, laying a hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “We do not say this lightly, for we know what your purpose has been from the start. But now our hearts are troubled, and we sense something amiss.”

The clearly displeased whispers of the King’s men reached his ears as he stared at the elves. His mind whirled in a flurry of doubt, but finally, he sighed in resignation. “My mind is no clearer on this matter, Legolas, Elrohir,” he said. “But I would place my life in your hands, and I shall follow your counsel for the moment. Let us hope the pause will not be for long, and that some clearer sign will come to us as to how to proceed.”

At those words, the two elves exhaled in relief, but it was not a sentiment shared by the perplexed Gondorian guards or Sam, who had no other desire than to depart as soon as possible. Yet, Aragorn soon found, any objection the men and hobbit might have voiced would have been but a light note of protest compared to the reaction that came from the agitated Shadow Host.

So intense was their ire that their voices took form and came to the King as from afar, undulating as the rise and fall of turbulent waves. They were but broken snatches of speech, but they conveyed a clear message of deep discontent and dark fury:  We have fulfilled our oath! Keep your promise of release, heir of Isildur, do not betray us!

Their remonstration left Aragorn distraught and torn in two, but Legolas held his shoulder in a vise-like grip, and the King made a stand.

“I bid you wait!” he said through clenched teeth in the direction of the Host, though no form was visible to him. If truth be told, he did not know himself why he said what he did, only that the elf in whom he would entrust the last fragment of his life and all that he held dear, looked frantic at the thought that he might bow to the demand of the Dead Ones.

Legolas and Elrohir understood full well Aragorn’s dilemma, yet – bound by their own convictions – they made no offer to relieve him of it. But the power to shape Aragorn’s ensuing move was soon snatched from them, for, suddenly, Tobëas emitted a piercing scream and fell in a faint.

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

In Orthanc, Lord Celeborn drew in a sharp breath and looked up at his grandson. His features remained as gravely impassive as they had been during his meditative state, but in his clear blue eyes was a turbulent storm.  

  ---------------------------<<>>----------------------------

“Tobëas!” the guard’s friends called frantically. They were on their knees beside the prone figure, trying to rouse him in vain.

“Sire, what’s wrong?” one of the frightened men threw the question at their King who, along with Sam and the elves, had also rushed to the guard’s side.

Before Aragorn could answer, Tobëas’ eyes snapped open abruptly, startling them all.

“Tobëas?” his friends called to him, but all they received in response was a jerky move of the man’s head as he turned to give them a hard stare with cold, dark eyes, making them shrink back involuntarily.

At that, Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a quick knowing glance, and their spirits sank. They understood immediately what was taking place, for they had seen this before, and they knew what would happen next.

“Do not deny us our redemption that has long been robbed from us!” Tobëas said abruptly in a voice that was not his timbre, confirming Aragorn and Legolas’ guess that once more, the Dead had taken hold of a human body. Indeed, their memories told them that here again was he, the very one who had been in the old man, Mathuil.

Sam and Tobëas’ friends rose from their knees faster than they thought possible and stepped away. The men were stunned, for they had never witnessed such a possession; Sam, on his part, was immediately vigilant because he had. Elrohir, though startled, merely looked to his brother and friend for an answer, though he already sensed it, for the elf could see the misty forms of the Shadow Host around them and felt how intensely disturbed they were.

“Strider, it’s happening again, isn’t it, like in Pelargir?” the hobbit asked, looking distinctly fearful. “They’re mad now, aren’t they, because you won’t let them leave?”

“Yes, Sam,” Aragorn muttered through pursed lips. Then he looked at Tobëas and drew a deep breath before speaking to the Dead One in him. “I am not denying you your redemption, old one,” he said evenly, controlling his own trepidation. “I am merely asking you to wait – ”

“No!” Tobëas shouted, sitting up abruptly with unnatural quickness. “We have fulfilled our oath. No more should we wait!” He looked straight at Aragorn now with wild eyes, and a cold rush of air whipped around them as he did.

Aragorn turned to Legolas and Elrohir for some sign as to what to do, his face tight with anxiety. “They have Tobëas; do we still delay?” he asked softly – but it was not soft enough to escape the hearing of the possessed guard. 

“No – more – delays!” Tobëas cried in anger, narrowing his eyes menacingly. “Or you will bear the consequences! Witness it for yourself!” Then with a loud shriek and to his friends’ horror, the man rose swiftly to his feet, and before anyone could stop him, he ran towards the burning carcass of Shelob and leapt straight into the flames.

With a cry of horror, the other two guards rushed after him, but they were no match for the speed and strength of Elrohir and Legolas, who had dashed past them and retrieved the possessed man from the fire before the men could even reach Shelob. Laying him on the ground, they quickly doused the fire that had just begun to catch on his clothes. The man was fortunate that though his hair had been singed, and his face and hands were scorched, he had not yet suffered severe burns. Neither had the fire robbed the sternness from his eyes, or the unearthly strength from his hands.

With a growl, he pushed aside Aragorn and Elrohir as they tried to tend to him, and spoke in the rasping voice of the Dead One. “Grant us our freedom, Isildur’s heir, or we will take others!”

And for the first time that evening, the eyes of several of the Twice Forgotten – as they hovered near the flames of the burning beast – blazed red and fierce as if to reinforce the point.

Aragorn turned to Legolas, his face grim and devoid of hope. “They will grow more potent – even deadly – if I do not grant them release now, Legolas,” he said defeatedly. “I cannot allow them to take the other men, or Sam. I pray I will not regret this, mellon nin, but I have no choice!”

Then, before the elves could change his mind, the King turned back and addressed the One in Tobëas.  “I will release you, but leave this man now!” he commanded.

The response was instant: “When you grant us release, O King, he will be free of my spirit.”

“Estel –” Legolas and Elrohir began helplessly, stepping up to Aragorn.

But the King could no longer be dissuaded. Anxious to be rid of his burden and to put a centuries-old curse to rest, Aragorn ignored the soreness in his ankle to stand firm and straight before the red-eyed Host, his hair blowing almost wildly in the winds of Cirith Ungol. His grey eyes were steely as his lips formed the words the Host had waited unknown years to hear, and they rang out strong and clear in the land that had once been the battle grounds of his ancestors:   

“People of the Mountain, I hold your oath fulfilled! Go now in peace.”

A moment later, a loud murmur was heard that grew in volume, and Sam could not tell if it was the breath of the Host as they gathered for their departure, or the voice of the very earth that groaned in awe of the momentous event.

But the hobbit knew that the Dead did assemble to face Aragorn, for more eyes now became visible close to the fire, blazing and flickering red like those of the Host at the burning of the Corsair ships in the tales told by Legolas and Gimli, and like those witnessed by the elf prince in the bedchamber of the King at Pelargir. It was the first time Sam was seeing them for himself, and he shivered, hoping he would never cross paths with such a sight again.

As the hobbit and his companions watched, the red eyes were lowered, and they knew that the Host was now bowing before the heir of Isildur. Aragorn drew in a deep breath and felt a great weight lifted from his being, and indeed, so unburdened did he feel that he seemed to grow light on his feet.

Then the thought flitted through his mind that the completion of this task had an odd effect on him.

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

Many leagues north in the Tower of Orthanc, Lord Celeborn – for one of the rare times in his long life – staggered backward shakily, and Elladan caught his grandsire’s hands to steady him.

Astonished and troubled by what he saw, Gimli confronted them. “What’s going on here, Elladan?” he demanded, his tone growing impatient. “What are you not telling me?”

But Elladan’s attention was focused only on the elf lord before him as both their expressions went dark.

Frustrated at not receiving an answer, the dwarf lord seized the skull from Celeborn’s hands. Growling, he tried to read the lines that had caused the despair he saw slowly coloring the faces of the elves.

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

Great uneasiness had been written on every feature of Legolas’ face when Aragorn pronounced his pardon to the People of the Mountain, and his tension had not been assuaged even when a sigh of satisfaction rippled through the Host and they bowed in deference to the King.

But whatever tension had marked Legolas’ face before now grew tenfold as he watched the Host rise from their position of obeisance and prepare to depart from this earth.

Looking from one end of the Host assembly to the other – with an elven perception sharper than even Elrohir’s eyes possessed – the elf prince went weak, for it seemed that he was finally, finally on the edge of some dreadful understanding, and before him, many pieces of some vague danger began to come together in a chilling picture.

At one end of the gathering of wraiths were the red eyes, all that could be seen of the Host to those without elven vision. But at the other end of the Host, among those spirit forms too far away for their eyes to blaze, a vision formed, a vision that had once assailed Legolas in a nightmare and made his blood run cold. It made him tremble now, for it finally revealed to him what he had not seen before of the Condemned Ones.

What he saw were Men, many shapes of Men; they were the People of the Mountain, prisoners once locked in a shadow realm behind a Door of stone.

And they were all faceless.

They appeared frighteningly clearer to his elven eyes than they had ever been before: where faces should have been, there were only featureless voids, like blank slates wiped clean, robbed of soul and essence and all that had once made them Men.

They looked exactly as Aragorn had in the elf’s dream of horror.

Yet, it was no nightmare that Legolas was in now, and what he saw was terrifyingly real.

A cry left the elf’s throat then, but it was over-ridden by another voice. As the spirit forms began to dissipate in a murmuring mist, the Dead One in Tobëas said unexpectedly in a deeply remorseful tone: “Forgive us, heir of Isildur.”

Like one held captive by a spell, Legolas could only watch and listen as Aragorn went down slowly on one knee before the figure on the ground and responded.  

“I have already granted you forgiveness,” the King said tiredly, his eyes drooping with a strange dizziness and weariness.

The voice of the One grew fainter as well. “Not for the wrongs of the past, O King,” Tobëas said. “Forgive us… for what is to come.”

The strange words threw everyone into mute and baffled astonishment, but Legolas alone began to feel the chill of their possible import.

The elf felt his mouth go dry. “What do you mean?” he managed to croak as he went down on his knees beside Aragorn.

“We had no choice,” the Dead One said.

“What choice do you mean?” Legolas demanded, his voice taking on an edge. “What is it that will come? Speak!”  

Tobëas’ eyes fixed on Aragorn then, and his response hit the listeners like a sledgehammer upon fragile hearts:

“His doom.”

  ----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

In the dimness of Orthanc, the venerable Elf Lord of Lothlorien lifted his head, and his brow, upon which was written the wisdom of ages, was clouded.

“We leave now,” he said crisply to Elladan, who nodded immediately.

“Wait a moment, hold on here!” boomed the voice of Gimli, stepping boldly up to the elves, flanked by Bragor and Dagor. A scowl was on the face of the dwarf lord, and in his large hands sat the skull he had snatched from Celeborn. “You know you have my respect, Lord Celeborn,” he said, “but before we take off again, we need to know what it is that’s spooked you and Elladan. I know it lies in these lines here,” he tapped on the dome of the skull, “but there’s nothing left to read, and you’ve told us nothing!” His voice grew into a slight growl. “Now, if Aragorn and that Wood-elf princeling are in some kind of fix –”

“And it sounds like it,” Dagor interjected.

“ – I’d appreciate learning about it without delay –”

“That means now,” Dagor added boldly, crossing his arms.

“– before we go anywhere!” Gimli finished, looking at Celeborn unflinchingly.

Elladan cast a quick look at his grandsire, wondering if the ancient elf lord would find the dwarves’ demand audacious, but Celeborn merely nodded. At the sight of the three dwarves standing before him, sympathy and understanding swam in the clear eyes of the elf lord.

“That is precisely what I was about to do, Master Gimli,” he said calmly. “I seek not your forgiveness, only your understanding, for not speaking to you earlier; we needed the time to attempt to reach my grandson and Legolas, to send them a warning.”

“A warning?” Gimli echoed.

 Celeborn nodded. “To what extent it availed them, we cannot tell,” he said. “But you shall learn now what I did of Saruman’s spell, as revealed on the skull. The first part of it, we already found out from Mathuil, but it is the second part that is of ultimate concern.”

Then Celeborn, looking weary and a little defeated, began reciting the spell in his deep, rich voice:

“With this Gate I hold thee fast

From this day forth until the Last.

No tool nor hand shall open Door

Save he to whom the oath we swore,

To let thee for betrayal atone

And set thee free before the Stone.

The elf lord paused then, and looked sadly at Gimli before continuing in a tone that sounded as heavy as his heart: 

But he who wakes thee from the Dead

Shall wander ever in thy stead.

Knowing none beyond the Spell

Forgetting all, in Shadow dwell…”

Gimli let out a small cry at that point, almost dropping the skull in his alarm.

“Wand – wander ever in thy stead?” he repeated, hardly daring to say the words.

“Yes, Gimli,” Celeborn affirmed. “That is the line.”

The dwarf lord felt the fingers of a cold fear creep up his spine. “Wander… oh, Aulë!” he said. “Aragorn – waking them from the Dead – he… he will wander in their place?”

“Aye, Gimli,” Elladan answered somberly, retrieving his grandsire’s cloak and his own from where they had hung them.

Gimli felt weak in the knees. “Do you mean… are you saying… Saruman’s curse…?” he stammered.

“It is tragic that such power could dwell in one with so much malice,” Celeborn lamented in sorrow as he accepted his cloak from Elladan and donned it. “Yes, Gimli, that accursed spell of Saruman… it condemns Elessar to the same fate as the Damned Ones.”

The elf lord’s confirmation could not have distressed Gimli more greatly than if he had pronounced the dwarf’s own doom. Gimli was struck dumb, and a surge of fury at Saruman welled within him, which was quickly replaced by deep anguish for Aragorn.

“Valar have mercy on him, Gimli,” said Elladan as he put on his own cloak, and on his face there was much concern. “When he releases the Dead – if the curse is fulfilled – he will take their place. He will be what they were: a wraith, a dweller in a forgotten world.  And he will be locked in their prison of stone… in the Shadow Realm.” 

This time, the skull did drop from Gimli’s trembling hands on to the stone floor, and the loud clatter made Dagor jump. But it hardly registered on the dwarf lord, for his mind was now focused on an incident from the recent past that had puzzled them: Aragorn’s sudden faint in the village when he tried to pardon the Dead One who had possessed Mathuil, and the Dead One’s refusal to be freed too fast…

Gimli looked at Celeborn and Elladan with eyes full of pained disbelief as the answer became clear to him. “That’s why the dead fellow in Mathuil would not let Aragorn free him in the village, before Aragorn had a chance to enter the Paths. He feared that Aragorn wouldn’t have been able to free the others…”

"Aye, that must have been the reason, Gimli," Celeborn said. "The One in Mathuil was outside the Gate but he mentioned having been cursed with the same fate; perhaps all who tried to help the imprisoned ones were."

"We may never know the whole sordid truth of what happened in the past; we can only guess why the One in Mathuil halted Aragorn from freeing him too soon," said Elladan. "But there is nothing to stop them from seeking his pardon now, and they will want it as soon as they have helped Aragorn defeat Shelob."

“That is why we have to ride South this instant,” Celeborn reminded the group. “By night or day, we must proceed, so I bid all who can, to follow. But there is no shame in refraining, for speed is of the essence, and it will be a hard ride.” Without another word, the elf lord turned towards the stairs, his long cloak billowing behind him.

“I will come, even if I arrive ten days late,” Gimli said, running to retrieve his own cloak. “But if you will have me before you on your steed, Elladan, it’d be all the faster, and I’d be much obliged. Bragor and Dagor can take my mare and leave at leisure.”

“You go on, Elder; we’ll settle things here,” Bragor offered, and his brother nodded.

“In that case, you have our thanks, young masters, and you, Gimli, have your place on my horse,” Elladan said, and strode towards the stairs. “I will prepare the boat.”

“I hope we won’t be too late,” said Gimli, running after him. “Aragorn, he… he mustn’t… he cannot release the Dead at Cirith Ungol!”

At the head of the stairs, Elladan stopped just long enough to cast Gimli a look of little hope, and his voice shook when he said: “We think he may already have.”

----------------------------<<>>----------------------------

Below a darkening sky on Cirith Ungol, the mystifying words that had just been uttered by Tobëas still rang in the ears who stood transfixed.

His doom, the Dead One had said.

Aragorn heard them as clearly as anyone, but he was becoming strangely more light-headed, and he felt too removed from himself even to ponder on their significance.

It was Legolas who reacted first, and most feelingly. “What doom?” the elf demanded, his voice brittle with fear for Aragorn.

No answer came to relieve the elf’s torment, for, of the Shadow Host, the Dead One in Tobëas alone remained, and he would only repeat his cryptic plea to the heir of Isildur: “Forgive us… for… what will come. We had no choice.”

“What doom is to come?” Legolas almost screamed at him, his fists gripping the man’s arms tightly. “Tell us more!”

“Listen to the Old One… he will know…” Tobëas said in a weakening voice.

“The Old One?” Elrohir asked sharply. “Whom do you mean? Mathuil?”

“Nay,” Tobëas answered, looking blankly at the frightened faces around him. “He… who was here before you… who grew wise long before you,” he said. Then, with a great effort, he cast sorrowed eyes upon Aragorn, before fixing them on the taut face of Legolas, and he rasped out his last words on this earth:

“Return to the Paths… return to the Gate… waste no time… the curse above the Door… no delay… back to the Paths…”

With that final counsel, Tobëas slumped on the ground in a faint, and no amount of shaking would rouse him. But a ghostly sigh was heard, and the Forgotten One – last of the cursed People of the Mountain – left his human host and departed from the circles of this World.

In those same moments, Aragorn felt a chill like an icy river surge through every fiber of his being, and the world spun around him at a blinding speed. He turned pleading but unseeing grey eyes to where he knew Legolas was beside him and tried to reach for the elf with hands that had gone lifeless.

“Legolas…” he mouthed, an instant before his eyes rolled back, the blood drained from his face, and he went limp.

Then he sank slowly into the arms of his horrified friend, and remained there as still as death.

Note: 

I've huffed and puffed and cheated on my work schedule  : –)   to bring you the conclusion of Aragorn’s task and the fulfillment of two oaths, as well as my own resolution to post this within 3 weeks of Chapter 23. Again, please excuse errors because of the hurried pace of writing, and do alert me to them.

As always, thank you to the reviewers who 'fuelled’ me.

CHAPTER 25: TIME AND TIDE

It is said that through the ages of Middle-earth, the beasts loved by the Eldar had a bond so close with their handlers that one could almost read the mind of the other, that the Eldar needed but a soft word here, or a gentle touch there, and the beasts would readily do the bidding of the Fair Folk.

It seemed to Gimli that the elvish steeds which bore Lord Celeborn and Elladan Elrondion mile after mile southward through Rohan – and upon one of which the dwarf himself was fortunate enough to be carried – did indeed seem to sense the urgency of the errand, as if they too nursed their elven riders’ faint hopes of stopping the King of Gondor from freeing the Dead and falling victim to a curse of pure malice.

As winged beasts the magnificent horses flew upon the open road that would lead to Minas Tirith, their legs a blur of strong, nimble limbs fueled by sheer will, thudding and racing like the hearts of the Firstborn upon them, and leaving a trail of dust that left more worldly creatures watching and wondering in envy. On and on Celeborn and Elrohir bade their horses run, knowing no hunger or weariness, feeling no cold or heat, only fearing that they would be too late for Aragorn, that they would lose his soul.

Heavy was the burden upon their hearts, but heavier still would have been their sorrow had they known that even now, even as they forewent food and rest for the sake of the Elfstone Elessar, he had already fallen into the abyss of the Shadow Realm. 

  -------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------

Aragorn sank heavily into a sudden darkness, falling, tumbling into a deep, deep chasm the likes of which he could have never imagined in his most terrible of dreams.

It was a blackness so thick… so cold…and so heavy, it froze him.

It pressed upon him, sucked from him his strength, robbed him of all motion. He lay still, stunned and uncomprehending.

Then the darkness moved.

Like a living river, it began to swirl about him in waves; he could feel it brushing its icy fingers over his face, creeping around his neck, seeping through his fingers and wrapping around his body, engulfing him and leaving no inch of his being untouched. Stronger it grew, and faster and faster it spun with dizzying force, taking him along in a raging, unceasing grip.

Aragorn found himself being rushed somewhere, very swiftly at a blinding speed, so that nothing took shape or form. And as the darkness sucked him in, drowning him, fear was the only thing that surfaced.

Help me, he felt himself saying weakly.

He tried to reach out with limp hands, tried to find an anchor to hold on to, some target to aim for, some place to stop. But he found none. He could hold on to nothing, for there was nothing to grasp.

Faster and faster he was taken into total darkness, into a frightening nothingness. He had never felt so helpless and so lost.

In desperation, he sought a voice. Where were the others? Legolas! he cried into the swirling depths. Legolas! Elrohir! Where are you?

But he received no response; he heard no voice, save his own.

Help me, he called again. Where are you? Help me!

He screamed over and over and over, not knowing if anyone could hear him.

And the darkness continued to embrace him in its  merciless  tide.

-------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------

Several hearts were also engulfed in fear and anguish at the entrance of Torech Ungol, once the dreaded home of a now defeated monster. The tense forms of Men and Elves and one hobbit were bathed in the deep, blood-red gloom of a setting sun, their moods growing as sullen and dark as the approach of night.

Tobëas’ recovery from his state of unconsciousness brought little reprieve to the group, for the King did not wake in like fashion. Aragorn’s brother, friends, and guards gathered around his still form, calling frantically to him, but he did not answer. They splashed water on his ashen face, rubbed his limp, bandaged hands, shook his motionless body – all to no avail. Cradled in the arms of his elven friend, the King did not seem one of the living.

“He breathes, and his heart beats,” Elrohir pronounced as he saw the grief-stricken look on Legolas’ face. He does for now, at least, the dark-haired elf added to himself.

Legolas placed a palm on Aragorn’s chest to verify the claim, still stunned by the man’s sudden collapse. Thoughts tumbled over each other in his mind as he strove to understand what had befallen Aragorn, and why he and Elrohir had felt moved to warn the man against releasing the Forgotten Ones.

“Is this… is this some consequence of his granting the Forgotten People their release?” the elf prince asked to no one in particular, feeling choked by both distress and anger. “Some form of… retribution… for releasing them from the curse?”

“Retribution!” one of the guards exclaimed, looking up. “Do you mean… a punishment, my lord?”

“Punishment?” cried Sam in his turn, his mouth as wide as his eyes. He cast a disbelieving look at the prone figure. “Why should Strider be punished for showing a band of traitors some mercy?”

“If it is retribution, it must have been designed by a malicious hand,” Elrohir said gravely. “Predetermined – and unknown to us.”

“But not to the Twice Forgotten,” said Legolas bitterly. “Why else would they have asked his forgiveness for what is to come?”

“What use is forgiveness?” Tobëas lamented. “Why could they have not forewarned him? Perhaps we could have found a way to avoid this!”

Grudgingly, Elrohir acknowledged the torment that had been borne by the departed souls for hundreds of years. “They were desperate,” he said unfeelingly.

“They still should have given some sign of warning!” Sam argued.

“Such decency was beyond them,” Legolas agreed with quiet resentment. “Still, there is no longer any need for a resolution as to what should or should not have been done. There is only one solution to seek: Aragorn’s own release from this… doom… that he has fallen into.”

Tobëas did not like the ominous sound of the elf prince’s comment. “What doom do you speak of, my lord?” he asked slowly, not certain that he wished to obtain an answer.

Legolas responded hesitantly, for the very thought pained him. “If I am to trust the visions I have had, Tobëas,” the elf said, almost afraid to voice the possibility, “the King has been fated to… to become one of the Host.”

The men and hobbit gasped in horror, looking upon Aragorn’s unmoving body with renewed alarm. Even Elrohir, who had drawn his own silent assumptions, felt the awful weight of Legolas’ words.

“Nay, he is not one of the Host, for They are gone,” Legolas corrected himself quietly, “but like they were.” He cast suddenly misty eyes upon the silent form of his friend, agonizing over what he believed to be Aragorn’s fate. “My fear is that he… he has been doomed to wander in the cursed Shadow  realm as they once did, to eventually turn into a wraith like they once were… oh Valar, Estel…why could I not stop it?”

The elf prince bowed his head in regret, and Elrohir could find nothing to say in reassurance.

“Can nothing be done then?” Tobëas asked plaintively.

“What about the Lady’s Phial?” asked Sam. “This might be why she told me to bring it to you, not just to guide you –”

“We have tried, Sam, but to no avail,” said Legolas dully, weighted down with disappointment.  “You saw how he does not respond even to its light. There seems no other choice but to bring Estel back to the Paths like the Dead One instructed; there must be some answer to be found there.”

“Can we assume that they spoke the truth?” one of the guards asked.

“There was no reason for further deception on their part; they had already secured their release,” Elrohir said. “But I wish we had some insight into what to expect on the Paths. What are we to find there that can aid Estel?”

“The Old One will know, won’t he?” asked Sam. “The Old One the dead fellow was talking about, who was – what did he say? – ‘wise’ long before we were? Which old man was he talking about?”

“Legolas?” asked Elrohir. “You have been familiar with this whole tale from the beginning. What think you?”

The elf prince did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied the face of the still form in his arms in silence, recalling the night in Pelargir when Gimli had been possessed by the Dead and had mentioned the Old One for the first time:

“Seek us where you once were!” the unearthly voice within the dwarf said. “Return to where we walk without death. Seek the Holding Gate. We wait, we wait…” 

The dwarf began to sway, and his voice started to lose its volume.

“The Holding Gate? Is it in the Mountains? On the Paths?” Aragorn asked desperately. “Speak plainly!”

“The Paths… return to the Gate… read… listen to the Old One…” Gimli replied, his voice falling. He swayed even more vigorously now, making everyone wonder at what was happening.  

“Wait! What Old One?” Aragorn asked, stepping forward.

“Spell… break the spell… Gate… beyond…  he will know… listen to him,” the dwarf continued to say, his voice dropping to almost a murmur. “Return, return to the Paths… we need you…”  

Coming out of his reflection, the elf prince looked up at Elrohir.

“Twice did the Dead refer to the Old One; the first time was in Pelargir,” he said, quickly narrating what he had witnessed. “We felt then that they were referring to Mathuil, for his son Mathgor had come the day after to speak to Aragorn about him. When we arrived at the village, we found that Mathuil had been possessed by one of his forefathers. This dead man who spoke through Mathuil was the one who finally unraveled the mystery to us, revealing to us that there were imprisoned souls behind the Door. He himself had died outside the Holding Gate while trying to free them.”

“So who was the Old One?” asked Sam. “Mathuil? Or the dead fellow who used his body?”

“As I said, we thought then that it was Mathuil,” Legolas replied. “But now…” The elf shook his head, pondering on some thought within his mind. “Now, I do not think it was either of them. I believe the Old One was Lord Celeborn all along.” He looked steadily at Elrohir. “It is true that the Dead One in Mathuil held the answer. But it was Lord Celeborn who reached his thoughts and made them known to us; it was he who made it possible for us to understand that there were prisoners, and that Aragorn had to release them.”

“Yes, yes!” Tobëas concurred eagerly, for he had been one of the guards outside the door of Mathuil’s cottage and had heard most of what had taken place within. “The elf lord – he was the key then!”

“And I believe he is the key now as well,” Legolas added. “When the Dead referred to the Old One the first time, they were speaking about their own release. But now –” he looked with pity and sorrow upon his unconscious friend, “now they are telling us that Lord Celeborn is also the one who holds the answer to Aragorn’s fate.”  

“Then Daerada must return to the Paths with us,” said Elrohir, getting up. “But first we must get Estel there. We have to leave now.”  

“Not by way of the Stairs, surely, my lords?” Tobëas asked. “We cannot bear the King down that steep descent.”

“Yes, it is too dangerous,” Elrohir agreed. “I would not trust any of us to do it.”

“Sam, there is another way out of here, is there not?” Legolas asked the hobbit. “As I recall, you and Frodo came out at the other end of the tunnel.”

A light seemed to kindle in Sam’s round eyes, and he nodded vigorously as he turned to peer at the dark gaping tunnel mouth. “Why, yes, there is!” he replied. “It isn’t all the way to the other side, because that leads to some cleft – what they call the Pass – and that only goes deeper into the Black Land. But there’s this smaller tunnel before that; it leads to the great orc watch tower – or, leastways, it did when I followed it, followed those filthy orcs really; they were carrying Mister Frodo there, see? Anyhow, the tower’s in ruins now, I guess, and it’s no pleasant walk to get there, but I daresay it’ll be a better road to follow.”

“Can you remember the way?” Legolas asked, anxious to begin the journey.

Sam took a moment to think before he answered. “Did you see those nasty webs when you were in there?” he asked the elves in return. 

“Aye, we did,” Elrohir said.

Sam nodded. “The opening’s just before that,” he said. “If it isn’t blocked up, that is.”

“Then let us proceed,” said Legolas. He slipped his arms beneath Aragorn and stood with ease despite the weight he bore. As the rest of the company gathered their few belongings and prepared to depart, the elf looked sadly upon the bandaged hands and fingers of the King, and the cuts and bruises upon his skin, and most of all at the still, pale face resting against his shoulder. The elf’s heart softened with pity at the recollection of the weeks of emotional and physical turmoil that had drained the man of his strength.

Your sleep is not one of rest from weariness, my friend, he said silently. I beg you to wake soon from whatever strange, dark dream you are in. But if sleep you must, then be at peace, for I will watch over you till you return to us.

As the sky grew dark, the company cast one last look upon the smoldering carcass of Shelob and walked into what had once been her lair. Soon, they were swallowed by the blackness.

Elrohir held the Phial and led the way with Sam, retracing steps they did not think they would have to take again. They moved as quickly as they could and stopped only to rest briefly. It was dark in the tunnel, and they longed for food, drink and sleep, but no one could partake of more than a morsel nor sleep a wink when their beloved King lay lifelessly within sight. Legolas and Elrohir bore Aragorn in their arms in turn, for his tall form could not have been borne with ease by any of the human guards. In elven arms, however, even his deadweight was manageable.

Yet, now that Shelob the Great had passed, the invisible weight of her evil and malice seemed much weaker, and they moved with greater ease than Sam and the elves had earlier. Even Tobëas grew stronger with each yard despite the gloom.

Strangely, however, it was Legolas, Elrohir noticed, who seemed to grow more somber and tortured. Now and again, when the prince bore the King in his arms, Elrohir heard him utter the words “Forgive me, Estel” in Sindarin, and in a broken voice so soft that only Elrohir’s elven ears could discern it.

Wondering at this mood that seemed to have befallen Legolas, Elrohir spoke quietly to the elf prince during a brief break in their journey.

“What ails you, gwador, that you should ask constantly for Estel’s forgiveness?” the Imladris elf queried. At the start from the elf prince, Elrohir knew that Legolas had not anticipated the question. “What is it, Legolas?” the elf prompted. “You have done nothing in error.”

“There you are wrong, Elrohir,” the prince responded, looking ruefully at the prone figure of Aragorn whose head now lay on his brother’s lap. “I was in error, for I… I failed to tell him something that may have made him hold back his pardon.”

And at Elrohir’s urging, Legolas told him of the empty faces he had seen in the fire at the mouth of the tunnel when first they had set Shelob’s carcass aflame. “If I had but told him, Elrohir,” the prince said mournfully, “he might have stayed his pardon, and not be... as he is now.”

Elrohir exhaled a long breath and sat up straighter. “Oh, Legolas, Legolas, you are indeed in error!” he said, placing a hand on the younger elf’s arm.

“Iston, I know!”Legolas said, hanging his head in self-deprecation. “If only I had spoken – ”

“Ai, that is not what I meant!” said Elrohir quickly. “Nay, Legolas, you could not be certain about what you saw, nor could you know the full meaning of it. And even if you had told Estel about it, the outcome would still be the same, for do you not remember that he did heed our warning – till the Dead took his guard? With or without knowledge of what you saw, Estel would still have been compelled to release Them, for they would still have threatened the lives of his men!”

There was no response from Legolas at first, but then the elf sighed slowly.

“Do not let doubt hinder you, gwador,” Elrohir continued. “We carry heavy enough a load on our shoulders, and haste should be our concern.”

At those words, Legolas looked up and pursed his lips. “You speak truly, Elrohir; my attention should be on Estel now, not on the musings of my own mind,” the elf prince said firmly. “We have a long road ahead.” So saying, he pushed all his feelings of guilt to the back of his mind, retrieved Aragorn from his brother’s hold and stood quickly.

The group continued their hurried walk down the tunnel, and eventually, they neared the opening that Shelob had emerged from earlier. Long before they reached it, its stench and reek assailed their noses.  

“There’s a great pit in there – in the darkness beyond,” said Sam. “That’s her home – well, it was her home. I’d bet my last grain of Shire salt that it’s full of dead, rotting things. My nose tells me it’d be a safe wager!”

Despite the nauseating stench, the Gondorian guards halted briefly in fascinated horror at the secret places in the mountain that they never thought they would see, let alone walk through.

“The webs will be just ahead,” Elrohir said, breaking the awed silence and hurrying the group on.

“Yes, they should be,” said Sam, and before they knew it, they had reached the mass of long, thick fibers. Before them loomed the strands the elves and Aragorn had cut through earlier, and they hung like rent curtains of many grey threads. 

Sam took the phial and ran to the right and left of the webs. “There should be a fork in the tunnel here,” he said, but to his dismay, he saw only thick threads stretching from one wall of the tunnel to the other. He stood there scratching his head in puzzlement while the others waited.

“Are you certain the opening is here, Sam?” Elrohir asked a little doubtfully.

“Sure as I’m the son of my old gaffer!” Sam answered edgily. “But what’s gone on – aah, I know!” He slapped his forehead. “The fat filth must have thickened this barrier of strings!”

The hobbit unsheathed Sting and approached the web near the wall of the left. “If we keep hacking at it, we’ll uncover the opening here on the left,” he said hopefully. “Come on, this way!”

Soon Sting and the elven blades of Elrohir and Legolas, the last wielded by one of Aragorn’s guards, were sweeping through the webs again, and they melted like soft butter under the blades. Focusing on the part of the web at the left of the barrier, the group saw that the tough fibres were easily three or four yards thick – creating an effective trap between Shelob’s pit and the tunnel exit beyond, that would lead to the Pass.

But that exit was not where the group wished to go. After only two yards, Sam raised the Phial and gave a shout. “Hello! Here it is! We can leave the rest of the web alone,” he said. “This way leads to the watch tower.”

The others closed around Sam and peered eagerly at what he had trained the Light on. Their spirits rose when they saw what seemed to be an opening in the wall, but their smiles soon turned to frowns at the sight of a great stone blocking it.

“A great stone door!” Tobeas exclaimed in dismay. “How do we get past this?”

Undeterred, Sam pointed excitedly to the top of the stone. “There, up there! See – there’s a gap?” he said. “That’s how those filthy orcs and I got past. And there’s likely to be some latch behind it. This stone was probably only meant to stop Shelob from getting through.”  

Indeed, further scrutiny revealed that the ‘door’ was only about the height of the guards, and the dark space between its top and the roof of the low arch was more than wide enough for one of the elves to climb through.

Without another word, Elrohir handed the Phial to Sam, placed both hands on the top of the stone and smoothly hoisted himself up. In moments, he was past the black gap and on the other side. The others heard some movement behind it as of a great latch being drawn back, then the door swung open and there stood Elrohir. Behind him was another dark tunnel.  

Sam ran a few yards forward and looked around. “Yes, oh yes!” he said in delight. “It looks the same in here at least.”

“Then let us go on,” said Legolas, swiftly passing through with Aragorn in his arms.

They walked on determinedly, with Sam guiding the way. Up and down several slopes in the tunnel they pushed on, till even their steely resolve seemed inadequate for the depressing gloom. But just as they were beginning to wonder when the tunnel would end, they felt some cool, fresh air blowing in.

“Close now!” Sam said eagerly. He had hardly pronounced those words when they descended a final slope, and the group found themselves before what had been the underground entrance to the watch tower. The great metal gates that had once stood in morose majesty stood no more, but were now thrown down. The group ran through thankfully, and they were out of the tunnel.

Above them was the welcome sight of the open sky, and even though clouds stretched across its expanse like a dark grey cotton blanket, there were rents through which stars were slowly lighting up and peeping. By the feeble light of those Lamps, and the more substantial illumination offered by the Lamp of the Lady Galadriel in her grandson’s hand, the small company studied the scene about them. Where once there had been an intimidating watch tower and many steps leading up to the higher levels, there was only rubble to greet them now: great, big blocks of fallen stone, and smaller pieces littering a wide area of ruin.

Sam looked at the silent wreckage around him with misty eyes. “There’s one place I’d pay gold not to be let in again,” Sam said softly, remembering with sadness his painful search for Frodo in the Tower, when he had agonized over whether his master was dead or alive. “I’m glad to see it in pieces now.”

They allowed themselves only a few moments to look in gladness upon the destroyed monument of evil that, ironically, the fallen king in Legolas’ arms had brought about. Then they picked a careful descent from the mountain through the stone debris, trying to ignore the scattered and broken skeletons of hefty or wiry orcs that had once served there.

They could not move quickly, for when deep night fell, they had only the Light of the Lady – and sometimes the glowing forms of the Elves – to guide them. They guessed their way in the dark, the men and Sam sometimes stumbling, sometimes slipping, but still they picked themselves up and brushed off their hurts to push on again, almost swaying from their lack of sleep. Grimy and exhausted, the group doggedly ignored their weariness and hunger and moved on for hours, going constantly downhill.

Bearing his friend in his arms without rest, Legolas nevertheless would not relinquish the burden he bore to anyone save Elrohir, for he would not allow any further hurt to befall his friend because of a false step.

Finally, just as the eastern sky was lightening by the slightest hues of grey, the keen hearing of the elves detected the welcome voices of two hobbits ahead, and they felt relief rush through them. In silent accord, the elves paused long enough only to tell the others that they would be going ahead, and for those who remained to proceed as best as they could, for they needed to hasten to the horses. Then the elves broke into a near-run without faltering as only elves could do, till they reached the white bridge along which Pippin and Merry and the other two guards had camped.

Elrohir ran ahead to get the elvish horses. With his keen eyes, the elf prince saw the hobbits’ and guards’ looks of initial pleasure at seeing Elrohir turn to frowns, and Legolas knew the Imladris elf must be briefing them on the distressing developments. As the light of dawn grew stronger and they could see Legolas approaching them on the bridge with Aragorn in his arms, they turned to him and began running towards him.

But Elrohir on his elvish horse, with Legolas’ own stallion beside them, reached the friends first, and Legolas wasted no time in handing Aragorn to his brother, who placed the man before him on the horse and encircled him securely with both arms. His faithful elvish steed would see that the riders stayed on only with guidance from Elrohir’s knees, for such was the trust between rider and beast in the world of the Firstborn. 

Waiting for Legolas to speak to and mount his own horse, Elrohir lovingly swept his brother’s hair back from his face, and gave him a tender look. “Ai, Estel… the last time I held you this way was when you were a child in innocent slumber,” he said sadly. “I wish you would wake now and smile at us as you would do then, little one.”

Hearing Elrohir’s words, Legolas felt his own heart descend deeper into grief even as his worry for Aragorn escalated.

I would give anything to have you open your eyes and look upon us again, Estel, he said silently to his friend. Valar be merciful! Whatever holds him in harsh sleep – let it not hold him for long, for he is the greatest of Men, and is loved by so many.

Each nursing his own pain, the two elves turned back immediately and rode towards the guards and hobbits. The riders halted to speak briefly with those on foot, allowing them to see with their own distressed eyes their unconscious King and friend.

“How could anyone do this to Aragorn!” Merry remarked angrily.

Pippin placed a timid hand on the man’s knee. “What’s going to happen to him?” he asked in a small voice. “What are you going to do now?”

Legolas looked with pity upon the hobbits, understanding their concern, for they, too, had no small love for the man who had once been their savior from Black Riders. “If we are to follow what the Dead Ones instructed, we have to take Aragorn back to the Paths,” he said.  

“Do you expect to find the solution there?” Merry asked.  

“We cannot yet tell, Merry, but we were asked to read the runes, and that might hold the answer,” said Legolas. “Lord Celeborn was right to suspect something amiss.”

“Pray that he has found an answer and that we will see him soon,” said Elrohir.

“Are you going straight to the Paths then, my lords?” one of the guards asked.

“Nay, we will first stop by the City,” Legolas answered. “The Queen and the Lord Steward must know of this.”

“And perchance Lord Celeborn will have returned,” Elrohir said, though his voice held little hope and even less confidence. 

“I pray this will not be too distressing for the Queen,” said the other guard in genuine concern, “for she is with child, and may be in more delicate health than usual.”

Elrohir paused to consider this. “She will wish to know, and to see the King for herself,” he said after a moment. “And at the least, Lord Faramir must be informed.”

“Then we wish you all speed, my lords, and trust the life of the King to you,” the guard said. “We will ride immediately behind you, if Masters Meriadoc and Peregrin would please –” 

“We’ll wait for the others,” Merry offered. “We know you’ll wish to escort the King.”

“Yes, tarry no more, Legolas! Go on, go on!” said Pippin. “We’ll see you in the City.”

At those words of quick farewell, the elves departed on an urgent ride to the home of Aragorn.

-------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------

Approaching the City from the north, but much farther away, were three riders who were also ignoring hunger and weariness to reach their destination as soon as possible.

Seated before Elladan on the elvish horse, Gimli maintained an unusual silence. The wind from their speed chilled him and made his teeth chatter, but his reticent silence was due mainly to his mood: he was too worried about Aragorn for idle talk. Yet, there was a question that weighed heavily on his mind, and he would have long ago asked it had he not been too afraid to do so. At length, however, he did turn slightly to speak to Elladan.

“If Aragorn has released the Dead,” he began hesitantly, “is there… is there hope for him? Is there nothing we can do, Elladan?”  

For the next few moments, the dwarf heard only silence from the elf behind.

“Elladan?” he called again, fearing the worst.

-------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------

Outside the windows of a healing room in the Citadel of the King, birds flew quietly on a light breeze beneath an overcast sky, and they twittered softly as if in respect of the somber mood within the stone walls.

Inside, Faramir gripped his hands in an attempt to control himself from losing all sense of calm at the sight of the King lying still and silent before him, devoid of all signs of life save his slow breathing. His Queen’s quiet weeping and soft, plaintive cries to her unresponsive husband only deepened his despair and tore at the hearts of the listeners in the room.

“Estel,” Arwen whispered shakily through her tears, running trembling fingers over the ashen face and closed eyes. “Estel, please wake, my love...” she sobbed. “Can you hear me? I am here with you. Why will you not wake?”

Faramir closed his eyes and hung his head. He was grateful that Eldarion had been wisely kept out of the healing room by Eowyn; he was not certain how anyone could have explained to the young prince why his father would not wake or answer when his son called to him.

The Steward had long ceased to ask Legolas and Elrohir what might have befallen Aragorn, for he knew they had no more answers than those they had already given. “What help is there for him now?” he asked instead.

Legolas, who looked drawn and close to despair himself, shook his head. “We have not been able to rouse him even with the Phial,” he said. “Without knowing the exact nature of the affliction…” The elf’s voice trailed off into a helpless silence.

Elrohir stood from where he had been seated with his arms around his distraught sister, and drew Faramir and Legolas aside. “There is nothing else that can be done now, but to go immediately to the Paths as we have been told – to see what answers may be found there,” he said gravely. Casting a backward look at Arwen and the healers surrounding Aragorn, he continued quietly: “We cannot wait for Daerada to return. Estel… his pulse is slower now than it was earlier.”

“What?!” Legolas gasped, his eyes widening. He turned to go to Aragorn, but Elrohir stopped him.

“Do not alert Arwen to it; she is tormented enough,” he cautioned softly and held Legolas’ arm till the elf prince turned back to face him with a wan face.

“How… how dire –?” Legolas began, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

“He cannot take food or drink as long as he remains thus,” said Elrohir. “We cannot wait, for I fear that worse will come. Send riders to Orthanc, Faramir, to summon Lord Celeborn’s return. But we – Legolas and I – must leave with Aragorn today.”

Legolas’ eyes turned to blue ice. “Then let us delay no further,” he said decisively. “Every hour lost is an hour too long for Aragorn to be in this state.”

“I will arrange for a light and sturdy carriage,” said Faramir, “and an escort.”

“We need only a small one, and swift,” said Elrohir. “Others may follow as they please, but we must forge ahead, for once again, it is the hand of Time – not Men – that will deal the greatest threat to Estel.”

Faramir excused himself to issue instructions to a waiting attendant, and to speak with the City’s Councilors about quelling rumors that might run rife when the silence about the King’s predicament was broken, as it surely would. Then he returned to the elves and found them comforting an overwrought Arwen who was weeping in her brother’s arms.

“You cannot come with us, Sister dearest,” Elrohir said soothingly into her dark hair. “Hold fast to hope, and look after yourself for the sake of the little one. You know we will take care of Estel, and do everything we can to bring him back safe and whole.”

Faramir was in similar agony. He drew Legolas aside to speak quietly with him.

“There is nowhere I’d rather be at this dark moment than at his side, for I have vowed my life to my king since first I came face to face with him in the houses of healing during the Quest,” he told the elf in a voice laced with pain. He drew a deep breath before he could continue. “Yet… my greatest service to him at this point has to be carried out here, in his city, with his queen and son, for – Valar forbid – if… if he should be… if he should be taken from us, my new – and very young – king will have even greater need of my service. Who can tell what threats a City in panic can pose?”

“Your choice is the right one, Faramir,” came another quiet voice filled with suppressed sorrow, and both speakers turned to see Arwen facing them. Her fair face was streaked with tears, and she was leaning on her brother, but upon her countenance composed calm and the undiminished beauty of the Firstborn still reigned. “Daerada’s suspicions suggest the hand of Saruman or some other malice that has dealt this stroke of evil upon Aragorn. If that is so, we do not know what else such a curse entails, or how far down the bloodline it goes,” she said. “And if anything worse should occur… Eldarion will have need of you, and your place will be with him.”

Faramir bent his head in respect, finding nothing to say, but Legolas’ eyes hardened with wilfulness.

“I refuse to believe that Aragorn will be taken from us,” the elf prince said in a low tone. “Only the Valar know how and when he will wake, but he will.”

“And only the Valar know the breadth and depth of my hope,” Arwen said, her eyes shining with fresh tears. She placed a hand softly on the elf prince’s cheek. “I entrust to you one of two I hold dearest, Legolas, for I know that in you and Elrohir, and Daerada when you meet him, Estel will find no better guards or healers, nor a friend more faithful.”

Overcome with emotion, Legolas wrapped his arms around Arwen, holding her gently. “I do not know where the darkness may take him, Arwen,” he whispered brokenly. “But I vow to you: wherever he may go, he shall not be alone. I will find a way to reach him.” At the tearful nod from the elleth, the elf prince kissed her forehead and released her to prepare for another long journey.

Within the hour, the King had been placed in a small carriage in front of the Citadel, where were gathered four of the City’s swiftest riders and horses, and a number of shocked and worried Councilors.

“I will follow with more men, my lords,” one of the Councilors said to Legolas and Elrohir. “Our progress will be slower, but at least aid will not be far behind should you encounter the need for it.”

Merry and Pippin had, after a quick wash and light nourishment, insisted on accompanying Aragorn, while Sam had been persuaded to remain. The weary Mayor of Hobbiton had fallen asleep on his pony and almost fallen off twice during the return journey from Mordor.

“You have already done a great deed in aiding Aragorn complete his task on Cirith Ungol, noble Sam,” Arwen had told him kindly despite her own grief. “I know you must be exhausted, and you should rest here.”  

Sam had reluctantly agreed after Merry and Pippin had pointed out that his company, along with Rosie’s and his children’s, might bring Arwen and Eldarion some comfort.

Thus it was that the small gathering bid the King and his escort a solemn and quiet farewell, sending with them their hopes and prayers. Faramir, Arwen and Eldarion – taking turns to say soft words to Aragorn – were the last to look upon him as he lay in oblivion in the carriage.

Kneeling before his king, the Steward took hold of a cold, pale hand and placed his forehead upon it in reverence. “I have loved you, my liege lord and king, since first you looked upon me in kindness in the houses of healing,” he said in a voice hoarse with emotion. “You called me back from the world of the dying then, and I would go with you now to call you back from the dark… yet I must remain with your Queen and son, as I know you would wish me to.” He raised his eyes and trained them upon the grimly silent countenance lying before him. “Let me thus wait for your safe return, my lord; and return you must, for Gondor without you would be a far lesser kingdom.” So saying, he kissed his king’s hand and stepped out to stand beside an equally sorrowing Eowyn.

Arwen stepped into the carriage with her son, fortifying herself against the difficult questions the child would be certain to ask. The prince had finally been permitted to see Aragorn, but had only been told that his father, his hero, was ill and needed to go away to be healed. Eldarion turned to his mother with puzzled eyes when Aragorn would not respond to his son’s repeated calls.

“He is sleeping, darling,” Arwen forced herself to say. “He cannot hear you yet.”

“But he always wakes when I call, Naneth!” Eldarion argued, shaking his father’s arm again.

“Not now,” his mother said evenly, though her heart was breaking. “It is not yet time.”

“Well, when will he wake then?” the prince asked, a note of doubt creeping into his voice. “When will I see him again?”

When the prince’s mother could give him no satisfactory answer, frightening thoughts assailed his young mind. The child looked at his father again and placed a hand on the barely moving chest. “Wake up, Father, please…” he pleaded, swallowing tears that he did not wish others to witness. “I’m – I’m not ready to protect Gondor like you said I should…”

And when the little prince’s quiet tears finally flowed, his mother had to harden her own heart and comfort him with soothing words to allay his fear.

Arwen’s own words to Aragorn were few, for no tongue could fully articulate the depth of her fear and grief over the uncertain fate of the one man who held her heart and life. She ran her fingers lovingly over the high forehead; the soft, closed eyelids; and the aristocratic nose she knew so well. Gently, she touched the regal cheekbones and the sensitive mouth that marked the firm ruler or the smiling husband and father. She hurt from the keenness of the love she felt for Aragorn, and the unshakable strength of the bond she shared with him overrode all need for speech. Everything she wished to say was spoken through the lingering kiss she placed upon his pale lips and the simple plea she whispered into his ear: “Come back to me, Estel. You are my love, my life, my world.”

As she emerged from the carriage, Merry and Pippin bowed silently to her, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, before they went in to sit with Aragorn on the journey to the Paths.

Legolas, who had said very little since leaving the healing rooms, was last of the group to speak with Arwen. As he approached the elleth and took her hands, his blue eyes were rimmed with moisture, but he looked steadily at the fair, pale face of Aragorn’s queen.

“Fare thee well while we are away, Undòmiel,” he said quietly. “We will bring him back.” Or die trying, he thought.

With a final nod to Arwen and Faramir and a warm embrace for the young prince, Legolas mounted the horse Aragorn had gifted to him and joined the small group of riders. Silence reigned over all, and the hearts of those who were leaving were as laden with the weight of care as those who were condemned to wait.

Legolas, Elrohir and their companions, and the unmoving body of the King of Gondor, departed under a clouded sky that covered them in a blanket of gloom.

-------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------

The same grey roof hung over the land of Gondor a day and a half’s ride away, where three riders were also racing against Time.

Gimli’s anxiety was deepening, for the elf behind him had not responded to his query.

“Elladan? I asked you if there is nothing we can do for Aragorn?” the dwarf repeated his question loudly, wondering if it had been lost in the rush of the wind against their ears. “Did you hear me, Elf? Say something!”

Elladan spoke then, and his voice held a note of surprise. “I heard you, Gimli,” he said. “But I was wondering why you asked.”

“What do you mean?” the dwarf asked, turning his head as far as he could.

“I thought you already knew.”

“Knew what?”

Elladan’s voice was heavy; yet, his next words lifted Gimli’s spirits higher than they had been since they left Orthanc. “That there is a clue as to what may be done,” he said.

“A clue?” Gimli asked, the sound of the last word coming out like a whistle. “There was a clue?”

“Yes, Gimli,” Elladan answered. “I wondered why you did not know, but then I recalled that it was because you stopped Lord Celeborn before he could tell you the final lines of the spell.”

The dwarf felt his heart arrest for a moment. “What final lines?” he asked in surprise, wishing he could turn around fully. “There were more?”

“Two more,” said the elf. “And therein lies some small hope for Estel – or so we pray.”

The dwarf sputtered. “Well then – out with it! Tell me what they are!” he said eagerly. He fought against the sound of the whipping wind to hear what Elladan had to say.

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Hope may have kindled in the heart of the Dwarf, but it was a forgotten notion for the one condemned to the Shadow Realm, despite the name he had been given.

It was only one of the things Estel was beginning to lose to the Tide of Darkness.

Note: 

My thanks to all who reviewed the previous chapter:

CHAPTER 26: REACHING FOR HOPE

Aragorn had never felt such fear.

He did not know what had happened, and he did not know where he was.

Where there had been a rush of swirling darkness sweeping him along in a wild surge, he was thrown suddenly into a still, dense darkness.

But it was a stillness that brought no reprieve, for the deep, stifling black was as pervasive as before. The Shadow crept over every part of him with its cold, icy fingers, choking him. Desperately, he tried to draw in breath, but there was a tightness in his throat. He could not breathe… he was not breathing… yet he did not die.

Fear exploded within him, and he tried to gasp. Whither he turned, it was all the same, and whether he had his eyes shuttered or open, he could no longer tell. He reached out, clawing at everything, anything – but still he found nothing. 

Then there was pain, burning and stinging pain – but no, it was the cold. Was it the cold? He did not know; he no longer knew.

He tried to heave another breath, but one does not breathe in the realm of the Shadow.

He tried to run, yet he went nowhere, for there was nowhere to go.

He plunged helplessly into sheer, utter terror, and into total despair.

Where was everyone? Arwen? Legolas? His brothers? His friends? Where were they?

He called for them – screaming with all the strength he had, calling out to anyone. Over and over and over he cried. But no one was there. No one he could see or sense. No one who could hear him.

No one.

He was alone.

Dreadfully, and frighteningly, alone.

He crumbled then, and something within him – something that was once whole and strong – broke.

And this once brave man now wept, bowing fearful and helpless before the Shadow that held him prisoner.

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Where Aragorn’s spirit now abided, it did not know, for in the Shadow Realm, one knows naught, save that it exists in misery.

Nor could it have known that in the world of the living, his physical form was being borne on a swift and urgent journey to that same prison of stone.

For Legolas and Aragorn, it was a retrace of their earlier flight from the Paths of the Dead, but this return journey went the faster, for – despite having to skirt the larger towns and prying eyes within – they could now travel along the open road much of the way, having no longer any Shadow Host that compelled them to avoid the human settlements they passed.

Yet the absence of the Host meant little to Legolas, and his heart was heavier than it had been on their previous journey. No matter how dark the days and nights had been before, and however cumbersome the ever-present Dead, he and Aragorn had been together, and their mere presence had lent each other strength in the face of any test. Now – as painful as it was for the elf to accept it – Aragorn was lost, just as his own dark dream had foretold, and though the Dead had directed them to return to the Paths, they had not instructed him in the means to bring his friend back.

Yet, even as hope was seeping away, Aragorn’s companions would not let it go. Alone he might have been in the Shadow Realm, but in the world of the living, they never left his side in the carriage, sitting with him in turn and talking to him, even though no word they received in reply. He lay in muteness cold and sad, but they would not let themselves fall into the same chasm of despair, for ever on their minds was the thought that he needed them.

And so on they sped, riders and steeds and carriage, driven by determination and fueled by loyalty to Aragorn. They stopped only for the briefest of breaks as the miles and hours flew by. Aside from the hobbits, the rest of the company were grim and silent with worry, nursing some minute shred of hope that the voice of Merry or Pippin would call to them from the carriage with the news that the King had roused from his dark sleep. But no sound came to assuage their distress, and all that filled their ears were the hard thuds of racing hooves and the sometimes whirring, sometimes jolting rattle of wheels upon stony ground.

Close to the end of the day, they had covered a third of the Lebennin Plains and neared the River Sirith. Having ridden almost ceaselessly since they left the City, the exhausted riders – and two hungry hobbits – stopped for the night and their first hot meal of the day, even if it was meager.

Stroking Amel’s long neck while the horse drank from a stream, Legolas watched Merry and Pippin from a discreet distance and heard their dialog as they set upon their food with relish.

“I didn’t think half-dry bread and bacon could taste this good!’ Merry remarked, licking his lips. “Or it may be that my rumbling stomach knows no better.”

“What? This is horrible, Merry!” Pippin countered glumly. “I mean – the taste is nothing to grumble about – but it’s hardly enough for a second breakfast or elevenses – and this is supposed to pass for dinner!”

“Hush, Pip!” Merry cautioned, frowning and looking around to see if anyone had heard his companion’s complaint, unaware that the sharp ears of an elf prince had caught every word. “I’d give an arm for some mushrooms and taters and roast beef and butter – not to mention a pint of ale – myself, but this is no time to be thinking of feasts, not when Strider’s… you know… how he is now!”

“I know, I know,” Pippin lamented. “But at this rate, I’ll be half the hobbit I was before I left the Shire!”

“Sam should have come then – he’s the one who needs to lose some of that pouch around his middle!” Merry quipped. “But no one’s having an easy time, Pip, so be thankful for what you have.”

Legolas could not help being amused at the hobbits’ dismay over what they felt to be meager provisions. He smiled in understanding, for his experience with the Shirefolk had taught him that going without food for many hours, or not having enough, was a sore trial for them. But so had it been for the whole company, he reflected; they had pushed themselves and their beasts beyond normal endurance all day.

Yet it seemed that even such haste was not enough. Legolas heard his name being called and turned around to see Elrohir striding towards him with a worried look. Knowing that the elf had been looking in on Aragorn, Legolas tensed at once, a question on the tip of his tongue.

“Estel is no worse,” Elrohir said before the elf prince could pose the query, “but only for the moment.” The fleeting relief Legolas felt vanished in an instant. “I have wet his lips to keep them from chapping, but without taking in food and water, he is certain to grow weaker – perhaps rapidly – if he does not wake,” the Imladris elf continued bluntly. “I will not cushion my warning, Legolas; we think we have been making good time on this journey, but if we do not increase the pace and find whatever aid we are supposed to find there for him, we may lose him.”

The words hit Legolas like a sledgehammer. “Lose him!” he echoed in alarm, his eyes darting towards the carriage. After a moment’s thought, his legs began taking him briskly towards the vehicle. “That cannot happen, Elrohir,” he said decisively, his blue eyes turning to ice. “If we need to move with even greater speed than we already have, then that is what we will do!”

“What do you have in mind, gwador?” Elrohir asked, keeping up with the prince’s long strides.

Legolas did not respond immediately. Upon reaching the carriage, he walked past the guard standing watch over it, and stepped inside. He sat beside the blanketed figure within and placed a hand on Aragorn’s chest. Then he turned to Elrohir at the door.

“I think this carriage has served its purpose,” he stated tersely. “At first light tomorrow, Aragorn will leave it and ride with us; wheels cannot surpass the swiftness of our horses.”

Elrohir paused a moment. “It is a long way still,” he noted.

“My arms will feel no ache,” Legolas countered with pursed lips, “no matter the distance.”

“We will bear him in turn,” said the other elf as he rested a tender look upon his brother. “I was merely afraid for his comfort – though I am aware that comfort is the least of his worries now.”

“It is,” Legolas agreed, though he drew the blanket gently up to Aragorn’s chin to keep him warm. At the sight of the ashen face, anger replaced the worry on his own. “If the Shadow Host were not yet dead or departed, I would take their lives myself for inflicting this fate upon Aragorn,” he said with passion.

“As would I,” Elrohir said. “What pity I had for them has left no trace in my heart when I see Estel thus.”

“What do we do when we reach the village, Elrohir?” Legolas asked the question he had pushed aside thus far for lack of an answer.

“Seek some clue to a solution on the Paths,” said the other elf. “And if we find none… we wait for Daerada.”

“Is there naught else we can do?” Legolas asked in exasperation. “We do not know when Faramir’s riders will reach Lord Celeborn, or when he will arrive at the village.”  

“I know not how else to proceed, Legolas,” came the frank reply.

“You agree then that he is the Old One the Dead pointed us to?” asked the prince. “My assumption may be in error. Could he have been speaking about Mathuil?”

Elrohir smiled wanly. “If truth be told, I think that the first mention of the Old One in Pelargir was pointing to Mathuil,” he replied. “I was absent then, but based on your and Estel’s accounts of all that took place, the Dead had not yet encountered Daerada in Pelargir.”

Legolas combed through his recollections of the events that took place in the town, and nodded. “That is true,” he concurred.

“But – again, if I have followed your account correctly – the Dead did see him on the Paths afterward as he puzzled over the runes,” Elrohir noted. “And if those runes contain the key to this whole mysterious fate that has befallen Estel, I believe the second mention of the Old One was meant to indicate Daerada.”

Legolas pondered on Elrohir’s argument. “Two Old Ones then?” he asked. “Mathuil is counted old among the living; and to the Dead… an immortal must be old indeed.”

Elrohir shrugged his slim shoulders. “It would seem so, for who knows how things are perceived in the shadow realm?” he said. “You and I would be old to them as well, I guess. But since we were told to ask the Old One, I cannot think of anyone else holding the key save Daerada. Do not forget, even the Lady charged Sam with bringing you the Lamp, and she sent a warning to the Lord as well. The Phial… Daerada… and perhaps you, Legolas… will play roles in freeing Estel from the curse. I cannot see otherwise.”

Legolas nodded slowly at that reasoning. “Perhaps the Dead had even been aware of Lord Celeborn’s intentions at Erech, when he spoke of seeking the meaning of the runes in Orthanc,” the elf mumbled. “They just held this knowledge from us.”

“Aye,” said Elrohir. “I believe that at the moment of his departure, one condemned soul tried to perform a final act of pity upon the man who had freed them – by pointing us to the Paths and Daerada’s reading of the runes.”

“Would that he had shown his… mercy… earlier,” Legolas said bitterly. “Now we can but hope that Lord Celeborn will come to us – to Aragorn – in time.”

The elves lapsed into a silence that grew bleaker with the descent of night, and if one had looked upon the face of the elf prince then, even in the feeble light of the flickering torch placed just outside the carriage, one would have seen the pain he did not bother to hide, for the thought that they might lose Aragorn was more than his heart could bear.

  -----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

In the darkness of that same night, trusted stable grooms in the City of the King brushed down the elvish horses of Lord Celeborn and Elladan, and kitchen staff hurriedly prepared light provisions for three travelers who would be leaving the City before dawn.

The Elf Lord of Lothlorien had reached the Great Gates of Minas Tirith close to sunset that day, having spurred their steeds on after receiving news of Aragorn’s plight from the messengers of Faramir. The company of three had been on their way back to the City when they met the Gondorians along the Great West Road near Calenhad.

“Alas that we did not know of this earlier!” Celeborn had lamented at their meeting. “Or we would have returned to the village Grimwythë straight away through the Pass at Erech, and await them there.”

“We may yet meet them upon the road,” said Gimli now as they finished a welcome but solemn meal with Faramir, Arwen and Eowen. “They cannot be more than half a day away.”

Faramir ran a hand through his hair, reminding them all of the King’s own similar behavior. “Still, there’s naught that can be done till you are all back on the Paths, is there?” he asked.

“Nay,” Elladan answered gravely. He noted how Arwen was listening quietly to every word exchanged, and wished that he could have spared his sister the ordeal. “Nay, we need to bring Estel back there. And then we shall see if… if the runes speak truly.”

Arwen pondered on the clue that had been left in the last two lines of the spell. “But… how exactly will it be done?” she asked her grandsire nervously, her long tapered fingers interlaced tightly to stem their trembling.

The elf lord covered her hands with his strong ones and looked into her wide, worried blue eyes that were meltingly beautiful even glistening with unshed tears. “Let us not speak of that now, child,” he said gently. “Just hold to the knowledge that we will do whatever it takes to bring him back to you and your little ones.”

Before his granddaughter could press him further, Celeborn stood and excused himself as Elladan and Gimli followed his lead. Tonight, the exhausted group would take some much needed rest in the rooms of the Citadel, for they would have to wake even before the sun to take to the road again.

And as she had done every moment since Aragorn was taken from the City and her side, the Queen of Gondor thought about the man who lay in deep, dangerous sleep far away from her.

  -----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

Sleep had claimed Legolas for only a few brief hours before the elf roused again. Slowly, he sat up from his prone position and blinked away the remnants of his reverie.

The little camp around him was still and quiet, with only the soft snicker of horses punctuating the night and a lone guard awake and seated at the door of the carriage where his King lay. The hobbits were fast asleep in rolled blankets near the fire, and even Elrohir had given in to his weariness, lying next to them.

Rising, Legolas began to walk towards the carriage where his thoughts constantly lay. The distant cry of a whip-o-will in some stray flight above caught his attention, and he stopped in his tracks. He tilted his fair face to the dark skies, feasting his eyes upon the twinkling lights sprinkled across the expanse, mute witnesses to the tales of life writing themselves into the history of the land below them. If they could speak, Legolas thought pensively, what would they say about the dramas unfolding before them? What would they remark about the tales of bravery and mirth, of triumph and tragedy, and of love and betrayal played out by all who lived in the World?  What would they say about what was happening to Aragorn now?

The elf’s eyes combed the sky, seeking one Lamp that never failed to bring him a glimmer of hope in the darkest of times. Finding it, his eyes rested on it, and a prayer left his lips.

“Aragorn needs all the Grace he can be given,” he whispered to the Star of Eärendil, though he was not quite certain to whom he was speaking. “Bring him out of the Shadows… let this not defeat him,” he said with a lump in his throat. “Let this not be his end.”

Then the glowing elf lowered his head and walked noiselessly across the dew-covered grass to stop before the figure guarding the carriage. “Take some rest,” he said kindly to the drowsy man huddled in a blanket. “I will watch him for the rest of the night.”

As the grateful Gondorian left to join his sleeping companions, Legolas stepped quietly into the carriage and lowered himself onto the seat next to Aragorn’s still form, taking care to minimize the noise as if his friend were only in nothing more than a quiet slumber. Carefully, he drew forth the Phial of the Lady from his tunic and let it illuminate the carriage and the prone figure.

At first, he simply gazed upon the pale, lifeless face he loved so well, his heart softening at the sight of the scars the man had procured upon the cruel mountain face in the Dark Land. As stray strands of dark hair fell across the closed eyes in the wavering shadows, the elf swept them back gently, even now unwilling to let any of the kingly features be hidden from his sight. Then, swallowing his fear, he bent his head close to that of Aragorn’s so that he could speak softly into the man’s ear, assuring him that he was not alone.

“I am here again, my friend,” he whispered. “Though you walk in shadow, be of brave heart, for we are all around you.”

Legolas knew that Merry and Pippin had not ceased to talk to Aragorn about daily goings-on, as if they were having an ordinary conversation with him. But he found himself unable to feign such casualness, and did not attempt it. He searched his heart for the right words to say to one in whose company even silence held a shared meaning. And he found none.

For long moments, the prince remained mute. All his speech lay in the grasp of one cold, lifeless hand in his own warm ones, and all that filled his ears were the sounds of the night and his own breathing.

  -----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

Hard and cold… all around Aragorn, it was hard and cold.

Misery was his constant companion – the one thing that would not leave him. Everyone else was nowhere to be seen, or heard, or felt.

Long ago, it seemed to him, he had heard the weeping of a fair and beautiful lady, and the frightened voice of a child… Even such sad sounds would have been welcome, but they, too, had gone.

And all about him there was only a dead stillness.

A dead silence.  

-----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

Then, gently breaking the hush in the carriage came a fair sound, stealing subtly into the scene like a quiet sigh.

Clear and silvery was its quality as from the lips of the elven prince came a slow song: a soothing, beauteous melody woven with words from the well-springs of the heart.

How he began, Legolas did not know, but as he looked upon his friend and wondered on what dark paths Aragorn’s soul now walked, the elf found himself singing of the creation of Eä, and the waking of the stars, of the fiery chariot of Anor and the first trail of golden sunbeams it left across skies of blue. His words painted colors that grew bright and did not fade. He sang of winds fresh and waters cool before the World was ever sullied, of new springs birthed from virgin snows to cleanse hurts and griefs, and of purity no foulness could taint.

It was a song of fairness in the midst of despair, born of a Firstborn’s need to believe in Hope and to instill it in one he loved. It spoke of light beyond darkness, for he wanted his friend to remember what all good people hold on to in any age: that in the face of an evil which seems too strong to bear, the Shadow is only a small and passing thing, and there is light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. 

Legolas sang from the depths of his soul, and softly for the ears of but one listener, yet his passion turned the very air in the carriage into supple threads of silky notes that wrapped softly around the still form of the King, and all who slept outside felt a haunting but oddly cleansing melancholy sweep through their dreams.  

-----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

There came to Aragorn – he knew not from where – the sense of some smiling sorrow, parting the thick cloak of darkness and despair around him with the force of its gentleness.

Strangely, he felt fingers of comfort reach through to touch him, and solace wrapped around him like warm arms.

For a little while – he did not feel alone.  

-----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

Holding onto Aragorn’s hand, Legolas breathed his song patiently into the ears of his pale, still friend. On and on he sang, pouring his hopes into his song, waiting for some slight sign of wakefulness from he who held part of his heart.

But no sign came.

Then, though the elf had fought long and hard against the fear he felt, his voice broke at last with quiet tears of anguish, tears that none would witness but a pair of unseeing eyes now shut against the living world.  

-----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

In the Shadow realm, where nothing but darkness resides, Aragorn felt – for a few moments – a gentle river of tears wash over him, pouring on to him and through him.

Yet the river carried, if only for a precious instant, a comforting warmth that dispelled the cold. 

  -----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

Replacing Aragorn’s hand upon the lightly moving chest, Legolas felt the man’s slow heartbeat, and he bent to rest his forehead against his friend’s. “Return to us, Estel; leave me not in cruel grief,” he said brokenly against the cold skin. “But if you cannot find your way back, wait for me. I will seek a path to you.”

For the remainder of the night, Legolas sat with the prone figure inside the vehicle till the first signs of dawn streaked across the eastern sky. Then he left to wake the others, but he continued to sing to the man in spirit even when his voice had ceased.

-----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

Yet the Shadow and the craft of Saruman was too strong, and they took hold of Aragorn again.

The brief consolation he had felt was all too quickly sucked from him by the tides of darkness – and once more, he began to forget even those voices he knew and held dear.

That alone frightened him more than the darkness did: that he could not remember those he loved, or how they looked, or how they sounded. With a wail, he struggled to hold on to the memory of them, grasping at it like some solid thing.

But it slipped away cruelly, and he saw it departing and growing distant, like a ship in the night that sees you not, nor hears your cries for help as you drown… but passes you by and is soon gone.  

-----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

Lost in the Shadow Realm, Aragorn could not know that he was far from forgotten in the world of living.

Bent on getting the King as soon as possible to the Paths, and to add speed to their already hastened efforts, the company did as Legolas had suggested and abandoned the carriage at the camp site when the sun rose. They resumed their journey on swift, rested horses, unencumbered by the slower vehicle. 

Two of Aragorn’s guards placed Merry and Pippin before them, but Legolas and Elrohir bore Aragorn tirelessly in their arms in turn, grateful to their elvish steeds for not letting them fall even without being handled. Again, the leagues flew by with the wind in their hair, and another two more wearying days and nights passed that did little to raise their spirits. But on the fourth morning of their ride they arrived at an object Legolas never thought he would be thankful to see again: the Stone of Erech. Their first sight of the half-buried orb made the hobbits and Aragorn’s escort stare in uneasy awe, and Elrohir – like Elladan had been – was assailed by gloomy memories of the first time he had stopped at the Stone with Aragorn during the Quest.  

“Who would have thought that I would set eyes upon you again,” Elrohir said to the Stone from a distance, as if it were a living thing. “I suppose that in your own manner, you served Estel’s purpose during the War of the Ring, but do not now turn upon the heir of Isildur – and your rightful Master.”

Legolas looked upon the Stone grimly as well. “Here we are, Aragorn,” he said softly to the man in his arms, whose head was resting on his shoulder. “We are close now, mellon nin. We will be there soon.”

The sight of the grim reminder of their task drove the company on to the village that lay beyond, and as the sun shone overhead upon the very mountain Aragorn was to return to, the thatched roofs of Grimwythë loomed into sight. The village looked much as it had when Legolas had first encountered it, and at the elf prince’s bidding, the leader of Aragorn’s escort – who was one of the guards that had accompanied Aragorn on his previous visit – rode ahead with a missive from Faramir for the village Elders.

The return of the King to the village – and in his state of unconsciousness – roused the residents into a flurry of activity as they hurried to prepare a cottage for him and his company. The surprise of the residents – mingled with some fear – knew no bounds as word of the King’s condition flew from mouth to mouth, and their wonder grew even greater when Elrohir arrived and they were told that he was not his twin Elladan whom they had met before.

But their curiosity rose to new heights when their eyes fell upon the two hobbits, for here it seemed were creatures come to life that they had thought only existed in folk stories and old wives’ tales. Spinner the lore-master whom Legolas had met in Pelargir barely concealed his ecstasy at meeting Merry and Pippin despite the bizarre circumstances that had brought them here, and the children of the village – some of whom were taller than the hobbits – gawked at them in open disbelief and excitement.

“Whew, I don’t know whether to be flattered or bothered by all this attention!” Merry groaned under his breath as he looked out the cottage window at the obvious stares of the villagers – young and old alike. “I feel like a fire-bug on display in a bottle!”

Pippin stole a look at the women bustling about laying out bread and steaming stew on a table for the guests, and shrugged. “Well, if they feed these fire-bugs some much-needed food, I don’t mind!” he retorted good-naturedly. 

The attention of the majority of the villagers, however, was on their King and the strange fate that had left him hovering on the brink of death. Mathgor and his mother were immediately concerned, and offered their assistance, as did the village Elders.

“Will you be taking the King to the Paths right away, my lords?” Mathgor asked the elves after Aragorn had been settled in a room and his guards positioned outside the door.

Elrohir cast Legolas a quick glance before he answered. “Not immediately,” he said. “We will await Lord Celeborn here.”

“And I would wish to go ahead to the Paths and look around,” Legolas added. “We have only the word of the Twice Forgotten that he should be brought back there. Though there seemed no longer any reason for deceit on their part, who knows what dangers might lurk there still?” 

Elrohir nodded. “We will head there shortly,” he said.

“The King will be safe here in the meantime,” Hëmuth the Elder assured the elves. “Come, my lords, some refreshment before you leave would not be amiss. I believe your young friends are eager to partake of our modest spread.” He inclined his head in the direction of the hobbits, who were already hovering near the table. “We’ll see to your horses while you eat.”

The elves spoke briefly to their horses before reentering the cottage, and gratefully accepted food and drink, not giving a second thought to several pairs of eyes that followed their movements with disdain form a distance.

“Who’d have thought we’d see them elves again so soon?” Fierthwain muttered sourly to the men around him as he leaned lazily against a wooden fence and picked his teeth with a straw. “It’s an ill wind that blew them back here, and I’d just as soon it took them away again.”

His companions mumbled their agreement. “Hasn’t that whole rumpus about the Dead ended yet?” a short man with a rotund belly grunted, scratching his chin. “Strange folk, those, to be caught up in such goings-on!”

“Strange – and sly!” a pock-marked man commented. “All secretive-like, hiding in their magic forests. No good can come of mixing with the likes of them!”

“And that’s the consequence upon the King, I wager,” Fierthwain said, his beady eyes narrowing. “I saw him as they were bringing his body in –”

“Body!” his short companion gasped. “Is he dead?”

“Nah!” said another. “But practically cleaning his boots at death’s door, is what I hear.”

“Well, that should be no surprise, him befriending elves and all,” Fierthwain remarked, smirking. “Foolish is what I call it.”

“Hoy, best watch yer words,” his companion hissed in warning. “That’s His Royal Sire yer talking about!”

Fierthwain snorted derisively. “That doesn’t change things a bit,” he scoffed. “He’s still a victim of their dark spells, that’s what he is.”  

“And word has it they’ve been told – by those Dead, no less! – to bring his majesty back to the Paths – the very place where the ghost scum that cursed him lived for years beyond count!” the pock-marked man said mockingly. “A load of crock is what I think! Only elves would lay truth by such pig swill.”

“Or cook it up themselves,” Fierthwain added, raising some snickers. A hard glint entered his eyes as he straightened his posture. “They made a mistake coming back to a place where they’re not welcome. They may have had the King blind – even Mathgor and the others – but they can’t fool me. They’ll find no quarter here, they won’t!” With those words, he turned abruptly and walked away, leading the little group of men away from the sight of the cottage.

Legolas and Elrohir’s meal was a hurried one, during which they had decided that only the two of them need go to the Paths that day, much to the relief of the hobbits, though they would not express it openly. With or without the presence of the Dead, the Paths still sounded like a wholly unpleasant place to visit.

“But you’ll be all right, won’t you?” Pippin asked Legolas with genuine concern. “I mean, there’re no dead fellows to surprise you or anything, right?”

“I trust not, Pippin,” the elf replied with a small smile. “We should not be back some time tonight, perhaps after midnight; I simply wish to make sure that Aragorn will not come to any harm there.” Turning to Elrohir, the prince said something to him in Sindarin, at which the dark-haired elf shook his head.

“Even without the Dead, I cannot let you go there alone, Legolas,” Elrohir replied in the same musical tongue. “Estel will be safe here for the moment, with his men and the hobbits. I will come with you – and never mind the dread I felt before; it will perhaps be less without the ghosts of the Forgotten.”

Not wishing to spend time in argument, Legolas accepted Elrohir’s offer to accompany him, entrusting the welfare of the King to his guards and the village Elders. The elves paid a quick visit to Aragorn, speaking to him even if they could not know whether he heard them.

“The day will grow long soon, my friend, and the sooner we leave, the sooner we return to you,” Legolas said softly to the unresponsive figure, placing his hand lightly on Aragorn’s shoulder. He paused as he struggled with a thought that had crossed his mind, that even though Aragorn lay here, perhaps there in that mountain was where the fëa of the man was now imprisoned. And with his spiritual essence gone… how much longer would life remain in this body…?

Angrily, Legolas cast that fear aside; he could not let it incapacitate him. “Hold on, Aragorn, as you know you must,” he said firmly. “Wait for me.”

Then the elves went to their faithful steeds. Glumly, Merry and Pippin – along with a large group of villagers – watched the two tall figures ride away from the village towards a mountain with its dark history and even darker secret. Even with the Dead released, the tales of old could not be erased or ignored easily. The hobbits suppressed a shiver they could not help, and as the figures of their friends grew smaller, they followed the villagers back to what cheer they could find in their homes.

Guided by his memory, Legolas swiftly led a nervous but determined Elrohir across the Vale and along the ravine back to the mountain. The elf prince smiled wryly as he realized how the place would continue to be known as the Paths of the Dead even without its ghostly inhabitants.

Unhindered by Men who would have been slower on the ascent up the ravine, it did not take overly long for the light-footed elves and their horses to complete the route that was now familiar to Legolas and Amel. By twilight, they had come through the mists and reached the southern entrance to the Paths. As before, Legolas advised leaving their horses outside while they reentered the dark mountain recess.

Proceeding slowly by the light of a weak torch and Galadriel’s Glass – for which a nervous Elrohir could not stop thanking his grandmother – they followed the Paths back to the main cavern. The passageways did not seem so filled with the aura of death as they had before, Legolas noted, but haunting memories of treachery still hung in the air in this larger space. The elf wondered how long dread would cling to the walls of this unfortunate mountain tomb… then he realized that malice would dwell here as long as the curse still held Aragorn prisoner.

That thought quickened their pace, and they eventually reached the Door where the ancestor of Mathuil and Mathgor lay in mute vigil. While Elrohir stood before the bony figure in silence, recollecting his journey here with Aragorn during the Quest, Legolas walked around the cavern and scrutinized it, looking for both signs of a hidden threat and a possible solution to Aragorn’s predicament.

The elf prince found nothing suspicious that would endanger Aragorn when they brought him here, but neither did he come upon any solution. They would have to wait for the elf lord after all, he decided. Sighing, he returned to where Elrohir was waiting before the Door, and joined the dark-haired elf in silent contemplation before it.

A strange feeling touched the elf prince as he fixed unblinking blue eyes upon the Holding Gate. Holding the Phial in one hand, he reached out with the other and slowly ran his long fingers over the stone surface. A thought pushed at the edges of his mind, begging to be heard.

“Are you here, Aragorn?” he voiced it in the slightest of whispers, even as he wondered if he sounded foolish. “Are you waiting for us beyond this Door?” 

As soon as the question left his lips, Legolas felt a deep sadness and heaviness of heart. Cold was the stone of the Holding Gate, but beneath his fingers, it seemed to have a presence, and beyond it – an ebbing life.

A chill ran through the elf then, and he gasped, for at that moment, he knew – or felt he knew – that Aragorn was indeed here; the friend he loved was trapped in the prison of stone that Saruman and Häthel had so cruelly created and used.

Without thinking, his fingers began to claw at the seamless outline of the Holding Gate, seeking to unlock it – repeating the futile act of Mathuil’s skeletal ancestor lying at his feet.

“He is here!” the elf prince said in a half-sob as he pounded angrily on the stone, bruising his knuckles. In that painful moment, Legolas understood how desperately the dead man must have tried to release his kin, for the tormented elf felt he would tear the Gate down with his bare hands if he could. “Oh, Valar, his spirit is here, Elrohir, waiting for us – and we have to free him!”

An astonished Elrohir joined him at first, seeking any crack or opening they could pry, but even as he did so, he knew there would be none. Forcing down his own dejection, he gripped Legolas’ arm with one hand to halt the prince’s vain efforts, while placing the other comforting hand on his companion’s shoulder.

“That is enough, Legolas; come away,” he said in a sympathetic tone that reflected his own distress. “I sense it too, but what you do cannot open the Door. Come away!”

With a hiss, Legolas struck the Door a final time with his fist, scraping more skin off his knuckles, before he allowed Elrohir to distance him from the unyielding stone. As he hung his head in frustration, Elrohir kept a consoling arm about him.

“Sidh, Legolas, hurt yourself no further,” the dark-haired elf said soothingly. “Peace, gwador. Without knowledge of how to proceed from here, we would do best by waiting for Daerada…and pray that he does hold the key.”

Trembling with rage and a deep sense of helplessness, Legolas forced himself to acknowledge the wisdom of Elrohir’s counsel and swallow his grief. He ran a bleeding hand over his closed eyes and exhaled deeply. “Iston,” he said hoarsely. “I know… I know.”

When the elf prince had quieted, Elrohir sighed and hung his head. “Ai, Estel!” he lamented, feeling tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. “May the Valar have mercy and show us what needs to be done!” 

The two elves stood in silent anguish before the Holding Gate a while longer, thinking about Aragorn who was in all likelihood alone and forlorn in a hostile darkness, and feeling deeply reluctant to leave him.

Raising the Phial higher, Legolas looked up at where he knew the runes would be written, and pleaded in his heart for the answer to lie there and to be revealed to them by Lord Celeborn. Then he blinked away the moisture from his long lashes and closed his eyes as he placed a hand on the Door again.

Estel, he called voicelessly. Estel… if you are behind this Gate, hear me…

The elf paused and clenched his teeth in resolve. I will not forsake you, most loved of friends. I have promised that wherever you are, I will find my way to you.

He opened his eyes and gave the Door a last look. Wait for me, I will come, he vowed.  

-----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

In the prison of stone where Aragorn existed in a meaningless dark, a glimmer of some forgotten thing – some welcome thing – flared in him, and for a fleeting instant, he felt… remembered. And into his endless pool of deep misery, there fell a drop of something clear and light.

Was it hope?

He could not tell, for all too soon, it, too, had gone; it deserted him and passed from him like the fading footsteps of someone he had once known.

-----------------------------------<<>>------------------------------------

Legolas tore himself away from the Holding Gate, and with Elrohir quickly retraced their steps to the exit of the Paths. They had tarried overly long, night had long fallen, and they were keen to return to Aragorn’s physical form and plan their next step.

As they neared the mouth of the Paths, a sudden sense of unease came upon them. But ascribing it to the gloom that had surrounded them on the Paths, and being eager to start on their return journey, they quelled their disquiet and walked out – to be greeted by a rude shock.

Gone were their horses where they had been left to await their riders.

Instead, the elves found waiting for them Fierthwain and seven other men with arrows pointed with unwavering menace straight at their hearts.

Note:  

I continue to battle the challenge of finding time to write these chapters.

But know that this story and LOTR is where my heart lies, and I will post again as soon as I can if you will overlook the lack of refinement in the writing and point out typos to me.  

As usual, hugs to all who sent in support.

CHAPTER 27: HEARTS OF DARKNESS

The same thought occurred to Legolas and Elrohir when they saw – through the thin curtain of mist – the smug looks on the faces of Fierthwain and his men as they aimed deadly arrows at their chests. The villagers had obviously followed the trail of the elves, lain in wait behind some large rocks while the elves were inside, and sprung out to ambush them as they reappeared from the Paths.

At the sight of the men, Elrohir reached immediately for his long knife, but Legolas clamped a hand on his arm, his quick eyes sweeping warily across the dour faces of the men before them. Ironically, Legolas noted, the men seemed a little afraid to be in the presence of elves, but they did not look like their arrows would miss their mark at such close range, even in the mists. Some of them began to move so that he and Elrohir were almost surrounded, preventing them from running back into the dark Paths.

“What is the meaning of this?” Elrohir demanded angrily, never having met these men, and having heard only a little of their preposterous distrust of elves. “Are you from the village? Where are our horses?”

Fierthwain stepped forth, remaining what he considered to be a safe three yards from the Eldar, and Legolas saw in his dark, steely eyes the same disdain the man had held for him on the previous visit. The elf prince stood straight and stiff as the tanned villager faced him with an arrogant sneer on his face and a sword in his hand. The weapon was pointed downward, but the firm grip on the handle suggested that the blade could be just as readily raised and aimed at the elves.

“Why are you here again?” the man asked, throwing the question at Legolas and ignoring Elrohir’s earlier queries. “Are you bringing back more of your dark magic?”

Legolas gripped Elrohir’s arm again as he sensed the elf’s rage. “We have no such magic, Fierthwain, and never did,” the prince replied evenly, with his chin held high. “Did not King Elessar make that clear to you when last we met? We have returned only because the Dead One pointed us here –”

“Ho! So you’re now taking advice from ghosts, no less – and you deny dabbling in dark magic?” Fierthwain interrupted sardonically. “Listen here, Elves: the King’s supposed to have already removed those ghosts, and our village is finally free from a curse that should not have been part of our lives in the first place! So don’t you call up any more evil; we want no more strange goings-on!”

“Nor do we,” said Legolas. “But we were compelled to return, as we explained to your Elders. The king needs to be brought back here to the Mountain.”

A spurt of sarcastic laughter erupted from Fierthwain’s lips. “The King is already near death – and you bring him… here? To this accursed place of the Dead?” he asked mockingly.

“That’s just proving Fierthwain’s point!” said the short, stout villager, and the others nodded, some shaking their heads in disbelief.

“You’ve blinded the king – he cannot see what you are up to!” Fierthwain said accusingly, and this time he did raise the sword and point it at Legolas. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he took a step forward. “You’ve also blinded Mathgor,” he growled with clear displeasure. “My cousin has a good heart, but he tends to be a fool in befriending all manner of strange beings. And you’ve made good use of that, haven’t you?”

“Yet none of the ‘strange creatures’ you speak of have brought you any harm, have we?” Legolas rejoined evenly, standing his ground despite the blade aimed at his middle.

“The little ones – what do you call them now? Hobbits? – they look innocent enough to be sure,” said Fierthwain. “But you elvish wights – gah! I’ve heard too many tales about you lot to trust you, not unless I had you at the end of a sword.” And he kept his blade aimed at Legolas to prove his point.

“Elbereth!” Elrohir muttered, fuming and incredulous. “Do these beings have warg droppings for brains?” he asked Legolas in Sindarin.

“Hoy, what’d you say?” the pock-marked villager demanded from where he stood. He drew his bowstring back nervously. “Was that some spell you chanted?”

“And what’s that in your hands, eh, Elf prince?” asked the stout man when he caught a glimpse of the Lady’s Lamp in Legolas’ hand. “Some sort of magic light?”

“Spare us your stupidity!” Elrohir said to the man, throwing up his hands. “You say things about which you have no knowledge. If you exercised your minds a little, you’d realize that if we had any evil chants to begin with, we could have fried you with lightning by now – yet you remain whole. Surely that tells you we bring no danger to you or the village! Let us pass!”

The elves saw a shade of doubt cross the faces of some of the men, and their hold on their weapons slackened a little, but Fierthwain soon removed their hesitation.

“Keep your arrows aimed where they should be, men!” he ordered. “He’s just trying to twist our minds with clever words. But we aren’t as dull as you figure us to be, Elf, and nowhere near as gullible as Mathgor. We can’t let you move about freely in the village, else who knows how many others you’ll deceive?”

Legolas’ brows furrowed in concern; they needed to return to Aragorn, and this debacle was delaying them. “What do you mean to do then?” he demanded. “Do you intend to hold us here? For how long? And what would be the purpose?”

“Shut yer mouth, Outsider!” the short man barked. “We ask the questions here.”

Reining in his fury, Legolas’ elven eyes assessed his and Elrohir’s chances of fighting their way out of the situation. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he realized in frustration that, despite elven speed and reflexes, they could be skewered instantly by at least seven arrows if they even tried. Their own weapons – save their knives – had, by ill fate or lack of forethought, been left secured to their horses; they had not anticipated a situation such as this. A quick glance at the self-reproach on his companion’s face told Legolas that the Imladris elf had come to the same disheartening conclusion.

In the end, Legolas’ anxiety over Aragorn made him cast his pride to the wind, and swallowing, he forced himself to speak as meekly as he could. “Fierthwain, the King needs us – and he needs this,” he said, holding up the Phial. “Please, let us go to him –”

“What, that glass lamp?” the man with the pock marks asked, squinting his eyes at it from where he stood a few yards away. “What would he need it for anyway? There’s plenty of light where he sleeps now.”

“He is not sleeping!” Legolas retorted through clenched teeth. “He has come under some malicious curse, and you are keeping us from aiding him!”

“There you go – he’s cursed you say; that comes from mixing with the likes of you!” a tall, lanky villager said smugly. “Come on, Fierthy boy – enough with this chitter-chatter eh? Time to do what we set out to do, eh?”

Legolas and Elrohir tensed at those words, wondering what the man meant.

“Fierthwain!” Legolas said, clenching his fists. “Whatever dislike you harbor towards us, you may act on it later. But let us first return to him.”

A short burst of laughter erupted from the man before his expression turned to vinegar. “No!” he spat. “You had the gall to come back to our land – don’t expect to have things easy this time. Bind them, fellows!”

“How dare you!” Elrohir exclaimed, whipping out his knife and assuming a fighting stance before human eyes could perceive what he was doing. Securing the Lady’s Lamp within his tunic, Legolas did likewise, and the men who had begun to approach them with rope took a step back in alarm.

“Come on!” Fierthwain called out, keeping his sword pointed at Legolas. “There’re more of us – go on, tie them up! Moley, Caleth – get to it. The rest of you keep your bows raised, and keep them in your sights. This prey isn’t getting away.”

The two men who had been summoned to bind the elves looked at each other, hesitating at the fierce light from the elven eyes. But as Fierthwain barked out another order, they plucked up courage and approached the elves again.

With a hiss of anger, Elrohir turned his sights on Fierthwain, and his movement told Legolas what he was about to do.

“No!” the elf prince cried in warning, but Elrohir was already rushing towards the man, setting in motion a sequence of reactions from the villagers too fast for Legolas to stop.

Fierthwain stepped back with a start, barely saved by the distance between him and the elf. Moley and Caleth retreated and drew swords while three of their friends – panicked by the sudden attack – released their arrows. Dodging them lithely, the Firstborn narrowly missed being pierced by the deadly shots; the arrows struck the stony ground with loud clunks and raised a spray of small stones. The elves righted themselves, but just as quickly, more arrows were fired and other bows were reloaded, the fear of the villagers lending speed to their hands.

“Get them!” Fierthwain yelled unnecessarily, for his companions were already releasing more arrows. Again, the Eldar evaded the deadly missiles with astonishing speed and suppleness, swirls of gold and dark hair glimmering in the light of torches.

But in the confined space of the ravine between the high walls, even the swift Eldar could not escape all the arrows, and one found its mark in elven flesh – slamming into the right side of Elrohir’s chest. The elf clutched at his wound and staggered back with a cry.

“Elbereth!” Legolas exclaimed in horror. Another nervous villager released his bow, and the arrow struck the elf prince in the arm as he raced to shield his companion. Judging that it had not penetrated too deeply, the elf gritted his teeth against the pain and yanked it out ruthlessly without a second thought.

Fierthwain was quick to exploit the elves’ momentary incapacity. “Now’s the time – tie them up!” the man yelled, and Moley advanced on the prince.

But the flash of a long knife arced through the air, and before Moley could even perceive Legolas’ movement, the elf had locked his bleeding arm around the man’s neck and used the other to place the keen blade against the frightened villager’s throat.

“Cease this madness!” Legolas demanded fiercely. “Stop before things grow worse!”

“You check your arrogance before things get worse for you!” came a tart retort, and Legolas turned his head to see three men pointing two swords and an arrow directly at Elrohir. The elf was on his knees, his silver eyes burning with anger as he glared helplessly at his captors behind strands of dark hair that had fallen across his face. His hand, smeared with blood, clutched the shaft of the arrow protruding from his chest.

Legolas’ fury at Elrohir’s state sorely tempted him to slice open the throat of the man in his armlock, but fear for the same elf stayed his hand.

A crooked leer contorted Fierthwain’s dark face. “Who’s in a position to make demands now?” he taunted Legolas, taking wary steps towards the elf. He raised his sword and pointed it at a trembling Moley. “Release him, Elf, and drop your knife – or lose your own friend!”

Frustrated by his haplessness, Legolas shoved the villager away in disgust. Obstinately, he clamped a hand over the wound on his arm to stem the bleeding and, under the watchful eye and sword point of Fierthwain, placed his treasured long knife on the ground.

Within a minute, Legolas had been pushed to his knees and bound by rough hands, despite his desperate pleas to tend to his friend. “For pity’s sake, let me see to his injury!” he pleaded, loathing the need to beg from unworthy captors.

But the men ignored him, holding him at knife point with his own elvish weapon. As the villagers engaged in some hurried deliberation, he called worriedly to Elrohir.

“It is not severe,” Elrohir quickly assured the distressed prince in Sindarin. Legolas eyed the wound doubtfully, but was relieved to see that though the dark-haired elf’s face was a mask of pain, his breathing was even. Still, the wound would have to be properly cleaned and dressed.

Before anything else could be said, one of the villagers grabbed Legolas’ arm, arousing the elf’s instinct to struggle. “Hold shtill if you know whatsh good for you!” the man instructed clearly despite his buck teeth and lisp. When his prisoner ceased trying to shrug off the vise-like clamp on his arm, the man tore off the blood-stained sleeve around the elf’s injury and bound it with what looked like two tattered kerchiefs tied together.

But Legolas’ attention was no longer on himself. He watched in horror as two other men held Elrohir’s arms, while another brutally twisted the embedded arrowhead in the elf’s chest and extracted it without the slightest consideration for the agony the helpless elf must have been suffering. Elrohir paled, but he gritted his teeth and bore the ordeal stoically, refusing to give the heartless villagers the satisfaction of hearing any cry of pain from him.

“Keep shtill, Elf, or yer’ll bleed yershelf dry!” the buck-toothed man ordered a struggling Elrohir from where he was tying the final knot on Legolas’ crude bandage. He got up and walked quickly over to the dark-haired elf.

What irony, Legolas thought, that you should be concerned for him now.

“Servsh yer right for trying yer heroicsh,” the man muttered as he pressed a thick wad of something none too clean against Elrohir’s wound and held it in place roughly with rope. “That’ll have to do yer fer now,” he declared. “Till we deschide what to do with yer.”

Legolas felt sick. “How do you fare, Elrohir?” he asked in his own tongue.

“Hoy! Speak so we can understand!” a villager yelled, waving his sword dangerously close to Elrohir’s face.

“It will heal,” the elf answered stoically, attempting to smile.

“If it does not fester,” Legolas mumbled angrily.

“He said to speak so we can understand!” said Moley, taking two threatening steps towards Legolas. He rubbed his neck where the elf had seized it earlier, hurting more from wounded pride than pain.

“Lie down, Elrohir,” Legolas instructed the elf in the Common Tongue so that the jittery men would not, in a moment of panicky carelessness, run their swords through them. “It will help slow the bleeding.”

“Enough of this!” said the portly villager. “Let’s gag them and take them away.”

Legolas turned and shot him a look that carried bolts of blue fire. “Are you witless?” the elf prince snapped. “Can you not see the need to treat his injury?”

“Psssh! A mere flesh wound!” Fierthwain said dismissively. “It won’t kill him.”

“If the wound is properly treated,” Legolas retorted. “Surely you cannot mean to let him bleed to death!” The elf knew that Fierthwain was correct: Elrohir was in no mortal danger from the arrow itself, and the bleeding would eventually stop with the recuperative powers of elves. Still, the wound was no small one, and healing herbs would be needed.

The elf prince hoped the villagers would exercise some modicum of sympathy, but his hopes were dashed the next moment when a lanky man chuckled and mumbled to the villager next to him: “One less elf to worry about then.”

Legolas was appalled. If the men knew no mercy, he thought, perhaps they would know fear.

“You speak so lightly of discarding a life, but do you realize who it is you have wounded?” he asked in a grave tone to the man who had last spoken. “Do any of you?” he added, looking around. “Whether you plead ignorance or forgetfulness, know you now that this is no ordinary elf. He is the brother of your Queen, as is the one alike him who came before. He is part of the elven family by whom your King was raised, and as close to him as blood kin. If he should meet his demise because of your callousness over a hurt caused by your own impulsive act, his death will be an indelible stain on your hands. Now, you might wish to consider the consequences of that impending possibility before you take the next foolish step!”

Legolas finished his tirade by shooting them all a scathing look before he turned back to Elrohir and let his words of warning percolate in the villagers’ minds.

Faced with the information they had just received, the men were stunned into silence for a while. They looked at the elf lying quietly on the ground, noting the slight pallor on his face and the determination it took him to keep from showing his pain. As elven blood continued to stain the crude wad and the elf’s clothes, many of the men coughed and shuffled their feet uneasily.

With a rapidly blanching face, Caleth stepped up to Fierthwain and spoke in a low tone, unaware that the elves had no difficulty hearing them.

“Fierthwain, what do we do?” the man whispered. “Our plan was to show them we mean business so they never come near this mountain – or us – again. But… we didn’t count on anyone getting all bloody. ’Tis a right mess now, to be sure.”

“Aye, it’s one thing to take them captive and give ‘em a scare, but… to let them die… that’s like… murder… ain’t it?” Moley asked, his earlier boldness quickly dissolving in a tide of fear that was slowly flooding the company of humans. “Maybe… maybe we should take care of their wounds first at least.”

“Or maybe we should… you know… let them get back to their business,” whispered another villager who seemed less certain now about their impulsive act. “That one being the King’s brother – ”

“Gah, have you lost your senses?” Fierthwain challenged, caring little that he had raised his voice. “Take them back like this, and we’ll be clapped in irons by the King’s guards!”

Fierthwain’s note of warning silenced his companions, who looked at each other uncertainly. Despite his bold front, Legolas noticed, Fierthwain seemed to be making some desperate assessment of their options. Still, he seemed the only one who had not lost his nerve, or else he hid his discomfiture well.

“Well, things have changed somewhat, as you noticed,” the man eventually stated. “So there’ll be some changes. We’ll hold them first – keep them far from prying eyes till we can decide what to do with them.”

The pock-marked man cleared his throat nervously. “For how long, Fierthy?” he asked in a timid voice, receiving a sullen glare from his leader in response.

“As you can see, it’s a bit of a tricky situation, so I can’t rightly tell yet!” Fierthwain snarled. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Legolas’ heart fell. Where would these villagers hold them? he wondered. And Elrohir would need care; how long were these cold men planning to keep it from him?

As if in answer to Legolas’ questions, Fierthwain outlined his intentions. “We’ll take them to your tool shed at the farm, Caleth; it’s far enough away,” he said decisively. “Moley, pick up some supplies on the way, and you can help Bucktooth play nursemaid.”

Moley sent the elves a cynical smile. “Fine,” he said sarcastically. “I’ll be gentle as a lamb.”

Do you not think that our failure to return to the village will raise suspicion? Legolas was tempted to ask, but one of the villagers posed the question for him.

“Won’t the others look for these two?” the man queried. “And what about their horses?”

“Well, if they’re smart, they’ll run away, though a pity it is to lose ’em; fine animals they are,” Fierthwain replied. “But even if they make their way back to the village – what of it? These Paths are well known to be the haunts of ghosts and evil beings. For years beyond count, odd things have happened here that nobody can explain – leastways, that’s how the tales go, and our folks hold to those tales. Now, if these elves foolishly chose to come here in the dead of night, there’s no telling what could’ve happened to them; who’s to say they weren’t swallowed by mists or locked up in some prison like old Mathuil storied, or lost their way in some hidden tunnels in that accursed mountain. Who’s to question it, I ask you? They’re welcome to come to these Paths of Dead Things and look, as they might, seein’ as that’s where the elves said they’d be going. But Caleth’s farm shed isn’t the Paths, and nobody but Caleth is going to peek in there.”

Any hopes of immediate release that Legolas had clung to were wrung from him at the sound of Fierthwain’s scheme. Yet, the villagers could not hold them for ever, he thought; what would these men eventually do? Again, his fears were voiced by a villager.

“We’ll have to take care of them somehow, though, Fierthy,” the man said worriedly. “The King’s men – they’ll get to Caleth’s shed in time, when they run out of places to look.”

Flickering shadows played eerily over Fierthwain’s stony features as he trained cold eyes, hard and black as seeds, on the elves, and mulled over his answer. “If it looks like anyone’s going to poke their noses into Caleths’ shed, we’ll take care of them,” he said in a quietly ominous tone, nodding in the direction of the elves. “Properly. Without a trace.” He was unperturbed by the graying faces of some of the men. “Plenty of ground to stash unwanted… items,” he added confidently. “It’s our land, and we know where to go – where to hide things – where no one will look.”

Horror surged through Legolas at Fierthwain’s ill-boding words. He had not expected that these men would go so far as to dispose of him and Elrohir entirely, but now the likelihood had just been voiced. Fearful thoughts raced through his mind, though none of them were centered on his own fate. He was troubled about Elrohir; he grew frantic at the thought of being separated from Aragorn at such a critical time; but above all, he was distraught over the Phial. If it did indeed play a vital role in saving Aragorn from his cursed fate, it had to be brought back to the man.

“Fierthwain, please listen to me!” said the elf prince, discarding both his feigned ignorance of the villagers’ plans and the remnants of his own pride. “Whatever you wish to do with us – the Phial must be delivered to the King! I beg you to please bring it back to his men!”

Caleth gave a contemptuous laugh. “Such devotion to the King!” he mocked. “Very clever – have us bring it back and be accused of having stolen it from you!”

Legolas shook his head. “Say you found it, spin whatever tale you wish; only bring it to him!” he entreated.

“Pah! Do not expect any of us to touch that magic light of yours!” said the pock-faced man. “For all we know, it will turn to ash the hands that touch it. Hoy, we aren’t suckling babes you can trick with coos and sugary words!”

“This is no trick!” Legolas denied angrily. “The King does need the Phial! By refusing to send it to him, you are very likely robbing him of salvation.”

“And what exactly is supposed to be done with this… lamp?” Caleth asked in a challenging tone, waving his hands in the air. “Shine it on him till he wakes?”

Legolas was thrown into silence for a few moments, wishing he had a certain course of action to describe in response. “I do not yet know,” he conceded. “But we await the arrival of Lord Celeborn; he will know what to do.”

“Ai, more excuses and fanciful tales!” Moley remarked in disdain. “Save your stories for old women, Elf!”

“I spin no tale of fancy, you fool!” the elf prince protested. “Bring the Phial to him. If you do not, and he passes, the blood of the King of Gondor will be on your hands! I implore you to listen to me!”

But Legolas’ desperate pleas fell on deaf, uncaring ears, and he soon found himself and Elrohir being bound and gagged securely. The swords pointed straight at the elves dissuaded them from offering much resistance, and before long, the two captives were thrown over a single, de-saddled horse, and in that uncomfortable position, they were transported away from the Paths and back on the downward trail along the ravine. Then, under the cover of night, with only the light of a near-full moon to illuminate the way across the Morthond Vale, the group of villagers rode quietly back towards Grimwythë with their prisoners.

But they did not enter the village. Instead, the men dismounted and led the horses quietly along the edge of it, keeping on a path that did not face the fronts of cottages. It was a path that would avoid the homesteads and lead to Moley’s farm, the furthest from the homes. The other residents of Grimwythë, who were either sleeping soundly or working on some late-night chores, remained unsuspecting of the furtive clandestine movements on the outskirts of their village.

Blindfolded and gagged, Legolas and Elrohir were unable to speak, though the presence of the other brought comfort to each of the Firstborn. Side by side they lay draped over the horse, their faces pressed against one side of the beast and their lean legs, bound securely at the ankles, suspended over the other flank. Their long hair, hanging freely like gold and dark curtains of soft silk in the moonlight, brushed the tops of tall blades of grass as they passed. They could only listen to the night noises around them, the light clops of the obedient farm horses beneath them, the occasional hushed whispers of their watchful captors, and the faint sounds of activity from the cottages that grew first nearer, then ever more remote.

Naught could Legolas see as they passed, at a distance, the cottage where Aragorn lay in oblivion of the troubling events, but his heart knew it, and his distress was as keen as his fear for the life of the man who awaited his aid.

Aragorn, forgive me! Were I not thus tethered, I would be at your side now, he lamented in pained silence to the friend who occupied his every thought at this time. But hold fast, mellon nin, for we may yet find a way to you. Hold fast. Only death can keep us away.

And while the blood of Elrohir continued to soak his pitiful bandage, Legolas’ own heart bled at the thought that aid may ultimately come too late for Aragorn.

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The heart of the elf prince would have bled even more had he known that the friend he was desperately trying to reach was already becoming increasingly lost.

Vague snatches of things that Aragorn had once lived through, of people that he had once loved, would visit him: someone beautiful with dark, flowing hair; someone like him of his flesh and blood, someone close to him by his side, shining like the sun; some vast plain, or small green field; some great tree, or white cloud. There were fleeting images of fire, the stench of blood, the sharp ring of metal; children’s laughter, sweetness of honey; and pain and warmth, and soft hands and hard grips… all these that were once real, all these that were once memory… all these were leaving him, bit by precious bit.

Then they were gone.

Desperately, he grasped at any fleeting image, as a child would at some shadow that is ever out of reach and disappears with the loss of light. But those parts of him had fled from him… to return no more to the soul in agony.

Defeated, Aragorn fell at last to the darkness and the spell; he forgot everything that had ever been in his life, and everyone he had ever known.

His cries of anguish became useless sounds in an empty, merciless void.

For, finally… finally, the Hope and King of Men could no longer even remember who he was.

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Throughout their journey to their place of detention in a wooden shed, Legolas and Elrohir were plagued by deep uneasiness and agony that had nothing to do with being draped over the back of a horse. Their own pain and discomfort meant little, for their thoughts were only on Aragorn. They could not cease thinking that if Celeborn arrived soon, the elf lord might – in some yet unknown way – need the Light of his Lady to help the man. Each elf nursed in his heart the hope that the King’s guards and the Hobbits in a distant cottage would grow apprehensive enough over their prolonged absence, and prompt a search for them – and more importantly – for the Phial, before it was too late for Aragorn.

Yet even as they fanned a small flame of hope, each elf had to concede the truth of Fierthwain’s boast: a visit to the dreaded Paths would never be considered a simple affair, and the villagers would expect the elves’ search for elusive answers in the mountain tomb to be time-consuming. Despite Legolas’ claim to return by midnight, even the Hobbits and Aragorn’s guards might not be overly concerned about any delay till morning.

Neither would the absence of Fierthwain and his companions raise particular interest, for the men would, on occasion, stay up for a mug of ale and idle chatter in some corner of the village till the wee hours of the morning. The residents of Grimwythë were already wearied enough by the excitement and bustle of the day to spare anyone but the King much thought.

Thus it was that the sleeping or preoccupied villagers missed completely the movements of the furtive band of men taking two elven prisoners to an isolated farm – save for a single witness.

In his distress, even the elf prince Legolas did not sense the silent observation of the one pair of eyes that, for a brief time, followed the progress of the company in the silence of the night.

Nor, as the night wore on, did the prince know of the joyous meeting between Amel and Elrohir’s horse – which had been chased off the Paths by Fierthwain and his men – and two other elvish steeds that, along with a troop of other horses, had borne their riders tirelessly across the leagues to the Stone of Erech and would reach the village by early morn.

Note:

It's time for this story to end. Whatever the outcome for Aragorn and Legolas, this tale will reach its pre-determined conclusion in the next few chapters. I will do all I can do to keep writing and posting each of the final installments within a few weeks of each other.  

Thank you all who have sent in reviews for the previous chapter.

CHAPTER 28: THE TIES THAT BIND

Merry awoke with a start from a fitful sleep, and – opening his eyes reluctantly – looked up at the underside of a feebly lit, strange thatch roof.

The hobbit blinked his eyes, taking a few moments to remember where he was, and which unfamiliar bed he had lain in during the night. The thought played at the edges of his mind that the night had been uneasy.

Then he remembered.

The previous afternoon had been pleasant enough after the villagers learned that he and Pippin had been the same two Halflings who had been with King Elessar in the Fellowship of the Ring. Great had been their wonder to know that one of these little folks had saved the life of the Steward of their realm, and the other had helped bring down the Witch King of Angmar, and for many hours, the hobbits had basked in the rapt attention of the curious village folk, proudly answering their questions and happily embellishing some of the accounts.

But then night had fallen, and the hobbits had begun their wait for Legolas and Elrohir while taking turns to talk to Aragorn. As watch after watch passed, and the elves had not reappeared, their anxiety had begun. That anxiety had lingered in their minds even in sleep, and it now confronted Merry upon his waking.

The hobbit sat up abruptly and swung his legs over the bed, ignoring the light snores reaching his ears from the other half of the mattress where lay his sound-asleep companion.

Rubbing the sticky sleepiness from his eyes, he looked across the room to where Aragorn lay, still pale, still unmoving, still showing the slightest evidence of life in the barely perceived rise and fall of his chest. At the foot of that bed sat one of his guards, who was trying hard not to fall asleep. His chair was against the closed door, so that no one could enter or leave without his knowledge.

“Are they back yet?” the hobbit whispered loudly to the stone-faced man, who shook his head voicelessly.

Frowning, Merry walked briskly to the window, his furry feet making no sound on the wooden floor, and peered out. He watched the waking sun tint the peaks of the mountains surrounding Grimwythë an early pink, and recalled the conversation he and Pippin had had with Tobëas and Mathgor the night before:

“It’s past midnight,” Merry said worriedly as he peered out the front window of the cottage, hoping each moment to see two elven figures walking up the path. “I hope nothing has happened to them.”

“Yes, Legolas said they’d be back by now,” Pippin agreed. “I don’t like this.” He turned around to where Tobëas and Mathgor were standing before the fire in the living room, speaking softly. “Shouldn’t we go and look for them, Tobëas?” the hobbit asked.

The two men exchanged a quick look before the guard answered.

“Are we not being prematurely concerned, Master Hobbits?” Mathgor asked, though somewhat hesitantly. “It’s some way to the mountain, and perhaps the elf lords have much to do on the Paths.”  

“That’s true,” the villager agreed. “It’s only just past the midnight hour. They may be back soon.”

“But can’t we go and look anyway?” Merry suggested.

Tobëas shook his head. “I confess my heart would be lightened by their return and any encouraging news they may bring concerning King Elessar,” he said, worrying his lower lip in serious thought. “But… my duty, and that of my men, is to stay with the King,” he said firmly, though not unkindly. “We cannot leave him, and we must trust that the prince will return soon as he has said he will.”

“Well, what about your friends, Mathgor?” Merry asked hopefully. “Can you not gather some men and horses?”

Mathgor shook his head as well. “That mountain has been looked upon with dread and loathing all our lives, and it remains so despite what the King did to release the Dead,” the villager answered. “I’m afraid you’ll not find a single man willing to ride there after dark. Perhaps – if the elf prince is still not back by daylight – we might be able to find some men to go, though you will find them reluctant. But for tonight, we shall have to be content with waiting.”

The hobbits’ faces fell in disappointment, but no amount of cajoling would change the mind of either man. And so they continued to look out the window, and when they grew too sleepy, they went to bed in the hopes that Legolas and Elrohir would soon return and wake them; it was one of the few times they were willing to let someone rouse them from sleep.

But no one had awakened them, for the elves had still not returned. Now, as Merry watched the coming of the new day without any sign of his friends, he knew with a heavy heart that something must have gone amiss.

Where are you, Legolas? he asked silently. Has something bad befallen you? Are you hurt?

He waited, hoping for some insight, some sound of the elves’ silvery voices, but only the stillness of the dawn answered him.

Strider needs you, Legolas, the hobbit pleaded. Where are you?

And once more, his only response came from the early birds, taunting him with their light-hearted twittering.

Another sound caught his attention, and he turned around to see Tobëas entering the room. One look at the guard’s tired and worried face told the hobbit that the man had come to the same worrying conclusion: something had delayed the elves – and that something could not be good.

Of one accord, hobbit and guard walked determinedly towards the bed where Pippin still lay unheeding. They would rouse him, and then together, they would give Mathgor grief till the villagers agreed to help them look for Legolas and Elrohir.

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Not for the first time during what seemed to be one of the longest nights of his life, Legolas came awake with a start, gagging immediately on the stink of manure and stale air. His heart was pounding from a feeling of being hemmed in, of being choked by the darkness in the small tool shed where he and Elrohir had been held in captivity for hours.

Fighting the urge to heave the contents of his stomach, the elf drew his knees up and pressed his forehead hard against them, trying to take his mind off the offensive stench. But it brought him little relief, for his thoughts turned to Elrohir, and worry assailed him.

Upon being brought to the shed, their wounds had been further treated with some medicines they could not see, before being made to sit on the dirty, gritty floor, blindfolded, with their hands bound roughly behind them and secured to thick wooden posts. Legolas had, from the start of their captivity in the shed, warned Elrohir not to struggle against the tightly knotted bonds, for the exertion would have taken too great a toll on his wound. Then the men had gagged them, fearing that they would be heard. After the men left, the outraged and exhausted Elrohir had, to Legolas’ relief, succumbed to a healing sleep, indicating his pain only with the softest of moans.

With his companion asleep, however, Legolas himself had, time and again throughout the dark hours, tried to free himself of his bonds. Ignoring the stress to his own arm wound, he had stretched against the tight ropes around his wrists till the fine elven skin bled from the chafing. He had groped with his feet, trying to reach for tools – anything he could possibly have used to cut the ropes with. Failing to find anything, he had slid his fetters up and down along the edges of the post behind him, attempting to wear down the ropes against the rough surface, but all he had succeeded in doing was drive splinters under his skin. Every effort had been in vain, and, like Elrohir, he had finally grown weary from the physical and emotional strain, wetting his blindfold with tears of frustration and cursing his helplessness. The prince had finally lapsed into brief bouts of uneasy sleep, listening for Elrohir’s breathing each time he came awake, for the soft sound was all the reassurance he could obtain that his friend was alive, if not altogether well.

And so the hours had passed, with an anxious Legolas constantly wondering when the night would end and what would happen when morning came.

As worried as he was about the fate of Elrohir, however, his greatest concern was for the friend who lay in deep sleep and in even greater need of aid. His thoughts throughout the cold hours turned ever to Aragorn, whose life and soul were becoming increasingly beyond his reach. That fear plagued Legolas through the torturous hours, hurting him worse than any pain his wound could inflict.

I would be with you, Estel, and cruel are they that keep us apart: you in your darkness, and I in mine, he grieved silently. But you shall not be lost for ever, that I vow! I will find you, and come to you. Hold fast to life and hope, as we will!

Legolas did not doubt that he and Elrohir would eventually be found, for he thought Fierthwain’s plans ill-conceived, and he knew that his friends would not rest till they found the truth.

But would they be found soon enough?

Ultimately, it mattered not to Legolas whether the men would resort to disposing of their captives, for it was not his life that concerned him most; it was the fate of the Phial, and the likelihood that Lord Celeborn would have need of it in the rescue of Aragorn, for had not the Lady sent it to him for a reason? The elf dreaded that the Phial would be lost with him, or if it was retrieved, that it might be found too late.

What if aid should come too late to Aragorn? he thought, tormented by the awareness that each passing moment increased that risk.

The elf felt sick; he began to reel from the darkness and the reek, and most of all, from the fear of losing the fight for Aragorn’s soul. The unbearable pain of that thought cut into his heart more sharply than the cold taste of steel, and he pressed his head harder onto his knees, desperately trying to block out from his mind the frightening image of Aragorn trapped in a cold, dark prison of evil for torturous millennia, never again to see the world or those he loved…

The elf’s throat constricted as he fought against those hateful images.

If aid should come too late for him, even then he shall not be alone! he suddenly vowed, feeling angry tears seep again from his bound eyes. If you remain lost, Estel, I will still come to you. In life or in death, mellon nin, I will be with you. Whatever dark destiny befalls your soul, it shall be my Shadow also, and even if you should forget all, I shall remember for us both – for however long the ages last!

With those determined thoughts, the elf prince fought the torment to his heart and consciously turned his focus once more to Elrohir. Yet he found no ease even there, for when he tilted his head and listened, he heard muffled, intermittent moans, and he was assailed by fresh worry for the elf.

Elrohir’s wound was not fatal, but it was beginning to fester, Legolas guessed, and he wondered if the delay in treatment would cause the elf to lapse into a feverish delirium. If it happened, all he would be able to do was to keep Elrohir company, however poor it might be, for he did not place any measure of hope in Fierthwain’s mercy. In misery, Legolas repressed the temptation to rouse his companion from his troubled sleep, and he descended again into silent, solemn pondering himself.

But now there came to his keen ears another sound that was as a sliver of light piercing through the darkness. It was the proud cry of a rooster from a distant rooftop, and though there was naught to be seen beyond the blindfold in the dark shed, it spoke to him of an approaching dawn. The sound – so common and trivial at any other time – lifted his spirits, even if slightly, from the depths of despair they had plunged into.

Surely, he thought hopefully, the hobbits and Aragorn’s men would be anxious enough by now to initiate a search for them.

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Legolas’ spirits would have soared even higher had he known what was about to take place in the village several farms away.

Hardly had Merry and Tobëas begun discussing their plan to look for the elves than new hope was visited upon them with the rising of the sun: riding in from the west, with the soft golden rays of dawn heralding their arrival, came Celeborn, Elladan and Gimli, and the second group of Gondorian guards led by Aragorn’s councilor, Lord Langley. Celeborn and his companions had caught up with them near Tarlang, and glad had each group been for the company of the other as they rode into Grimwythë.

But no delight could surpass that of Merry and Pippin, who practically threw themselves upon Gimli when the dwarf lord appeared at the door of the cottage, so relieved they were to see their friend and the help that came with him. Gimli clapped the hobbits on the back and immediately launched into an account of what Lord Celeborn had discovered. The news confirmed for the hobbits and Tobëas what Legolas had guessed: that Aragorn was indeed the victim of Saruman’s twisted sense of retribution for releasing the Twice Forgotten.

As soon as Gimli had finished, and before the hobbits could respond, the two elves and Aragorn’s councilor left them to see where the King lay. Then Gimli, Merry and Pippin began tumbling over each other trying to speak at the same time about their separate journeys and present concerns, but it was Pippin who arrested the dwarf’s attention with one plea:

“Gimli, listen! It’s Legolas! We can talk our tongues and ears off later, but Legolas should have been back but he’s not, and you have to help us look for him!”

The dwarf ceased speaking in mid-sentence, for nothing could have halted his animated discourse more effectively than news of the elf of whom he was greatly fond.

“What d’ya mean, laddie: he’s not back? Back from where?” he sputtered, knitting his bushy brows and looking around the room at once. “His horse came to meet us as we were drawing near; I thought he’d sent Amel to hasten us on. So where’s that dratted elf? Isn’t he with Aragorn?  Where did he go? Why – ?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Gimli: he’s not here!” Merry said, cutting him off. “Listen!” the hobbit begged, quickly telling the dwarf all that had taken place since their arrival in the village. He finished just as Celeborn, Elladan and Lord Langley exited from the inner room. They wore concerned looks on their faces, and from their discussion, it was clear that the new arrivals had just learned from Tobëas the same news about Legolas and Elrohir.

“Their horses… you say you encountered them on your way here?” Tobëas asked.

Elladan nodded. “I had thought that Legolas and my brother would be here, and that their steeds were merely glad to run free for a while,” he said. “I did not think we would arrive to find them missing.”

“I confess I do not know this strange tale as fully as some of you,” said the tall councilor of the Minas Tirith court. “But I have heard tell that the Paths of the Dead are an altogether dreadful place; is it possible that the horses were terrified and ran off?”

“They may have,” said Elladan. “But it disturbs me that they would have fled so far from their masters.”

“Could the prince be still at the Mountain, nevertheless, looking for answers?” Lord Langley suggested.

“It is possible,” Tobëas began hesitantly, “but –”

“Nay, not likely!” bellowed Gimli, surprising them all. The dwarf placed his hands on his hips, plainly disturbed. “Under different circumstances, I might believe it – for that princeling forgets the time of day too often for his own good! – but with Aragorn in this state… why, I cannot believe that he would leave that man’s side for this length of time – not unless something hindered his return!”

The hobbits nodded readily in agreement. “That’s what we think, too,” said Pippin. “He said he’d be back at midnight, and maybe an hour or two late is no cause for worry – but see, the sun is up, and as sure as I’m a Took, he’d be worried sick about Strider by now and come back. So we think something’s gone amiss – we just have to look for him and Elrohir – and if we had the means and a map, we’d have already left!”

“Hammers and tongs, someone should have gone to look for them in the night!” cried Gimli in annoyance, his voice shaking the walls of the cottage. His heart was troubled by an image of his elven friend lying hurt and untended, not knowing how close to the truth he was.

“Do not judge them too harshly, Gimli,” said Celeborn sagely. “Tobëas was only doing his duty by his King, and the villagers cannot yet overcome their long-held fear of the Mountain.”

“But we do have the means and the men now to look for them, Master Peregrin,” said Lord Langley readily. “Some of us must remain here with the King, but Tobëas – you and your men shall leave for the Paths as soon as you can be ready.”

“Should we not first question some of the villagers?” Gimli suggested. “Would they know anything?”

“I doubt it, Master Gimli,” Tobëas answered. “I spoke with them when last we were here; they know precious little about the Paths. We would have a better chance of finding Prince Legolas ourselves.”

“And find him we must,” Celeborn said quietly, his face growing grave as he looked around at Aragorn’s friends and men. “This is hard to hear, but we must be aware: Elessar is already very weak and he cannot last much longer. We need to free him from the Shadow Realm – or lose him to the darkness. And to free him, we need the Phial of Galadriel that Legolas carries.”

“Have you found a way to save him then, my lord?” asked Merry eagerly.

Celeborn hesitated a moment before he nodded. “Aye, I have found a possibility,” he said. The elf lord quickly explained to a captive audience what he had discovered in Saruman’s runes, and how within the same spell lay a chance for Aragorn’s salvation.

“Then – you can bring him back, my lord?” Tobëas asked hopefully.

“There is no certainty, Tobëas, though I wish I could say otherwise,” answered the elf lord honestly. “But I see no other way, and that is why we need to retrieve the Phial as soon as may be. We have to find Legolas and Elrohir.”

“And not only for Estel’s sake, Daerada, for my heart begins to feel great unease,” said Elladan, frowning. “Something is amiss with Elrohir… he is in distress…”

“Then we must hurry,” said Celeborn gravely. “Never has your bond with your brother spoken in error. He and Legolas may need our aid as much as Elessar does.”

As one, the group headed for the door of the cottage and trooped out in earnest, and even though the newcomers were hungry and weary, all thought of food and rest departed with the last traces of night; even Pippin hushed the gnawing voice of his stomach that usually awoke with the sun.

They soon found that they were no longer alone, however, for by the time they reached the path leading to the stables, a crowd of villagers had gathered there despite the early hour, having been roused by news of the latest arrival of visitors from the White City. Again, men, women and children – wrapped in warm cloaks against the chill of morning – stared in awe at both elves and yet another group of Gondorian men – and not all the looks were friendly.

“My lord, we meet again!” Dèormal the Elder called out, walking briskly up to Celeborn, his breath misting in the cold air.

Celeborn swept his eyes over the crowd, recalling how readily many of them had chosen to look upon him and his kin with suspicion, and he wondered if the Elder’s smile had been genuinely conceived or plastered on for the meeting. But he had little time for such concerns and was saved from the need for small talk when Mathgor appeared with a pleasant greeting of his own; this at least Celeborn knew to be sincere.

“Well met again, Mathgor,” the elf lord said in response. “How does your father fare?”

“Much better than when last you saw him, my lord, though he is an old man and cannot be up and about as before,” the villager answered. “Will you and your companions break fast with us? If you will give us a little time –”

“Thank you, Mathgor,” the elf lord replied. “But we must decline your gracious invitation for the moment; we have a pressing matter to attend to. It concerns the elf prince and my other grandson.”

Mathgor’s smile faded, and his eyes darted to Tobëas. “Are they yet not returned from the Paths?” he questioned.

“No,” said Tobëas, “and we are riding out to look for them.”

“Might anyone in the village have come across them, by any chance?” Gimli chimed in on impulse as his eyes roamed over the crowd.

Mathgor looked over his shoulder at his fellow villagers and shook his head. “I doubt it, Master Gimli,” he said. “We have had no dealings with the… with that place… for ages, years beyond count. No one would choose to venture there. But I shall ask them if you wish.”   

As Mathgor returned to the crowd, Gimli caught a movement at the corner of his eye, and he turned in that direction.

“Hrrmmph!” he grunted when he saw that it was Fierthwain and some other men standing some distance away from the other villagers. Not surprisingly to Gimli, they seemed to be studying the newly arrived visitors with some reserve and a hint of disdain on their faces. The dwarf snorted. Remembering all too well the hostile reaction they had shown during the last visit, he turned his eyes from them and paid them no further attention, for Mathgor was now coming back.

“As I said, my lords, no one has seen them since yesterday,” the man told the waiting group. “Perhaps they have just been preoccupied and will return in a while?”

“Or perhaps they merely lost their way in the night?” Dèormal suggested.

“Legolas would never get lost, be it night or day!” Merry said, clearly annoyed at the Elder’s assumption. 

“Wherever they may be, we cannot wait idly for them to return; we will look for them,” Celeborn said, and without revealing too many details, he told the two villagers why it was imperative that they find Legolas and the Phial quickly. Mathgor’s face grew solemn a little at the news, and he drew a deep breath.

“In that case, my lord, let me offer my aid,” he said. “I will not ride to the mountain with you, for it still holds too much terror, but my friends and I will scour the land for you. I beg your pardon, Master Hobbit, but we cannot discount the possibility that they may have strayed from the route, and if they have indeed done so, we will find them for you; we know the land well.”

Accepting Mathgor’s offer, Celeborn and his company resumed their walk towards the stables. When Mathgor and Dèormal reached the crowd, they began to explain their task and ask for volunteers to ride with them, while the King’s company looked on gratefully.

Suddenly, a childish voice piped up, and a small figure came running towards Mathgor.

“Mathgor, Mathgor! Are you riding out?” asked a bright-eyed little girl, who patted the man’s thigh to stop him, just as she had done to Legolas’ on his earlier journey here.

Gimli and Elladan looked on in amusement despite their worry, for they saw that it was Perienna, the same child who had walked boldly up to Legolas and asked if he was a real prince. Her eyes were as wide and curious as they had been then.

“Can I come along, Mathgor, please?” she begged eagerly. Mathgor had, on occasion, entertained the children of the village by letting them ride with him.

“Not this time, Perienna,” answered the man without breaking his stride. He looked down at the eager face, nonplussed at the sudden request. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

“No, I sneaked out, don’t tell her, please,” the child answered with a mischievous smile as her little legs churned to keep pace with the men. “I want to come with you, Mathgor!”

“No, pumpkin,” the man said fondly. “Where I’m going, you cannot follow. It’s a… it’s not a very nice place.”

“But… aren’t you going… to… the farms?” the child protested breathlessly, almost running alongside Mathgor. “Where else would you go? Please… take me along!”

Mathgor knitted his brows, puzzled even as he was amused at her persistence. “No, that’s not where I’m riding to,” he answered. “But why would you wish to go to the farms? It’s baking day, isn’t it? Should you not be helping your mother bake?” 

“But I want to see the prince!” the child cried in disappointment. “I want to play the game too!”

It sometimes takes whole herds of wargs and oliphaunts to stop the fervent charge of an army, but never had Gimli seen one child’s annoyed plea stop two elf lords, a dwarf, two Hobbits, a company of villagers, and a whole group of Gondorian soldiers with such immediate effect.

More than twenty pairs of booted feet crunched to an abrupt halt at the little girl’s words, and both Elladan and Mathgor were on their knees before her at once.

“The prince? What do you mean, Perienna?” the man asked.

“Have you seen him?” Elladan questioned urgently. “What game were you speaking of?”

The morning air had suddenly turned tense, and even the mist seemed to be hanging in suspense as the whole group of men crowded in on the child to hear her answer. Perienna’s eyes narrowed as she noticed the large circle of men converging on her, and she moved closer to Mathgor, a little nervous.

“Do not frighten the child,” said Celeborn, placing a hand on his grandson’s shoulder and suppressing the tension in his own nerves. “Let Mathgor speak with her.”

“Tell us, Perienna,” Mathgor coaxed gently, taking the girls’ hands in his own. “Did you see the prince? When, and where?”

The child hesitated at first, then nodded. “Last night,” she stated.

A murmur ran through the group, to be quickly hushed by Dèormal.

“Aren’t you playing the game, too?” the girl asked Mathgor, who shook his head in incomprehension. “That’s why you’re looking for him, aren’t you?”

“No… well, yes, I am looking for him,” said Mathgor. “But… what game are you talking about?”

“I think they were all playing a game,” the child replied. “He was hanging over the horse, you see; it was carrying him in a funny way, and that other elf, too, the one who looks like you – ” she pointed to an astonished Elladan “ – they were both hanging over it!”

She stopped for breath, not knowing how her pause was causing a dwarf lord to almost burst at his sides with suspense. “I... I stayed up last night, Mathgor, but don’t tell Mama, she’d be upset,” the little girl continued. “I was looking for my palace in the moonlight… you know, I told the prince I do that,” she said, whispering the latter part to Mathgor.  “I saw them on horses. And they were all moving quietly, like when I play ‘find me’ with Deedyn. They were going there.” Perienna stood on tiptoe, lifted her arm and pointed it in the direction of the village farms. “You can’t see the place from here, of course,” she told Elladan with a serious face, “but it’s – there!” 

Several heads were swimming with this new piece of information, trying to understand it. Yet others were beginning to be skeptical, recalling how the little girl had told Legolas that she sometimes imagined seeing shining palaces in the moonlight.

“Young lady, how could you tell it was the prince?” Gimli ventured.

Perienna exhaled in impatience as if the dwarf lord had asked the most ridiculous question in the world.

“His hair, silly!” she replied passionately. “I saw it hanging down – no one else’s hair shines like that in the moonlight!”

Another murmur arose among the listeners as they grew more convinced by the child’s tale, but the full meaning still escaped them.

“You say they were… hanging… from a horse, Perienna?” Mathgor pressed on.

“Yes!” she replied.

A suspicion entered Elladan’s mind. “Do you mean… they were draped over it?” he asked.

“Yes, it was funny!” the child answered, giggling. “You can ask them how they did that.”

“Ask them?” Elladan said. “We have to find them first.”

“But that’s the game, isn’t it: to find them?” the child said excitedly, then clapped a hand to her mouth.  “Oooh, maybe I’m not supposed to tell you!” She whispered again to Mathgor: “I hope they won’t be angry at me.”

“No, no, Legolas won’t be angry at you, believe me,” Gimli assured her, drawing closer.

“Nooo, not the prince!” the girl corrected him, exhaling in exasperation. “I meant Fierthwain! And Moley! And Caleth!”  

This time, the murmur grew to a roar of shock as the names were mentioned, and Elladan rose from his knees swiftly, his face a mask of anger. Mathgor, on the other hand, paled.

“Fierthwain? Moley… and Caleth?” he asked, his throat suddenly feeling dry. “Were they… were they with the prince?”

“Yes… I think it was them,” answered the girl. “They were all whispering, you know, like in the game – you have to be very quiet, or others will know where you are. Ask them – but don’t tell them I told you!”

Gimli, Elladan and Aragorn’s men needed no prompting from the child to approach Fierthwain, for they were already halfway to the men before she had finished speaking. Merry and Pippin, not truly understanding what was going on, for they had not been acquainted with Fierthwain before, followed Gimli’s lead.

“Fierthwain!” Gimli bellowed, striding purposefully towards the men, who had been watching the proceedings from a distance, too far away to hear what Perienna had been telling the group.

Seeing the stormy approach of the furious elves and dwarf and the King’s guards, Fierthwain’s companions began to fidget uneasily and whisper nervously to each other. The other villagers hovering nearby watched in puzzlement.

“What have you done to my friends?” Gimli demanded with a roar as he came close, his hand already on the hilt of his axe. “Speak if you value your head!”

Gasps escaped the lips of the men around Fierthwain, but the man himself assumed a stony expression and stood straight. “What are you saying?” he asked calmly.

“The prince, you foul piece of meat!” Gimli shouted, no longer holding back his ire. “And the other elf! You must have taken them when they returned from the Paths – what have you done with them?”

Now louder gasps came from the other villagers, but the man raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “What are you saying? We have no idea where they are,” he insisted. “We are but simple farm folk; what would we know of elves and curses and visits to the Mountain of the Dead?”

The man’s steady demeanor might have made his denial believable, but the frightened, furtive glances exchanged by the other men drew doubt and suspicion before another word could be spoken. Still, despite the ensuing interrogation by Lord Langley, Fierthwain held to his story, and his men would not yield their secret.

Finally, it was the Lord of Lothlorien who broke down their defenses. There was a cold deadly light in the sharp blue eyes as he stepped up to Fierthwain and placed one hand hard against the man’s chest while gripping his shoulder tightly with the other.

“Fierthwain, do you remember what I said to you when first we met here?” asked the elf lord in a quietly icy tone. “When you hindered the King’s communication with your uncle, I told you that while this hand prefers to grasp another in peace, or to administer healing, it is quite capable of striking you down where you stand.” And as he had done the first time, the elf lord looked deep into the defiant eyes of the man, and issued him a challenge: “Now, if you – any of you – know the whereabouts of my grandson and the elf prince, and yet choose to secret it from me, I shall demonstrate the swiftness and the power with which I can end your life.”

Celeborn swept frosty eyes over the nervous-looking men around Fierthwain. “I take no pleasure in meting out retribution, but if you delay and cause them greater harm than I can forgive – expect no mercy from me, or my kin, or the hand of King Thranduil,” he added. “Choose swiftly, for my patience wears thin!”

For some moments, Fierthwain remained motionless. He felt a strange, alarming heat from the hand on his chest, and he locked eyes with the elf lord, staring rebelliously into the blue depths. But it was akin to challenging the power of the sea, and at length, the man had to look away, sweating. And as the breaking of some unseen will, the resilience of his men crumbled as well. As the horrible truth was finally revealed by the terrified villagers who had taken the elves captive, the King’s company and many of the villagers were stunned: the first group into wrath, and the latter into mute shame.

“How could you? You filth!” Merry cried, drawing his short sword and aiming it at the guilty men.

But the hobbits’ action was unnecessary, for Aragorn’s guards had surrounded them and bound them before anyone could even think of fleeing. After a brief bout of questioning at sword point, the men quickly disclosed the location of the shed where Legolas and Elrohir were being held, and the elves’ companions lost no time in riding there.

A barrage of curses flew from Gimli’s and Elladan’s lips when they had thrown the shed door open to reveal the bound and gagged elves in their torn and blood-covered clothes. Tobëas and his men rushed to untie the captives while Elladan and Celeborn went to their knees at Elrohir’s side, for his wound was clearly the more severe, and Gimli marched towards his elven friend, hiding his relief beneath loud grouses.

“You rock-headed elf – you couldn’t get through one journey without landing yourself into trouble, could you?” he grumbled as he removed the dirty blindfold, his heart moved to pity and rage at the sight of the wound in the elven arm, the dusty, tear-streaked cheeks and the blue eyes that squinted at the sudden exposure to light. The dwarf swallowed the lump in his throat and continued to rattle on as he worked next on the gag around his friend’s mouth. “Letting yourself get stabbed and blindfolded and gagged! I suppose you take delight in dragging me out to this... this pretense of a farm and this stinking tool house just to free you!” As the cloth fell away and the elf took a deep, welcome breath, the dwarf stepped back, placed his hands on his hips in feigned irritation and asked: “Well, what have you to say, Elf? What have you to say?”

Legolas gave Gimli a weak smile before responding solemnly, his lips forming only one word: “Aragorn.”

Taken aback, Gimli could not respond for a moment, and Legolas spoke again while rubbing his freed wrists, ignoring the abrasions on them: “Aragorn – how does he fare?”

Shaking his head, Gimli approached his friend and clasped his large hands around the elven ones. “Spare a thought for yourself, Elf,” the dwarf said gruffly. “Aragorn is still with us. But we must hurry to help him out of that evil place, my friend. So let’s get you back to clean clothes – I never thought I’d see the day I’d say that to you! – and some food, and I expect you shall want to see Aragorn as well.”    

Legolas offered no argument, but embraced Gimli with his uninjured arm, and greeted Celeborn and Elladan with fondness. Great was his gladness at seeing the well-loved familiar faces again.

Half an hour later, during which a little news had been exchanged with their rescuers, the two liberated prisoners found themselves back in the cottage where Aragorn lay. There would be time enough later for Lord Celeborn and Gimli to visit their fury upon Fierthwain and his mates, but for now, it was Elrohir and Legolas who needed their attention. Baths and healing herbs had been prepared for them by a pair of relieved hobbits with the ready assistance of embarrassed villagers. So it was that Elrohir was gently tended to by his worried brother and grandsire, given food and drink, and laid on a bed in a separate room to rest in quiet.

Yet none of those comforts claimed Legolas’ attention. He determined that as soon as he could clean himself of the stains of violence and appear less upsetting to a six-year-old, he would give a deserving little girl the heartfelt thanks of a ‘real prince.’

But for now, no other need over-rode that of being at Aragorn’s side again. Only by seeing him with his own eyes would he trust that the friend he loved still lived and breathed, and that hope was still alive for his salvation. Thus, as hurt and soiled as he was, the elf prince shrugged off all offers of help, and strode firmly past the door of the cottage to the room where the King waited in silence.

And there, the two friends were reunited, one coming to his knees before the other, with regret written clearly over his fine features.

“I did not mean to leave, Estel,” the elf said brokenly. “But I was always with you.”  

Gimli watched for a moment as the elf studied voicelessly the ashen face before him. Then the dwarf walked forward and patted the slim shoulders comfortingly.

“Take some time with him, Elf,” he said. “You both need it after your ordeal. Some things heal better than food and herbs.” With those words, Gimli left them and closed the door quietly behind him.

Legolas bowed his head, troubled for a moment by what would need to be attempted soon to save Aragorn’s spirit from the Shadow Realm.

Then he looked up and smiled gently, for all that he desired now, at this moment in Time, was to speak to his friend – even though he knew the figure before him was not whole – to tell him how dark the moments were when he thought he might not see the man again, and how glad his heart was for this meeting.

From Legolas’ lips there flowed words from the heart. And when he had finished, Man and Elf shared a silence without awkwardness as they had done many times before, one grasping the other’s cold hands, finding strength in that simple union.

And it mattered not that one friend lay in oblivion, for in the mere company of the other, there lay comfort; and through their touch flowed – for a brief time – the healing of the body and spirit that only love can bring.

Note:

There’s much more on my plate right now than I expected, so don’t be surprised by one-month intervals between chapters. I’d meant to write a longer chapter, but this quickly written one was all I could manage. So I guess there will be one installment more of the final ones I had planned. As usual – excuse mistakes and feel free to notify me of them.

Thanks to the wonderful readers who sent in reviews to keep me company – they’re like the hold Legolas has on Aragorn’s hands: they give me comfort. 

Now, if anyone would like to contribute to a wish list for what happens to Fierthwain and his goons, you're welcome to.   

Pre-chapter Note to readers:

I am posting this on my birthday (Dec 17^th) because, like Bilbo, I’m handing out a present this year. This chapter is my Christmas / New Year gift to you.  :–)

CHAPTER 29:  MAELSTROM

“Mama, mama, look!  Deedyn, look what I got from the prince!”

After the rapid sequence of events that morning that had led to the finding of the elven captives, a wind from the West had grown steadily, bringing to the village of Grimwythë the faint smell of approaching rain and the threat of grey skies. But for now, the provincial air was bright with the smiles and excited shrieks of a sunny-faced little girl as she was swung around in the air by the golden prince of her fantasy stories.

Perienna’s glee had begun when she had been approached by a washed and clean Legolas, who wore only light bandages and the weariness on his face as evidence of his earlier ordeal. With his uninjured arm, the prince had picked her up and kissed her on both rosy cheeks before giving her his heartfelt thanks.

The prince was now delighting the child further by tossing and catching her with elven deftness, eliciting laughter that was a ray of welcome sunshine after a night of agony.

The only dark spot in the sunny situation was the child’s consternated mother, who stood by wringing her hands and biting on her tongue to stay her words of fear. But the prince soon took care of the distressed woman.

“Madam,” he addressed her courteously, throwing her a radiant smile that sent even her prejudiced heart – and those of several young maidens around her – a-flutter. “My compliments to you on raising this remarkable child!”

The woman very quickly changed her mind about elves, one in particular, and went even as far as to apologize for what her fellow villagers had done to him, much to the amusement of Gimli who was standing nearby. Legolas then turned his attention back to the child.

“One day, if time and fortune shine favorably on us, little lady, you shall visit the…palace… in which I grew up – even if it is quite different from how you picture it,” the elf prince said, making the six-year-old eyes light up in unbounded delight. “But for now, I shall leave you this small token to remember me by; it will not break.”

Legolas then handed her a golden cord with which to tie up her hair: made from strands of his strong, silky elven hair, much like the one he had crafted for Aragorn, and finely woven so that it would endure. Gimli, standing nearby, smiled and thought how apt a gift it was, for it was on account of the little girl’s fascination with the prince’s hair that had led to his and Elrohir’s rescue.

“Even the King has one,” the dwarf lord whispered to the child, winking at her.

“Tie it on for me, please!” Perienna asked Legolas without ceremony, and the prince readily obliged with his nimble fingers, receiving in response a pair of delighted arms around his neck.

As the little girl ran off to proudly show her mother and friends her precious gift, Gimli noted with amusement the smitten maidens who were stealing shy looks at the prince from a distance. The dwarf clapped his friend on the back and chortled.

“Ai, Elfling!” said the stout dwarf. “If I did not think elves too willowy for my liking, I’d say you could charm the tusks off an oliphaunt!”

“Aye, that he always could, and still can,” came a fair voice behind them. Legolas and Gimli swung around, and the prince’s face broke into a smile of surprise at the sight of the light-footed speaker and his companion, who walked up to him and bowed.

“Mae govannen, Hamille!” said Legolas, rising from his knees to embrace his friend in joyful welcome. “And you as well, Lanwil. I did not expect to see you here!”

“Nor did I think I would be returning to this place,” came the calm reply from the brown-haired elf, whose smile turned to a frown at the bandages on his prince’s arm and wrists. “But you can expect me to ask for a full account of how that came about,” he said, “and what else could possibly have transpired since I left you hale and whole at the Crossroads; for after all, you were merely – how did you put it? – merely going in search of a spider.” He stared Legolas in the eye, thinly veiling his concern and displeasure. “At your leisure, of course – my prince,” he added, raising his eyebrows.

A short burst of honest mirth came from Legolas’ lips. “Ai, Hamille, it is good to see you!” he said, grasping his friend’s shoulder and sighing. “But leisure is one thing I do not have, gwador. Now that I have expressed my gratitude to a little girl, I must attend once more to the grave matter that weighs heaviest on my heart.”

A distant roll of thunder punctuated the prince’s speech, drawing the group’s attention to the skies above. So wrapped up had Legolas and Gimli been in the rapid sequence of events that morning that they had barely paid attention to the gradual approach of rain clouds that heralded the coming of a storm.

“It would seem that each visit of ours to this village brings on a tempest,” Hamille observed with a wry smile, recalling the same violent weather during their previous stay. He turned his bright eyes from the clouds to the uneasy looks sent in their direction, for though the villagers had become accustomed to the comings and goings of these strangers from other realms, there were still some who did not entirely welcome the intrusion into their safe, settled routines. “Yes… the right weather for the telling of stormy tales, I think.”

“Perhaps, but I shall leave the telling of tales to my friend Gimli,” Legolas said.

“Only after I settle this persistent growling in my middle!” declared the dwarf, inclining his head towards a tent that Lord Langley and his men had erected as shelter for the company, and where Merry and Pippin were now busily helping them to prepare lunch, for the men had ridden far and were still hungry. “We’ll be leaving soon for the Paths, so if you’ll excuse me – I need to give a couple of Hobbits a hand.” He wagged a finger at Legolas as he strutted off. “And mind you take some nourishment yourself, Elf!”

Dismissing the dwarf’s reminder with a playful wave of his hand, Legolas turned and headed for the path back to the cottage. “Tell me, Hamille: what brought you here? Do you know how Arwen fares?”

Walking at a hurried pace, Hamille narrated how he had grown worried at the prolonged absence of Legolas from Ithilien, and after his father had concluded his visit, he had ridden to the City, assuming that the prince would be there.

“The Lady is as well as can be under the circumstances – but imagine my annoyance at finding out that you had returned here without our knowledge!” Hamille said candidly. “I could not forget that this village holds little love for Elves, or how poorly the folk looked    upon you when you were last here amongst them.”

“Annoyance hardly describes it, bridhon nin; he was in fact incensed,” Lanwil chimed in teasingly. “We could hardly think for worry – and it would seem justifiably so,” he added, glancing at the bandaged arm.

“It is but a cut, compared to what Elrohir endured,” Legolas protested, meaning to assuage the worry of his kin, unwittingly increasing their distress instead as they immediately wondered what could have occurred. “Still, none deserves our concern more greatly than Aragorn, for with him lies the greatest danger, and it is to him I must now return.”

“We departed before we could learn much about that matter,” said Lanwil as they entered the cottage. “We were told of a way to save him from the Shadow Realm – but will you tell us of it now?”

“You shall soon find out from the lips of he who knows it best,” said Legolas, striding towards the room where Elrohir lay. “It is to him we turn for the next step.”

Soon, after brief greetings with Celeborn, Elladan and Tobëas, and a quick look at how Elrohir and Aragorn were faring in their separate rooms, the elves and the guard gathered in the sitting room to hear what Lord Celeborn had to say about the King’s condition. They were all disturbed by the King’s sunken cheeks and increasingly dark shadows under his unmoving eyes.

“I will not sweeten my words: Elessar would already have passed by now if not for the unnatural force that holds his spirit and body,” the elf lord said solemnly as more thunder rumbled, closer than before. “But, without sustenance, he may soon be beyond our aid.”

“Then let us leave as soon as Lord Langley and his men have taken some food,” said Tobëas. “They are faint with hunger from their long journey, but we wish to escort the King, at least to the foot of the ravine as before.”  

“And a storm looks about to set in,” Elladan observed through the window. “Should we wait for it to abate? The Paths are quite a ride from here.”

In the pause that followed the suggestion, the window curtains began to flap as the wind grew in speed outside. Vaguely, the elves could hear the voices of Merry and Pippin, and of the villagers in the distance as they rushed about gathering the children and their laundry, and to bring in the meat they had set out to cure in the sun, for the coming storm would not be light.

“We will wait a while, for the fury of such storms is quickly spent; but we must depart as soon as the rain lightens,” said Celeborn. “I am glad that we have more of our kin here, Hamille – even if it is only two,” he told the new arrivals. “I fear we shall need to call on the names of Elbereth and Gilthoniel many times before the Holding Gate… for aid and mercy.”

“The King’s spirit – his soul – is behind the Gate?” asked Hamille.

“As were those of the Cursed Ones – yes,” Legolas answered with a heavy heart. He closed his eyes as he recalled how he had sensed Aragorn’s presence in the prison of stone. “He must feel as they did: forgotten and abandoned – though he could be no further from the truth. Would that we could release him this instant!”

“We will if Saruman’s runes do indeed hold the key to his release,” said Elladan. “We will soon find out.”

“I have many questions, my lord,” said Hamille. “But chief among them is the one concerning the runes, for I have heard only snatches of what they entail. Will you tell us what they say, and how they hold the key?”  

At first there was only silence from Celeborn, and it was clear to Hamille that it did not please the elf lord to speak about them. Yet, speak about them he had to, for what they were about to attempt hinged on the accursed words of the evil fallen wizard.

Thus, as the scent of imminent rain filled the room and the wind wailed lightly outside, Celeborn recited the runes once more for the sake of Hamille and Lanwil, cautious to speak them only in the Common Tongue. But even in that language, the words carried a malice that made Hamille uneasy, and the elf shivered as he learned how Saruman – with the first part of the spell – had sent the People of the Mountain into the Shadow Realm.

“It was the second part that condemned Elessar to the same prison,” Celeborn said, uttering the lines that made Legolas’ heart bleed to hear them:  

…he who wakes thee from the Dead

Shall wander ever in thy stead

Knowing none beyond the Spell

Forgetting all, in Shadow dwell…

The elf lord paused and drew in a breath before he continued.

“Then come the two final lines, Hamille, and therein lie our hope – a faint guide – as to what to do,” said the elf lord slowly. “And this is what they say: they tell us that Elessar shall wander in Shadow Realm, lost and desolate, remembering nothing… 

…till Light and Life can overwhelm

The Dark and Death of Shadow Realm.”

A hush fell over the Eldar then. Having heard at last the mysterious spell in its entirety, and the important concluding lines, Hamille and Lanwil pondered on them awhile.

In the silence, the keen-eared elves could hear the first drops of rain in the distance fall from a weepy sky to beat a light rhythm on the leaves of trees. Much closer, the chirpy, animated voices of children and parents called out in blissful ignorance of the gravity contained in two brief lines of a wizard’s chant: strings of words that might in fact point to the only means of obtaining the release of the King of Gondor from a fate worse than death.

“ ‘Till Light and Life can overwhelm… the Dark and Death of Shadow Realm,’ ” Hamille repeated slowly.

“Yes, Hamille,” said Legolas. “Lord Celeborn thinks that Saruman would have wanted some control over the consequences of the curse that his minions and prisoners would not have. Therefore, he saw to it that the only ability to break the hold of the spell would lie in his hands. First, it would require light that would overcome even the darkness of the Shadow, light that could not be extinguished by ordinary hands, which he as the most powerful wizard in Arda would have had the power to harness.”

“And second, it would require life that could overwhelm death,” said Elladan.

“Not by bringing the dead back to life, surely?” asked Lanwil in surprise.

“Nay, for no one can, at least not in Arda,” answered Elladan. “But there is Life that defies death.”

“Aye, life that resists death: I believe that is what he meant,” Celeborn affirmed. “Saruman’s life could, for he was immortal, and as long as he was not slain, he would have had the power to defeat the curse should he have wished to do so.”

“He… was immortal… ages-old…” Hamille said slowly. Then he looked up at the elf lord. “As you are,” he breathed. 

Celeborn nodded. “Aye, Hamille, that I am,” he said. “My heart tells me that it was why the Lady Galadriel came to me in a vision, telling me Elessar would need my aid. As for the Phial: Sam could not have reached me with it, and so she sent him to Legolas, knowing that he would be with Elessar when things went dire. She had to bring the two sources of unending light and life to the King.”

The elf lord held out the Phial that he had retrieved earlier from Legolas’ torn tunic, and looked absently at the starlight captured inside. “And now, if the Lady has guided us rightly, we have both the Light and the Life that can overwhelm Dark and Death.”

“But how…?” asked Hamille with upturned palms. “How will you do it, my lord?”

“Yes, Daeradar, we have not discussed this in depth,” Elladan noted. “What do we need to do?”

Celeborn put away the Glass of his lady, and looked around calmly at the other elves, finally resting his eyes on his grandson. “I have thought about this long and hard,” the elf lord said. “If the runes speak true – the presence of both undying Light and Life will break the hold of the Door. Therefore, to overcome the curse, there seems little choice but for me to enter the Shadow Realm myself, with the Phial of Galadriel.”

At Celeborn’s words, mute astonishment appeared on the elven faces around him, save that of Legolas, who had half-expected the elf lord to propose such a move, but it was still difficult to hear it being articulated, for the very thought of a stifling, dark realm made his throat constrict.

“Even if I cannot destroy the stone prison, I hope I shall be able to bring Elessar out of it,” Celeborn continued before anyone else could speak. “If Light and Life can truly overcome the Realm, the Gate may not hold me for long, but if I leave the Realm, Elessar must come with me – I see no other way out for him.”

“But…but entering the Realm…” Elladan said, frowning. “How…?”

Celeborn did not flinch as he answered. “The same way the People of the Mountain were sent there: I must be cursed into the Darkness,” he said evenly. “I will instruct one of you to read Saruman’s verses in the Black Speech, to utter them as he once did… and to send me in with that same curse.” The elf turned to Legolas, looking at him squarely. “I have thought you might be the one to do that, Thranduilion.”

A loud peal of thunder followed Celeborn’s disquieting answer, and then the rain arrived, doing nothing to soothe the apprehension of the younger elves, whose faces went pale.

“My lord…” Legolas began weakly.

“I cannot know if it will work,” said Celeborn, “though I feel the likelihood that we have found the right spell.”

“But the risk!” Elladan exclaimed, clearly perturbed. “The runes spell it out: He who wakes thee from the dead shall wander ever in thy stead. What if you do manage to free Estel, yet remain trapped in his place?”

“Then let us hope that the final lines speak the truth and allow me to leave,” Celeborn replied. “Let us hope that I indeed hold Life and Light that can overwhelm the Darkness.”

“But how certain are you of that, Daeradar?” his grandson demanded.

The elf lord smiled patiently. “How can I offer surety, Child?” he said gently. “None here knows enough of the Realm. Were the Three Elven Rings still in Middle-earth, perhaps I would have greater wisdom and foresight in this matter. But the Rings are gone, and the power of the Elves is fast fading. Yet, we must try, must we not? Would you leave Elessar to his current fate?”

Casting his eyes to the floor, Elladan sighed in resignation and shook his head. “No, my lord, I would not… and we must try what we can,” he conceded. Celeborn touched his grandson’s bowed head lightly, finding no inclination for further speech.

“I will prepare the King,” said Tobëas, breaking the silence. “He will need to be dressed warmly against the weather.”

As the man left for Aragorn’s room, Celeborn went with him. Legolas followed the elf lord’s figure with thoughtful eyes for a while and lapsed into silence, as did his kin. While the rain grew in volume outside, a myriad of thoughts ran through each elf’s mind, though the thoughts were different – very different.

“Do you intend to come with us, Elladan?” Legolas suddenly asked.

“Of course,” the dark-haired elf answered readily, though his face was troubled. “But… Elrohir… this rain…”

“He cannot be moved,” Legolas agreed. “Will you stay behind with him then?”

Elladan hesitated, torn between caring for his brother and going to the Paths with his grandsire. “Nay,” he said at last. “Not with Daeradar entering the Shadow Realm, and Estel…”

“Then will you not first have to ensure that Elrohir’s wound is well dressed?” the prince suggested, “and leave enough instruction with whoever will see to him in your absence?” 

“Aye, I know what I need to do, Legolas,” said the Imladris elf, the demands of the situation making him irritable. Peeved, too, at Legolas’ curiously assertive reminders, he walked off wordlessly to the room where his brother was resting.

When Elladan had left, Legolas slowly released a breath and turned to Hamille, hiding the true purpose of his next words. “It was a severe wound,” he remarked, anticipating Hamille’s reaction.

“I have held off asking about this till now, Legolas,” said the brown-haired elf. “But what exactly took place here that caused you both your injuries?”

Feeling satisfied that he had managed to draw the query from his friend – yet sickened by what he was about to do – the prince began uttering words about a situation that he would have, at any other time, elected not to dwell on.

“Elrohir and I could have died,” he stated deliberately. Then, although it disgusted him to do so, he fed the growing anger of Hamille and Lanwil with a quick narration of what Fierthwain and his mates had done to him and Elrohir outside the Paths, how they had callously held them captive despite their wounds, and how they had even considered disposing of the elves if the need had arisen.

When Legolas had finished, there were sparks in Hamille’s livid eyes that could have ignited the beacon of Amon Dîn, and Legolas thanked the Valar that Perienna’s mother was not around to hear – or understand – the passionate curses that the elf was pronouncing unchecked.  

“Those heartless creatures would have left you to die? They should count themselves fortunate that it did not happen!” Lanwil said, sharing Hamille’s sentiments. “But tell us, heru nin, how were you found eventually?”

Careful not to show how glad he was that the elf had asked the question, Legolas kept his voice even. “That is where my story ends, for I must also see to Aragorn,” he said. “But did I not say that Gimli would tell the tale better? He would be glad to fill the gaps in the account while we wait out the storm.”

“Then, while you are making preparations, bridhon nin, may I have your leave to seek Gimli – and then some… beasts?” Hamille asked, his brown eyes burning as fiercely as the storm outside promised to be. “I cannot wait to see their hideous faces; I have a few things to say to them.”

Again, Legolas compelled himself not to stay Hamille as he usually would have. “Very well, Hamille,” the prince said. “Gimli will know where Lord Langley is holding the men, but, saes – ”

“We will do nothing that will bring you shame,” the elf promised, knowing instinctively what his prince would have asked of him.

Legolas gazed at the face of his friends for a moment before he nodded and gave them a strangely rueful smile. “I am glad you came,” he said quietly.

Then he watched them pull up their hoods over their long hair and step out the door in search of Gimli. Striding quickly to the window, Legolas stood there listening and holding his breath till his keen ears could discern from afar the voices of his friends even through the steadily growing wind and downpour.

“Ho, yes, I will take you there!” Legolas heard the dwarf say eagerly.

“And we will go with you,” said Pippin next. “To be honest, we are at this moment beset by the terrifying thought of going to the Paths with Strider! We will not be left behind – but we need some distraction in the meantime. This food has provided some, but it is almost gone, so watching you telling those fools off would please us greatly, thank you!”

“But do not hope for any words of intelligence from those eight pieces of warg rumps,” Gimli rumbled on. “Mathgor, bless his heart, took me to see them this morning, and I was sorely tempted to fry them in hot oil! Let me tell you what they said:

‘We were doing the King a favor,’ Fierthwain claimed, being as tough as the useless slab of meat he is.

I almost choked. ‘What favor?’ I yelled. ‘By taking away the Phial and the friends who would save him?’

‘Look at the King now!’ the fool insisted. ‘This is what comes of keeping the company of Elves.’

‘Fierthwain, it was not they who caused him this terrible fate,’ Mathgor pointed out. ‘They are his friends and his family; they are out to help him.’

‘Help?’ his cousin challenged. ‘By bringing him to see the place of the Dead in the Mountain? By disturbing our homes? I cannot see what help – or good – Elves bring!’

Grraaaahh! I’d had enough by then!

‘Of course you cannot see it!’ I told the man right to his face. ‘How can you, when you’re constantly wandering around in a fog of stupidity – and you’re too thick in the skull to find your way out!’

So, don’t be surprised, Hamille, if you hear them spout more nonsense; it’ll make your ears burn, it will. I’d have happily broken their necks, but I suppose we’ll have to wait till Aragorn wakes up and sees to them. Or that prince of yours…”

The companions’ voices began to fade so that even Legolas could no longer hear them, suggesting that they had begun their walk to where the men were being held.

Exhaling in relief, Legolas left the window and headed directly for Aragorn’s room.

Now is the time, he thought.

Nodding briefly to the guard posted outside the room, the prince opened the door quickly and locked it behind him, surprising Lord Celeborn and Tobëas with the look of urgency on his face.

“My lord,” he said, interrupting the elf lord and the man as they finished bundling the still form of the King in warm blankets. He walked over to Aragorn and gently placed a hand on the forehead of his friend. “I have something to say, and I will not mince my words, for time is of the essence.” After only a brief pause, the prince looked up at Celeborn again. “I, heru nin, and not you, should be the one sent into the Shadow Realm for Aragorn,” he stated simply.

Determinedly warding off questions from his listeners, the prince continued.

“Aragorn needs someone to lead him out of the Realm, but if he has indeed forgotten all as the spell – and my dream – suggests, he may only follow one who can gain his trust, who can restore enough of his memories for him to find an attachment. As wise as you are, my lord, I have spent a greater number of years with him, and gone through much joy and pain and fear about which I can speak to him.”

Legolas cast Aragorn a look of affection before he added: “I think, therefore, that he may respond more readily to a friend with whom he has shared much closeness… than to an elf lord he holds in high regard from a distance.”

Glancing at Celeborn, and undaunted by the unreadable expression on the elf lord’s countenance, the prince went on.

“But that is not all the reason I have for what I propose – nay – insist on, my lord,” Legolas said boldly. “I also bear Arwen’s welfare in mind. If you or Elladan enter the Realm, and things go awry; if… if both you and Aragorn cannot return… Arwen will be bereaved not only of the husband who is her world, but also a brother, or her grandsire, whom she will need to help her cope with her loss. It would be too much for even the stoic Evenstar to bear.”

This time, a shade of emotion crossed the elf lord’s face and his heart was moved, as was that of the loyal guard of Gondor – and still the prince had more to say.

“There is one other reason, my lord,” Legolas continued. “You cannot be the one to enter the Realm, for if anything were to go amiss… if any unforeseen trouble were to occur, you would be the only one with both knowledge and power to find some means of bringing Aragorn back – be it immediately, or eventually. And therefore,” the prince finished, “we – he – cannot afford to have you lost in the Shadow Realm as well!”

As the prince concluded his passionate delivery, Celeborn and Tobëas could only observe some moments of silence. But the elf lord looked tenderly upon the much younger elf, and when he responded, it was with sincerity in his deep voice.

“Thranduil would be proud of you, Child. Well have you laid out your thoughts, for I can find no way to dispute all you have said,” the elf lord conceded. “And you speak from the heart… so that I can hear even the one other reason you have chosen not to voice.”

The two pairs of blue eyes locked in a steady gaze, and Legolas read in Lord Celeborn’s what the elf lord had understood even without the prince saying it:

You wish to be with him, Legolas. I know there is little light for you as long as Elessar remains in Shadow. You would wish to be with him, even if things fail.

The prince closed his eyes and sighed, nodding in confirmation and gratitude.

“You are not in error, my lord, and now you know all,” he said. “But we cannot let Hamille and Gimli learn of my wish to take your place; they would never allow it, and would bind me hand and foot to stop me from even reaching the Paths. Thus, I beg you to leave now with me and Aragorn! I have done my best to keep them both occupied, and Elladan as well. They think we will wait for the men to be ready, or for the storm to pass, but we must steal away now. Tobëas, will you help us?”

“I… I mean no offence, Prince Legolas, but… are you able to do what Lord Celeborn could? Go into that dark realm and lead the King out?” the man asked a little doubtfully.

“You heard me earlier, Tobëas; who can offer certainty in this matter?” Lord Celeborn answered unexpectedly for the prince. “Legolas may not have the knowledge of ages as I do, but I do not believe that the spell calls for that. It should be enough that he, too, is deathless.”

The elf lord then looked at Legolas. “I have noted, too, the words of the Lady Galadriel when she spoke to Samwise in his dream,” he said. “She said that you, Legolas – not I – would ‘need the Phial to keep Hope alive.’ ” The elf lord smiled. “I am therefore not surprised by your coming to me with your arguments, young one. I would not have asked it of you, but you offered this of your own free will. By doing so, you are bringing to fulfillment the foresight of my Lady.”

“Then let us depart without delay,” said Legolas, reaching to arrange Aragorn’s hood low over his face. “Keep the others distracted, Tobëas, and let no one into the room while Lord Celeborn and I leave with the King through this back window. Our horses will come easily and quietly enough at my bidding, and I will lead us to the lonelier paths behind these cottages. I was once taken along them – blindfolded, no doubt – but even then, I will know them, and perhaps that is the one good thing that has come of the foul deeds of Fierthwain.”

“This terrible weather is very welcome, then, my lords, for its gloom will lend you cover from prying eyes,” Tobëas said. “Hark how it grows! No one else will be out in this whipping wind and rain, nor expect you to be in it.”

Legolas nodded in agreement. “You need not stay the others for too long, Tobëas,” he said. “But give us enough time to reach the Paths and put the spell to work before they can stop us.”

“Lord Langley will not be pleased, but I will comply, my lords, for I trust you with the life of my King,” Tobëas said, bowing crisply to both the elves. He then went on one knee before his unconscious King and lowered his head. “May you return to us soon, Sire,” he said quietly. “We await you.”

Then the man stood quickly, and with one last look at the elves, opened the door and stepped out to play his role.

  ----------------------------------------------<<>>----------------------------------------------

Three hours later, Legolas could not stop the slight tremble in his hands as he spread a blanket on the hard ground before the Holding Gate in the Cavern of the Haunted Mountain, and watched as Lord Celeborn gently laid the cold form of Aragorn upon it.

On the long ride here through the storm that had slowed them but also aided in their stealthy flight from the village, only the closely woven elven cloaks – made by Lady Galadriel and her elf maidens, and gifted to the Fellowship during the Quest – kept Legolas and Aragorn from being completely soaked through, and provided enough cover for a dry blanket on which to place Aragorn now.

“There were moments when I thought we might see your friends riding hard on our heels,” Celeborn commented as he unfolded another blanket. “Someone was certainly watching over us, Legolas, paving the way for us.”  

Legolas spread the second blanket atop Aragorn to keep him as warm as they could.

“What was it that Gandalf said once during the Quest?” the prince reflected. “There are other forces at work that we cannot see. Who could tell that this storm would visit itself on the village today? Or that the Lady would send the messages and Lamp as she did? Some things are meant to happen, my lord… and that is a comforting thought.” 

The Lady’s Phial was indeed comforting, for it was the only source of light they could bring along during their hurried departure, but it was enough for now. Holding it up, Celeborn and Legolas looked again in mute pity upon the skeletal ancestor of Mathgor that sat before the Holding Gate like a macabre sentinel for years unknown, a grim reminder of their own need to save one they loved from the same fate behind the stone door.

As Celeborn raised the Phial and made visible once more the blood-red runes of Saruman above the Gate, Legolas walked forward to stand beside the bones of Mathgor’s forefather, and he placed his long fingers upon the hard, cold surface.

“I have come back, Estel, as I said I would,” the prince whispered, sounding disquietingly loud in the dark silence of the mountain tomb. He ran his fingers over the stone, unable to stop the slight shiver in them. “Do you remember, mellon nin, the vow I made to you not so long ago?” he asked hoarsely. “I promised you that if you were ever lost, I would go to the ends of the Earth and beyond to find you and bring you back. I promised you… that even if you denied me, or forgot, I would remember for us both, and never turn my back on you. I swore to you that I would knock at the door of your heart till you heard me and answered, till you could say my name once more, however long it might take. I promised you all this! Do you remember, Estel?”

Legolas laid his forehead on the Holding Gate and closed his eyes, awaiting an answer he knew would not be heard, and praying for strength to keep the promises he had made. He turned around when he felt the gentle hand of Lord Celeborn on his shoulder.

“Come, Legolas, it is time,” said the elf lord softly.

Nodding feebly, Legolas set about removing the wet shoes from his feet, then lowered himself into a sitting position beside Aragorn and gazed upon his friend. Gently, he brushed off remnant drops of water from the dark hair and brow of the King and took the cold hands in his own.  

“Wherever you are, Aragorn, there shall I be,” he said quietly. “Know me when I come to you. Follow me when I lead you out.”

With those words, Legolas looked at Celeborn, his face a little ashen but composed. “I am ready,” he said.

“Clasp his hand, Legolas, and lie close beside him,” the elf lord instructed, and when the elf prince had done as he said, he bound the friends’ hands together at the wrist. The skin on the elf's chafed wrist was already healing and there was little pain. Celeborn nestled the Phial in their clasped hands.

“Will this help, my lord?” Legolas asked in wonder.

“I do not know,” Celeborn replied honestly. “But it could not hurt; you will not be separated in the flesh at least.”

Legolas swallowed as his next question came to his lips. “You have no counsel for how we might come back, do you, my lord?” he asked quietly.

Celeborn looked the prince truthfully in the eye. “No, my child, I have no map that can guide you back,” he answered. “But I will not leave, nor will I stop calling to you. Hear my voice, and since you can be sure the others will be here soon, you will hear their voices as well. We who love you will reach out to you; let that be your guide.”

Legolas nodded. “I will, my lord, but please – make me one promise,” he said, clasping the elf lord’s arm firmly. “If Aragorn… if he does not wake… do not attempt to bring me back either. Will you give me your word, my lord?”

The aged elf’s brows furrowed. “Legolas,” he said. “It is a cursed darkness you go to; it already pains me to have to send you there – ”

“Whatever happens, I will not leave Estel alone!” Legolas said with fervor. “Saes, my lord, give me your word; do nothing to remove me from the Realm, unless Estel returns with me. Do I have your word?”

Legolas held Celeborn’s arm, refusing to release it till the elf lord sighed in resignation and nodded.

“Hannon le,” said Legolas, and lay down again. “Let us begin, my lord; do what you must.”

Celeborn took a moment to look deep into the young elf’s eyes, seeing the trust and determination swimming in the bright blue orbs.

The elf lord had, throughout their long, hard ride here, thought of words to say to Legolas that would give the younger elf courage for the task, but for all his wisdom, the aged lord could not tell at this moment if it was the prince – or he himself – who was in greater need of courage, for it struck him that he was about to use his power to willingly and knowingly send an innocent Firstborn into an evil prison from which he was not sure he could bring him back.

I never thought the day would dawn when I would use the Speech of the Dark Lord to utter a curse upon one of my own, the Eldar thought, his eyes suddenly growing moist with tears of regret he had not shed for thousands of years.

“Forgive me, my child, for what I am about to do,” he said solemnly to Legolas, and bent to place a light kiss on the fair brow. “Elbereth be with you both.”

In the time that followed, the silence of the enormous tomb chamber seemed strangely deafening to the ears of the elf lord. It, and the deep black around him, closed in upon him like a solid force, reminding him of the hostile darkness into which he was sending Legolas. It drove into his heart the sharp, agonizing implication of the deed he was about to commit. 

Kinslayer! A voice, unbidden and unwelcome, cried out in his mind.

Celeborn clenched his teeth. Elbereth, give me strength, he pleaded.

Kinslayer! The thought assailed him again.

Begone! he commanded the accusatory voice. Remove yourself, hinder me not! I have a task to perform!

Drawing in a deep breath for strength against further attacks of guilt, he held Legolas’ head between his hands and began to chant the verses in the Black Tongue.

Legolas Thranduilion!

With this Gate I hold thee fast

From this day forth until the Last.

No tool nor hand shall open Door…

“Legolas!” came a sudden, disruptive cry in the distance.

Starting at the sound, Celeborn loosened his hold on Legolas, and swung his head towards the southern entrance to the chamber.

“Legolas!” a voice called again, its muffled echoes bouncing off the walls of the dark Paths to mingle with other cries. “Valar, Legolas! Do you hear me? Where are you?”

And as the sound of running feet squelching in water-logged boots and shoes reached the sharp ears of Celeborn and Legolas, the elves exchanged a look of mutual understanding.

“They have come!” Legolas said in dismay. “Hurry, my lord, make haste!”

For a moment, the elf lord was greatly tempted to withdraw from uttering the curse, but Legolas, seeing the hesitation, pleaded again with wide eyes: “Heru nin – do not stop now! This must be done – please, hasten!”

Reluctantly, Celeborn began uttering the curse anew, and now, he had to force himself not to pause.

…with this Gate I hold thee fast

From this day forth until the Last!…

And though he was filled with loathing at each word that fell past his lips, and his breath threatened to choke on the tears that were welling up, Celeborn kept his hands firmly around the head of the young prince, clearly enunciating each line of the curse in the Black Speech of Mordor so that it rang like a death knell in the evil darkness.

…But he who wakes thee from the Dead

Shall wander ever in thy stead…

As the voice of the ancient power resounded, the Holding Gate began to glow eerily in the dark, and the runes above it lit to a fiery red even without the Light of the Lamp.

There was awakened the feel of an evil that had long slumbered, and Legolas gasped as a great discomfort crept over him, chilling him. He felt himself becoming lighter… lighter… and the weeping face of the elf lord was spinning slowly before him, mouthing hateful words…  

…Knowing none beyond the Spell…

The sound of footfalls filled his ears, footfalls heavy and light, but all running, running, growing louder and closer, mixing with the echoes of frantic, pleading voices – gruff and fair, deep and small…  

“Legolas, we know what you mean to do!... Don’t!... Saes, Legolas!... Please, wait!…”

Forrgetting all, in Shadow dwell…

Legolas’ grip on Aragorn’s hand tightened. I will come to you; I will find you, Estel…

Closer came the pursuers… closer their cries…  “Legolas, stop… whatever… you’re doing… Heru nin!…”

Cold was the Undying Light in the hand of the elf prince. Wherever you are, Estel, I will be there…

Loud were the words of the curse from the lips of en elf lord.

Till Light and Life can overwhelm…

“Legolas!”

Spinning, spinning, spinning…

A strange current surged through him… and Legolas was struggling for breath… weightless… growing weaker and weaker as he began to yield to the pull of an evil force…

…the Dark and Death of Shadow Realm!

Legolas gasped.

Just as Celeborn delivered the final line, the prince caught a glimpse of figures racing towards him with fire in their hands… tall, short… vague, shifting forms… soaking wet… and among them was Hamille, his mouth agape in terror… and Gimli…

Even in the dark, even on the verge of departure from the world he knew, Legolas saw their wide, distressed eyes meeting his... and with the last ounce of strength he had left, he smiled sadly at the well-loved friends.

“Baw!” Hamille screamed, rushing towards his prince. “No, no, no! Heru nin, do not do this to him – daro, daro!”

“Halt! Disrupt not his journey!” Lord Celeborn commanded loudly and held his hand up in such a firm gesture of authority that the approaching company stopped dead in their tracks.

Then, as Hamille and Lanwil and Gimli watched in horror, the Holding Gate blazed fiercely into painful radiance, blinding them, shaking and rumbling the walls of the stone prison it guarded.

“Legolas!” Hamille called out, grief-stricken and falling to his knees before the golden figure, yearning but not daring to touch him.

Then as the shuttering of a lamp, the Gate went dark. And in that same moment, the elf prince of Ithilien went completely limp – as still and lifeless as Aragorn, King of Gondor, whose hand he still clasped.

A stillness of disbelief and shock fell upon the gathering as all movement and sound died abruptly, like the sudden quelling of a furious storm.

Celeborn slowly released his hold of the prince’s head, and for long moments that followed, all who were in the Cavern – elves, dwarf, hobbits and men – remained mute and shaken over what they had just witnessed: an act akin to the condemnation of a pure soul to a place created for traitors and crafted from evil.

Then the strength that had held Hamille together since the moment he discovered his prince’s secret flight from the village, broke, and like the snapping of a twig bent too long, he cried out and rushed at the elf lord Celeborn in rage, all bonds of kinship and reverence pushed aside in his moment of anguish. He was hindered from venting his anger only by the strong arms of Lanwil, Elladan and Gimli, who held him and comforted him despite their own turmoil: storm-ravished figures shivering from a chill much more intense than that of the rain that had pelted mercilessly upon them.

“It was his choice, lad,” said Gimli, choked with emotion of his own. “Ai, stupid, stubborn elf! But he knew what he was doing… where he would be going… being with Aragorn… it was his choice.”

Then even the dwarf became robbed of speech, and for a while longer, there was only the sound of quiet weeping – the only sound that could be heard amidst the hush in the tomb chamber, save for the measured steps of hesitant feet as stunned men and hobbits forgot their fear of the Paths and moved cautiously to surround the two still figures lying side by side on the cold stone floor: King and Prince, Man and Elf, bound together in a friendship few could fathom.

Then Hamille approached Lord Celeborn and knelt stiffly before the aged Eldar, bowing his head, while water dripped listlessly from his long hair and clothes.

“Forgive me, hir nin, I know you had little choice in what you did,” the Ithilien elf said brokenly as he fought to control his weeping. “But you have sent into Shadow – with no certainty of his return – the friend and the brother whom I have known and loved since his birth. He is the prince I serve and the lord I would give my life to keep safe! How could you have snatched him from me so cruelly, my lord, without first giving me a chance to speak with him?”

Clenching his fists tightly, Hamille threw Lord Celeborn his final question: “And if something goes amiss… if he does not return… what then, hir nin, what do I tell my King?” 

As Hamille’s tears continued to flow furiously down his already wet, pale cheeks, the sage elf lord of Lothlorien laid a hand gently upon his head, and he held not the bitterness of the young elf’s anger nor the recklessness of his words against him, for his own sorrow and fear were just as heavy.

Instead, Celeborn began to whisper words of comfort: soft, soothing words in the tongue of the Sindar that spoke not to the ears of the grieving Firstborn, but to the heart.

Standing in a chamber of death and evil – not knowing if he would be greeting a returned soul, or mourning the loss of another – words of comfort and hope were all he had to offer.

Post-chapter Note: I know the ending leaves something to be desired, but at least our Elf and Ranger will be together over the holidays. BTW: the phrase “fog of stupidity” used by Gimli in this chapter was first used by Red Squirrel to refer to Fierthwain in a review. I’ve waited about 15 chapters to use it here. Thank you, Rodent. :–)

It's been 12 weeks, for my ‘real’ life has not been exactly understanding about my deep desire to write more of this story. But here at last is what I have managed to pull together.

I originally meant for this to be a single penultimate chapter, but it grew in the telling; and so I have to write it in two parts. This is the first. 

CHAPTER 30:  IN SHADOW REALM - ENCOUNTER

Never could the hand of Man have ever created as heartless and chilling a prison as the Shadow Realm.

An age ago, the twisted mind of a fallen Istari had brought it into being for one who bowed to him. He drew upon the Dark Arts he worshipped, and he breathed into the Realm the dark, bitter fumes of hatred and malice. He nurtured the Shadows within, feeding them with his foul thoughts and desires, injecting into them his love of torture, of power both merciless and dangerous – till the Shadows took a life of their own, seeking only to consume and destroy.

And so they tormented the souls that were condemned to their realm of death. They found fulfillment in the agony of the Living, depleting them of all feeling, sucking from them their essence, taking their will to live – till they lost all sense, all hope; and they gave up and died, knowing no comfort in their last, lonely days, lingering in misery and sorrow that no words could capture. And there their bones lay. Still and forgotten. Untouched, unknown – save by the swirling mists of evil that took delight in the demise of all things whole.

Such was the fate that awaited Aragorn, King of Gondor, Hope of Men.

Though he would leave no bones to line the stone floor of the Realm, he was to die nonetheless: he would be dead to the Living world, he would forget and be forgotten. He would remain an eternal captive of this eternal prison.

For Aragorn, the dying had begun.

His existence here was meaningless.

Deathly silent. Solitary.

Paralyzing.

For so long now, it seemed to the man, he had been numb with loneliness.

For so long now, he could remember nothing. Not his life. Not his name. Not who he was.

Once, it seemed, there had been flashes of something good. Something… someone he had known, had reached out and touched him lightly in the darkness. Called to him through cold, hard stone. But that presence, too – last of those who had known him – had left and had come no more.

Once, in this domain of sorrow…he had heard weeping and mournful wailing. It seemed to him that he had heard it before. The same cries of grief, the same resounding echoes. Once, not so long ago…

Where had it been? Had it not been here?

Such deep and painful sorrow had been in the voice. Yet, even that piteous sound had been welcome in this deprived nothingness.

Aye, even a heartbroken spirit was company in this lonely, lonely place. Who had it been that wept?

Desperately, he had tried to find this Other – a companion soul with whom to share the desolation.

But no companion did Aragorn find, for he had come to know – to his bitter dismay and regret – that there was no Other. And the wretched weeping he had heard had only been the cry of his own tortured soul.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

As soon as Legolas entered the Shadow Realm, the domain of the Cursed, he was swiftly struck by an oppressive flood of sensations.

Dense, solid darkness.

Powerful, stifling, choking night.  

Pitch black ink, swirling and churning in thick waves – loaded with vicious desire to consume, to overwhelm.

Legolas felt himself spinning, tossed about helplessly, till the elf, whose keen senses had rarely failed him, felt horrifyingly disoriented.

Suffocated and lost in the clutches of a wild fear, Legolas struggled desperately to latch onto something. But he could find nothing to grasp. Panic seized him, and for terrifying moments, he could not remember where he was.

What place of horror was this?

He struggled both for a physical hold and for awareness – and found neither.

Terror grew in him and tried to release itself in a cry – and it was then that the elf realized he was not drawing breath… no, no breath! No breath!

Yet… to his disbelief, he did not seem to be dying.

Ai, not dying – like the living Dead.  

The Living Dead. Like a tidal wave smashing onto shore, awareness returned to Legolas in a painful rush – and he knew. He remembered now.

The Realm - the Shadow Realm!

Here he had been sent; here he had freely chosen to come – to challenge the dark force of this unyielding domain, with Light undying and Life unending.

His life.

For one person.

Aragorn, he thought. Aragorn.

Aye… the elf knew now, he had borne the curse of Saruman and left his body behind, with no certainty of returning to it. It was a risk he had gladly taken for the chance to bring aid to his friend.

Aragorn, he thought again. And the very name gave him strength. 

Legolas cast a look upon his own form then – and found himself as ethereal as moonbeams, whole but wraithlike. In wonder did he raise his arms, and a great awe took hold of him, for lo! like the moon – nay, brighter than the moon – there came light from the palm of his hand. The power of the Lady’s Lamp had breached the Door with him, and it brought to him comfort immeasurable in this chilling place.

Strengthened by the presence of the light, Legolas steeled himself to face a dark he dreaded, and looked around. Instinct, rather than plain sight, gave him awareness of his surroundings, but this was no handicap for an elf who had honed both abilities to a fine edge. What Legolas sensed was a space around him: an enclosure, and it was hemmed in by some unseen, hostile force waiting on the periphery, like the mouth of a dangerous predator from which there could be no escape.

In the far reaches of this shadowy place there lay vague shapes. Some force drew him towards them, and he could not turn away. Closer and closer to the shadowy forms he went, until he felt an odd familiarity… and after a while he understood why, for the obscure forms were the remains of once-living beings: the bones of the Twice Forgotten, their skulls grinning to the darkness as if in macabre defiance.

Then the elf who had never feared the Dead in his long years in the living world felt himself shivering.

What kind of place is this that even the Valar would forsake? he wondered. It was cold and bitter, and the lingering malice and misery shrouded him like an evil mist.

Oh, Aragorn, what agony it must be for you! he thought, strangely feeling sharp bolts of pity for his friend even in his spirit form. No more must you stay, mellon nin, he said in silence. I have come to take you home.

Legolas looked around, fervently wishing that Aragorn would appear before him that very moment. But wherever he turned, there was no sign of his friend – and it occurred to the dismayed elf that he did not know how to find the man in this bizarre dimension of deep dark.

Estel, where are you? Legolas wondered.

The elf was suddenly faced with two fears. His terror of the unearthly dark he easily acknowledged – but the other horror was, for Legolas, more crippling and worse than death: it was the fear that he would not be able to find Aragorn, or save him, or that his treasured friend was already taken from him, lost to the powers of two Dark Lords who could still haunt them from beyond their unmarked graves…

Pain hit the elf again like a hard blow.

Daro! he cried silently, halting those thoughts and chastising himself for even letting them surface. Quickly, he held up his hand and let the light shine forth, giving thanks yet again for the comfort it brought. He could almost hear the Lady of Lothlorien saying to him as she once did to Frodo: It shall be a light for you when all other lights go out.

Relief flowed through the elf. Let it be a light for Aragorn now, he beseeched. Guide me to him, my Lady.

With conscious resolve, Legolas began to move. But as soon as he did, he found himself wading through thick waves of a loathsome substance. A living sea it seemed to be, trying to drown him in its malevolence. As if it knew his purpose, the crushing power of the Realm closed in upon him, seeking to claim his essence.

Baw! Back, you vile thing! he cried voicelessly in anger, fending off the dense black tide. Back – depart from me!

As the elf swiped at the waves of darkness with his hands, marvel took hold of him, for his hand was as a scimitar of light – and with each sweep, it drew a wide, brilliant arc around him, cutting a path through the shadows wherever it touched the darkness.

Gratefully, Legolas watched the black vapors part before the Light of Eärendil and flow around his own form, like waves that break before the prow of the Mariner’s ship and close again in its wake, and soon he came to the glad observation that no matter how overpowering the Shadows felt, they had no claim on the Light, or on him.

With this assurance that he was indeed impervious to the Shadows, the elf continued to move forward in search of his friend. How he was able to do it, he could not tell, but he found that he was able to proceed in any direction he wished.

“Aragorn?” he called out, breaking the dead silence for the first time and surprising himself, for he had not thought that there would be substance to his voice in this unearthly domain. Yet there was. Tentatively, he called his friend’s name again, awed at the strange hollow resonance of the sound. It seemed only vaguely similar to the speech he knew – and for a moment, he was hesitant, wondering if Aragorn would understand him.

But this was no time to question, he decided. Something told him that here, no one truly heard with ears; one would simply sense and understand.

“Aragorn,” he called again and again, hoping and waiting for an answer. From where it would come, and in what form, or if it would be in some unknown tongue, the elf did not know. He could only place his trust in a bond that would transcend all speech.

-------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

I have forgotten all, Aragorn thought. I am forgotten. I am no more.

And the shadow sank deeper into his soul.

Then – he felt something, or thought he did. A presence.

Briefly, it seemed, something from a happier place touched him…

Aragorn wanted to call out, yearned to do so. Yet he remained fixed where he was, numb and hapless, for he found that he had no names to call.

To his even greater dismay, he found that he had forgotten what to say.

-------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

Doggedly, Legolas waded through the thick, black mass, fighting it. Darkness rolled back wherever the elven presence touched it, parting like curtains for him to peer beyond, but only for a few moments before gathering close again.

As time passed and he encountered nothing, nor received any response to his calls, he grew troubled. He worried that his strength would eventually be worn down by the stifling dark of the Realm, or that he would drown in his own despair.

Yet, the purity of the elf’s purpose shone brighter than the shadows around him. Consciously, Legolas began to release his doubt and fear, to let himself feel without restraint. He bent all his thought towards his friend, letting his senses and the Light of an Undying Star guide him. He no longer took stock of where he was in the Realm, or how far he had gone, but plodded on, seeking, suppressing the tension that simmered somewhere within him, and grimly holding on to hope.

Estel, he said in thought. Help me find you, my friend.

Then, as if in answer to his plea, the arc of light from one long, fervent sweep of his hands revealed to him a welcome sight.

It was merely a fleeting glimpse, but there he was at last: the one Legolas had come to find through storm and stone, and the turbulent curse of an ancient evil. For a brief moment the forlorn form of Aragorn appeared. Wraithlike he appeared, and his head was bowed in clear despair, but he was instantly known to the elven soul whose love a realm of death could not overcome.

“Aragorn,” Legolas breathed, hardly believing what he saw.

The deep black closed cruelly between the friends again. But in an instant, Legolas was moving forward, and the darkness streamed aside as the fervor of a Firstborn burned through the shadows like a torch through molten metal.

Then finally – Legolas was before the man himself.

The elf could not tell if joy had a place in this forsaken realm, but he could not remember a time – fair or foul – when he had been happier to see his friend. Eagerly, he moved towards Aragorn and greeted him.

“Aragorn!” the elf called out hollowly. “No words can tell how glad I am to have found you, my friend.”

No answer came from the King of the Dead, but at Legolas’ greeting, he lifted his head and turned towards the elf.

Shock replaced joy as Legolas froze, fighting not to recoil from what appeared before him. “No,” the elf whispered, staring at Aragorn.

The features of the man’s face were like an image seen through moving water: now bright…. now dark… vague… and on the brink of vanishing altogether. Legolas felt a spasm of alarm as the horrifying visions from his nightmare – no longer so distant – came back to him.

Aragorn’s head lowered again, and Legolas – still reeling from shock – found that he was content to let it remain so for a while, for it had been painful to have seen the fate that had befallen his friend. Yet, hardly had moments passed before the elf’s discomfort vanished, and he was once more filled only with compassion for the man.

Legolas approached Aragorn once more, the light of his presence keeping the darkness away from both of them.

“Estel, my friend,” he said to the bowed head with all the fondness he could project through his hollow voice. “Estel, I have come.”

Aragorn raised his head, and Legolas felt the man looking at him, though no clear outline of eyes could he see.

Staying the sickness he felt, the elf kept his own vision focused on Aragorn and called to him again. But when Aragorn continued to offer no response, nor show the slightest acknowledgement of his presence, Legolas began to feel anxious.

Even the Twice Forgotten could talk, he thought. What has the Realm done to you, Aragorn?

Then Legolas sensed a response from the man before him. No words came, but the elf felt Aragorn struggling to say something. A thought formed somewhere in the space between them: a mere thought, but it was a response nevertheless.

A spark of hope kindled within the elf. “Aragorn, I am here,” he coaxed. “What do you wish to say to me, my friend?”

Still, no words were voiced. But as Aragorn looked at him again, Legolas suddenly understood. In horror, the elf watched the man’s features fade even further – on the brink of disappearing altogether. It was a horrible nightmare coming to life. The elf knew now what Aragorn was trying to say even before the thought reached him: they were words from that nightmare, words that told him just how nearly complete the curse was that had taken his friend:

I know you not, said Aragorn.

Legolas winced.

I know you not.

And even though the elf had expected the words, he still felt as if a sledgehammer had struck him.

“Nay, Estel, it is I!”Legolas protested. “You know me, my friend, you know me!”

Aragorn hesitated before he formed another speechless thought. What is a friend? came the listless response. I know no friend.

Pain seared Legolas again.“Aragorn, you cannot mean that,” he said. “You are rich with friends, and few have been as close as you and I. Even to this destitute place I have followed you, for I would not leave you.”

Legolas’ impassioned declaration was to no avail. You are here, Aragorn replied in thought. But I know you not.

The elf could not help a sharp pang of disappointment. Ai, you have truly been cursed to forget all, Aragorn, he lamented speechlessly. But you must fight it with me. You cannot remain a victim of Saruman’s malice. 

“Aragorn, remember us!” the elf begged. “Arwen, Eldarion, your family, your friends who love you – they all wait for you. Remember Gondor, where you belong!”

Aragorn lowered his head again. I know them not, he thought. I belong nowhere.

And thus began a debate between the elf, who tried repeatedly to remind Aragorn about who he was, and the King, who continued to deny him. Legolas felt increasingly distraught, for the more Aragorn rejected him, the more inscrutable the man’s features became. And Legolas grew ever fearful that there might come the moment when Aragorn would lose his Self completely and utterly. If that moment arrived, Legolas knew, Aragorn would truly be lost to them all, doomed to remain in the realm of the Dead, and to fade from life itself.

The elf grew more desperate. With his hands, he strove to lead Aragorn away from where they were, to seek a means of escape. But to his dismay, the elf found that he could not move the man, not by force. In despair, Legolas wondered how he would free Aragorn from the realm.

Estel, you have no love for these Shadows; leave them with me, he pleaded. Come – we shall seek a way out!

Aragorn remained impassive, and in the absence of a direct refusal from the man, Legolas’ hopes flared again. But those hopes were short-lived.

What shadows? Aragorn asked.

The unbuffeted words took Legolas aback, for they bluntly told him that his friend had not only lost all he remembered, but also all sense of light and dark. It greatly saddened the elf to think that they were now all the same to Aragorn, a sensitive man who had lived through much contrast in his life: he who had tasted both bitterness and deep joy, who could be hard and gentle, and who had suffered the struggle between those who honored life and those who sought to bring death and destruction. 

How could the Realm have blinded him, how could it have taken so much from him! the elf lamented, grieving.

In anguish, Legolas wondered how a lone elf could battle such loss. A cold fear took hold of him again, for he and Aragorn had been through many deadly battles, but he had never come this close to losing his friend, nor felt so powerless to help him.

And as Legolas’ hopes sank, the light he bore in his hands dimmed with them.

  --------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

Outside the Shadow Realm, elves, hobbits, men and one Dwarf waited in hushed anxiety, silently agonizing over the fate of two souls trapped in a cruel prison on the other side of a mute, unyielding stone wall.

After Legolas had entered the Realm, the elves had spoken together, then bowed their heads and begun speaking very softly in the musical tongue of the elves. The mortal beings could only assume that the Firstborn were praying, for every now and then, they could hear the names of the Valar, and from the little he could recognize, Gimli guessed that Lord Celeborn was leading them in the High Tongue.

What length of time had passed since then, Gimli could not tell, but the elves were still seated now as they had been then: Hamille and Lanwil next to Legolas, their cloaks laid protectively over their prince, while Elladan was on the other side of Aragorn. Lord Celeborn sat before the heads of the prone forms, grave and unmoving save for the gentle movement of his lips.

“Look!” Merry suddenly whispered in alarm, prodding Gimli in the side and earning a low growl in response.

“What, pesky hobbit?” the dwarf muttered.

Undeterred, the hobbit pointed to the Phial clasped in Legolas’ inert hand. “Look, Gimli, see how the light has gone duller,” he hissed. “What’s happening?”

Suddenly alert, the dwarf peered at the Lamp from where they were seated at Legolas’ feet, and his brows knitted. “I wouldn’t know,” he replied worriedly. “But it can’t be good.”

“Well, can’t we ask Elladan or Hamille?” Pippin suggested.

Gimli cast a look at the elves and contemplated their choices before he answered. “No,” he said. “Let’s not interrupt them. They must have seen it too, and if they had anything to tell us, they’d do so.”

Little eased by the dwarf’s assurance, but unable to offer an alternative course of action, the hobbits exchanged a look of resignation and lapsed back into speechless observation. Cold, wet and hungry they all were, but men, dwarf and hobbits alike could only listen and say silent prayers of their own, turning all their thoughts to two friends who were still lost to them.

And throughout the long hours, doubt and fear strove with faith within many hearts. 

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

Legolas was no less shrouded in dark uncertainty. Confronted with a friend who no longer knew him as one, the elf did not quite know how to proceed, and weariness seeped through his spirit form.

He ceased trying to fight the darkness, and for the first time in the Realm, reached out to Aragorn to touch him. To his own surprise, he found that he could. Slowly, he moved closer to gently wrap his arms around the form before him. With affection, Legolas held the presence he had missed, and he allowed himself a moment of joy at having found that which he had lost.

I am here, Aragorn, the elf said, clasping his friend close and speaking soothingly to him. I promised you that wherever you are, I would come to you. Here I am.

Then for a while, the deathless elf said no more, but kept the darkness at bay, kept it from enshrouding Aragorn in its cloak of evil. It gave him some measure of solace that he could do this for Aragorn: to bring comfort to the lost soul. Yet, his own agony was excruciating: for here he was, having brought light to the friend he loved most, but unable to bring him to salvation. He did not know how to begin helping someone who had been taken so completely by the Shadow. It had not only robbed the man of his memories but also his spirit, for though there was no resistance from the man, neither was there a favorable response. Aragorn was simply limp, silent, adrift in a sea of dark oblivion, his featureless face hidden from sight.

“Estel?” Legolas called hopefully after some time, but not the slightest acknowledgment was offered. Sadly, Legolas spoke to his friend again. “You know my soul, Estel, and I know yours. Deny me no longer, come home with me.”

So saying, Legolas tried once more to make Aragorn follow him, but once again, he failed to shift the wraith form. Aragorn would have to come of his own will, or not at all, the crestfallen elf realized.

“Our spirits are one, Estel – can you not remember?”he coaxed gently.“Our bond is stronger than this darkness. Let me lead you away from this vile place.” 

But Aragorn remained immobile, and only from his lipless mouth there came words Legolas both dreaded and loathed to hear again:

Leave me. I know you not.

Sorrow flooded the elf again, and he tightened his hold on Aragorn. What am I to do? he thought, feeling despair creep over him. Is he truly taken from us? Have we truly lost him to this darkness?

The thought flitted through his mind that if he and Lord Celeborn failed to draw Aragorn out of the Shadow Realm, the man would be condemned to this darkness. The greatest, the most honorable of the line of the Edain, would pass from the World and be lost to the Living as the Twice Forgotten had been. He would be cursed to wander in a meaningless void till the end of Ages.

The very existence of the possibility was as a physical hurt, cutting keenly into Legolas’ spirit. Yet – failure was a possibility he had to face; he had known it with each syllable of the curse uttered by Lord Celeborn.

Keeping Aragorn in his embrace, he made a promise – one that filled him with both dread and calm.  

“I will not cease my fight to save you from this fate, Aragorn,” he said quietly. “But if all should fail, and you are cursed to remain here, so will I. In Light or in Shadow, in life or in death, I will be with you. You may have lost everything else, my friend – but you will never lose me.”

From Aragorn there was no answer to the impassioned vow.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

Outside, the Light of the Phial - like a setting moon – waned with each passing hour.

And the hope in the hearts of Elves and mortals followed suit.

Note:  This has been my least carefully checked chapter to date – but it’s the best I can do for now. I dread to think of the mistakes in it, so please point them out to me or chuck them into the Shadow Realm to shrivel.  :–)  

Thank you to all who waited patiently, and to all who sent in reviews and/or private messages to let me know they still remembered me.

WARNING: This will be a LONG, LONG read.

Recommended:

Coffee and a snack.

Enough leisure time to read it.

Understanding bosses and colleagues (if in workplace).

CHAPTER 31:  IN SHADOW REALM – THE END

“Hush, Pippin! Stop chewing so loudly!” Merry admonished his cousin as they sat propped against a cold stone wall outside the Shadow Realm, appeasing their terrible hunger with some sorry-looking apples.

Many agonizing hours had passed since the company of elves, men and hobbits faced the shock of losing yet another soul to the Realm, and food had been all but forgotten. But night had long fallen, covering the Vale and blanketing the Mountain of the Dead in thick mist; and though it was dark and cold within the tomb-like cavern, the occupants knew that a new day could not be far off. Sleep they could fend off, but Gimli and the hobbits had given in at last to their gnawing stomachs and sat with the King’s men in a dark corner of the huge chamber to stave off some of their hunger. They harbored some guilt for eating while the Elves did not, but they could no longer withstand their mortal needs.

Sadly inadequate were the rations to the hobbits’ minds, but it was all Tobëas could offer. It was fortunate that he had any food in his pack at all, for it had not been high on his list of priorities when the elves had first made the unwelcome proposal to bring the King back to the Paths of the Dead.

“I’m not chewing loudly, Merry; there’s hardly enough substance for me to be munching on,” Pippin responded miserably to his cousin. “What you hear are my teeth knocking against each other. I’m still starved!” 

Gimli grunted. “Stop niggling the lad, Merry,” he said, savoring some bread himself and making it last as long as he could. “You’re not chomping that loudly, Pippin. It’s just… everything else is so deathly quiet around us.”

The three friends looked around them at the depressing gloom, acknowledging Gimli’s observation and eventually resting their eyes on their elven companions seated some distance away. An awed silence fell over the dwarf and hobbits, for, even in the dark of the Paths, the four figures shone with an unearthly glow enhanced by the Light of the Lady that was shining – albeit more feebly than before – from the clasped hands of Legolas and Aragorn. Fair folk they remained despite the ugliness of their surroundings, and the cloaks of melancholy they wore could not hide or dim their beauty.

An emotion that Gimli could not name welled in his throat as he studied the elves. How he had come to admire beings that were once his foes, he could not fathom, but he knew it was due in no small part to the one elf of whom he had grown fonder than he would admit.

But now that elf lay poised on the edge of Death.

Gimli swallowed. It was painful for him to see Legolas lying pale and motionless on the hard floor, so the dwarf chose to look at Lord Celeborn instead. The elf lord had hardly moved for hours, clearly in deep thought. Gimli wondered how much the ancient Firstborn could see or sense what was transpiring in the Realm of Shadow beyond the stone. For a moment, the dwarf felt tempted to ask. But just as quickly, he realized with a shudder that he did not truly wish to know all the frightening details.

------------------------------------------<<>>-------------------------------------------

Immersed in the black tide that had drained his life’s essence from him, Aragorn had sunk once more to the depths of mute misery, remaining limp, speechless – all but dead. And deadened he was to the friend before him, the friend who remained with him, holding him, and filled with fear for his life.

Legolas had to fight the despair that threatened to numb him. With no immediate course of action he could pursue, his thoughts strayed ever to the family and the kingdom that would grieve without end should Aragorn succumb to a doom he did not deserve. But hovering on the edges of his thoughts, too, was his dread for himself, for his reflections now took him on a path he did not wish to tread: he began to contemplate on the horror of spending years unknown in this place of shadows and death. If ever the Light of the Phial were to fail, he would have both eyes open and see nothing; all he would know would be the force of a living darkness crushing upon him.

Against his will, the elf felt a moment’s sympathy for the Twice Forgotten who had been imprisoned there as living beings, trapped in this prison till they perished, one by one, in utter darkness, finally to exist only as traitors in the memories of good men.

He knew it would be unimaginably worse for him, for he was a creature of light, one who had been nurtured by a thousand years of sun, his life’s breath drawn from the air of rich green woods, his body and spirit almost one with the living Earth and trees. For him, only the promise of torment lay in wait in this dark realm.

Aye, Legolas knew this. How long he had been in this hateful place the elf could no longer tell, but each moment had been agony. With every aggressive wave of Shadow that threatened to engulf him and Aragorn, he was reminded of the horror of the Curse. Yet… true to his vow he would remain if his friend could not depart from this living nightmare. Not for any price, not even his own salvation, would he leave Aragorn to bear this fate alone.

“With you I remain, Estel,” he whispered. “To whatever end.”

Oddly, now that the elf had made this resolution to stay with his friend – he began to feel less overwhelmed by the evil, and a strange calm settled upon him. Perhaps it was merely a suspension of his fears, but there it was: a tranquility he did not expect, a slow release of the tension that had gripped him since he first entered the Realm. Long moments flowed one into another, in which he and Aragorn remained quiet and unmoving, and nothing stirred but the soundless stream of a dark tide.

And thus it was, in that composed silence – where Legolas’ thoughts sought no particular direction, where he dwelt on nothing save that he was once more in the company of the friend he loved dearer than life – that he became aware of It.

Perhaps it had come unbidden. Then again, perhaps he had – without thinking – sought it. Whatever the manner of its coming – it was here with him, as it had been all the years of his life. And like all things that are with us that we take for granted, it had remained forgotten by Legolas, waiting on the periphery of his knowing, till all else was gone, or dismissed.

Till It was all that the elf could discern.

  --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

Lord Celeborn drew a breath and released it slowly, hardly rippling the lifeless air imprisoned within the harsh unyielding stone walls of the chamber.

“It has come to his awareness,” the elf lord said in a voice barely above a whisper, but voluble enough for his companions to note. “He hears it.”  

Sitting restlessly across from the Eldar, at the feet of the lifeless forms of his two friends, Pippin sat up in alarm and frowned. “Who hears what?” the hobbit hissed to Merry. “Legolas?”

“Hush, Pip!” Merry frowned in return. “Can’t you not ask a question for once? A proper Took you are!”

“But is it Legolas?” the younger hobbit pressed obstinately. “And what is it? What does he hear?”

“The Sound, Pippin,” Hamille answered unexpectedly and, it seemed to the mortals, a little reluctantly. “Legolas hears the Sound.”

Now Gimli sat up. “What sound?” he asked tersely, trying his best to keep his voice low. When he received no response from Hamille, the dwarf hissed his exasperation. “What sound do you mean, Hamille? Tell me!”

  --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

There is a sound that resides in one’s ears. Silent and unnoticed it remains; it does not speak, nor make itself known. It merely resides there. In truth, it exists everywhere, in everyone, in the Space created by the Great Maker. It is the sound of Existence – of a force that resonates in all matter, an unseen thread that ties all.

It is not the Great Song of Creation, but the hum that remained after. The sharp hum comes not from any living being – yet one must be living to know it. It is a sound that vibrates in every fiber of our being – yet we know it not, unless we seek it. To hear it, one must remain absolutely still, absolutely quiet, and allow nothing to intrude. We must reach into the deeper layers of our being, remain devoid of thought, devoid of all other senses, till there is only you – and It.

Every elf knew of the Sound. Legolas had heard it many times before during his long life. Alone, and in utter quiet, he would close his eyes and stop his ears with his fingers, and listen. He had done it in caves, in trees, by his favorite pool, on the cold slopes of lonely mountains. He had heard the Sound, and his spirit had followed its journey through space and time, in millions of other minds and ears: those of the most ancient and wisest of Firstborns, to the humblest mortals, to the vilest spawns of orcs, and every creature that breathed.

In those moments, he had felt one with all matter.

After a time, the Sound was no longer a stranger to Legolas. He merely had to know how to seek it. And on occasion…it came even without being sought.

The elf heard it now. Even in this Shadow Realm, a place forsaken by all that was good, he could hear it; for in the utter silence and deathly stillness, it was all he could hear.

But it did not bring him the comfort it had before.

--------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

The hobbits and Gondorian guards were feeling as perplexed and tense as Gimli after Hamille had told them about the Sound.

“But what does that mean: that Legolas hears it now?” Merry asked the elf. “Is that a sign of something?”

Hamille looked at him with pensive eyes, brown pools beneath the calm surfaces of which lay an unnamed doubt. But he gave no answer, and shifted his gaze back to the unmoving form of his prince. Taking pity on Legolas’ companions, Lanwil responded instead.

“If the prince hears it, it means… it means that he has become still; very, very still,” the elf replied in a voice tinged with concern. “And we cannot tell if that is a good thing.”

  --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

How strange that it should be here, in this place of Death, Legolas thought. How strange that the Sound of Existence, known only to those who live, should speak so loudly to him here.

Yet – perhaps it need not be wondered at, the elf reminded himself, for he had heard it said among the Firstborn, that if one were at the moment of death, on the brink of departing from the circles of Arda, when one’s senses began to withdraw from all that was in the world…all that would be left to one’s awareness was the Sound.

With no other clear course to follow, the elf accepted its presence. Time slipped by – how much, he did not know, but it flowed by him like a dream with no beginning and no end – in one long, meaningless stream. And the Sound rode on the wave of each passing moment.

“Can you hear it, Aragorn? Can you hear the Sound of the life force of the World?” he asked softly to the impassive friend in his arms. “I wonder… I wonder if it will be the last sound we hear.” No answer came, as was expected, yet it gave him some comfort to talk to the man. 

“I have never spoken to you of this, Estel,” the elf began. “Perhaps it was made known to you in your days at Imladris, for I would think that our kin would have drawn your attention to it. But if they did not… then I vow to you, Aragorn: if this omen is not one of our passing, and we should be allowed to escape this fate to breathe the free air and to see the light of the Sun again, I will teach you to hear it in blessed silence. And so you shall ever be aware of the Sound of your being.”

Legolas paused, summoning the strength to continue. “I pray that we shall find such release, Aragorn, but this, too, I vow,” he added, “even if it heralds Death, I will not flee from it so long as you cannot. My body shall lie with yours outside this realm, and my spirit shall ever be your companion in here.”

Then the elf lapsed back into silence, keeping his friend in the comfort of his arms and his Light – and letting them drift with the resonance of the hum.

  --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

But acceptance was not what Gimli expressed after learning about what the Sound signified. His wide eyes bored fiercely into Lanwil’s.

“What are you saying?” the dwarf demanded. “That Legolas is… he’s dying?”

The hiss of anger that erupted from Hamille was as loud as the gasps from the hobbits and Aragorn’s men. He slammed a fist onto the hard ground as his brown eyes shot sparks at Gimli’s startled face.

“Utter not those words!” the elf spat out. “Or they shall spell your own end!”

“Sidh, Hamille, peace!” Lord Celeborn chastised him. “He meant no hurt.”

“Aye, he did not,” Lanwil quickly added, gripping Hamille’s shoulders as the distressed elf passed his bruised hand over his eyes and exhaled a heavy sigh. 

Stunned into muteness by Hamille’s outburst, the mortal members of the company sat unmoving for long moments, though they were far from calm within. In the tense silence, Gimli imagined that he could almost hear the Sound that was the subject and the cause of the company’s present anxiety, his ignorance of which fueled an excruciating desire to voice the questions churning in his mind. His face grew redder as he held his queries in check, and one look at Pippin showed that the latter was also about to explode from the tension of not knowing.

“Nay, Gimli, we do not think that Legolas is dying; it is not what we sense,” Elladan said at last, breaking the strained silence. His quiet announcement was followed by a release of painfully held breaths around him, like water from an engorged dam; yet his next words held no comfort as they conveyed the blunt truth:

“But he may be listening to the Sound because… because he has come to accept the possible approach of that End … and he is preparing for it.”

  --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

Legolas heard not the cries of disbelief that passed many lips outside the dark prison. He was indeed prepared for any end he might face – yet it was not death that occupied his awareness. His whole self was now focused only on Aragorn, and on the Sound, for it stayed with him as the moments lengthened.

How odd, the elf thought after a while. How odd, for it seemed to him that the longer he heard the Sound, the more it began to take on a different quality.

Different… he noted; yes, it was different; more animated than he had ever heard it to be. It was… it was almost… a buzz.

Moved by a sudden instinct, Legolas listened intently. Aye, there it was: a buzz. A peculiar, unexpected buzz.

Perplexity gripped the elf. He trained all his thought on what he was hearing, shutting out all other thought. Slowly, something became clear to him. He realized, to his surprise, that this was not a variant of the familiar Sound. This buzz was altogether a different sound.

Nay, it was a collection of sounds.

And the more he heard it, the more it seemed to be a collection of… voices.

The space around him seemed to be buzzing with throng upon throng of small, mysterious voices, all tumbling rapidly over each other, like many-layered echoes of a hundred thousand secretive whispers.

The elf was astonished beyond measure. The voices were not quite of normal timbre, yet they did not sound like the communication of the Dead. He looked around, peering curiously into the Shadows, but the dark revealed no one else, no other being, save Aragorn. No, he decided, these were most surely not the whispers of the Dead.

Taut with tension, Legolas struggled to make sense of the whispers, calling upon all the elven senses in his possession to gain some insight into what he was confronted with. Whose were these voices?

The elf persisted, and the effort frustrated him at first, for it was hard to separate the sounds; but the longer he listened, the clearer it became to Legolas that the buzz – a seemingly meaningless jumble of sounds – was indeed made up of speech: strings of words; garbled, convoluted statements, all running into one another.

Legolas was astounded. How the voices came to be here, he could not yet fathom, but the fragments of speech were, by some curious means, suspended in the space around him.

No… he slowly corrected himself. No, they were not around him.

The whispers were surrounding…. Aragorn. 

Even more frantically now, Legolas strained his senses, sifting through the muddled speech for something he could recognize, some clue to the mystery.

Then a single word – one from among the millions – leapt at him, and it paralyzed him with awe and disbelief.

Had he been in error? Would he hear it again? Legolas trained every part of himself on those sounds once more, listening.

No, he had not been mistaken, for the word came to him once more. Many times more. And when it was followed by other words he could discern, a suspicion flared within the elf. Those whispers… those voices… they sounded like… Oh Valar! Could they be…? 

As more snatches of speech became known, understanding struck Legolas like a bolt of lightning. Each revelation was a confirmation of the elf’s suspicions, and he could hardly think for the current of excitement running through him.

Trembling even in his wraith form, the elf acted on another suspicion. Quickly, he peered into the darkness where he heard the whispers milling around Aragorn. With his elven sight, he scrutinized the blackness, seeking, watching for what he thought he might see.

And there they appeared before him. Aye, there they were: visions! Visions uncounted!

Joy welled within Legolas as he came face to face with hope unexpected, for the images and voices before him – hazy, vague, confused, but blessedly present – were sights and sounds from Aragorn’s life, including the one word the elf had heard that had first alerted him: the name Estel.

Here at last – lurking in the Shadows – were the memories that had been stolen from the man’s mind, the precious memories that had been made him who he was.

The elf recognized them, for he knew some of them: there was the young Ranger, running, smiling, fighting, eating, roasting some strange fowl; and there the Man, in moods of mirth, despair, asleep, astir; the King, the child, the father, the captain, the healer; the things that had filled his years: swords, clothes, toys, hills, rivers, horses, trees, and all the fruits he had ever eaten, and all the songs he had ever heard! They were the story of his life: lines and chapters in disarray – but they were the tale that was Aragorn!

The memories had been there all along – sharing the space with him. Yet, even Legolas had not been aware of them – not till he had yielded to the call of the Sound and allowed it to open his mind and his spirit to Matter around him.

A thrill ran through the elf as he continued to scan the images and listen to the sounds. There now were all the people Aragorn had known: guards, farmers, children, servants… And those he had loved with heart and soul: Eldarion, his family, his friends, Men, Elves, Arwen… 

Legolas did not dwell too long on Aragorn’s memories of Arwen, for he did not wish to intrude on so private a part of his life, but he had seen enough to feel humbled by the bond he sensed from them; a union, a oneness so great and so steadfast that the elf – despite his joy at the presence of those memories – sorrowed at how this Shadow could have snatched even those memories from him.

And then… as Legolas beheld himself as the subject of many images and many of Aragorn’s thoughts, he almost broke with grief as well, for the strength and depth of the man’s love for him pulsed with life even in the homeless memories. In spite of the oppressive darkness of the place where these truths were revealed, he understood – with crystal clarity – the place he had held in Aragorn’s mind and heart. He knew then the power of the evil that had taken Aragorn – a force so terrible it was able to make the man forget and deny those who had been part of his very being. 

Elation wrestled with sadness within Legolas as he continued to witness the voices, noises, and scenes from Aragorn’s past: shreds of his life dispersed by the mists of darkness, and suspended in them like dust in a whirlwind. They awoke in the elf amusement, surprise, fondness, anger, sadness, compassion… How rich was the library of thoughts and recollections residing in one’s mind! he realized. And how painfully empty that mind would be if it were robbed of this treasure: a soul ambushed, drained dry of everything – to be left a sad, deprived shell of nothingness.

That was the fate that had befallen Aragorn.

Even though the man’s memories were not truly lost, even though they had been within his reach all along, they might as well have been in some other world, Legolas realized, for Aragorn had been unable to retrieve them. The man had tried, Legolas knew, he must have tried, but they had slipped through his fingers, like particles in water that one tries to hold on to but fails. And Aragorn had then given up. Legolas sensed all this, sensed the man’s failure, sensed the helplessness the mortal must have endured.

But perhaps the immortal being would not be as helpless, the elf thought with a glimmer of hope. Here at last he felt some hint of why he had been sent here, why the Light of the Lady had been brought to him across the miles of Middle-earth, why the Lady herself had reached out to Sam – and thence to himself – from beyond this world. Perhaps he could do what Aragorn could not. Armed with renewed strength, the elf reached for his friend.

But Legolas was not prepared for the malevolent force that suddenly caught hold of him, trying to pull him back. Like a living current, it drew him away from Aragorn’s form – just as it must have sucked out the man’s memories, eroding his mind as the strong waves of the Sea erodes the shifting sands.

Legolas shuddered. He had seen the merciless force of the Sea, and now Aragorn was the helpless shore… 

No, the elf determined. Aragorn would be helpless no longer.

“Baw!” Legolas cried defiantly to the Shadows that tried to wrench him from his friend. “Begone, I will not be taken from him!”Fighting the darkness, he spoke firmly to Aragorn. “Listen to me, Estel,” he said. “Your memories are not lost. Lo, they are here – all around you. Listen to them, Estel!”

Legolas watched for a reaction from the man, but none came, and the head remained bowed.

“Estel – you must reclaim them,” the elf urged. “They are what make you who you are. All that you were and all that you went through – that is what you are now. Reclaim them, mellon nin, I will help you – reclaim them with me!”

Aragorn remained impassive, and Legolas’ anger at the Shadows grew. Crying out at them, he swept his hand amidst them. But as he did, awe came upon him one more, for he saw – with unexpected delight – that the darkness did not take the memories with it. The evil parted as black fumes before the Light of Eärendil, but the memories… the memories remained in its radiant beams – for they held no evil, and they feared not the purity of the light from Aragorn’s forefather. There they were: hovering, drifting aimlessly, waiting to be claimed.

“Aragorn!” Legolas called again excitedly. “See how your memories wait for you to repossess them. Take them now!”

But Aragorn did not move, and Legolas’ anxiety grew. What was he to do?

Then from some unknown source, the answer came to the elf: if the memories were beyond Aragorn’s ability to reclaim, he would need to bring the memories to Aragorn.

“Estel,” said the elf. “Here is your past: all that you knew, all that you loved or loathed, all that you felt – all that you were! Listen, and look!”

Once more, Legolas swept aside the dark waves, leaving Aragorn’s memories suspended in the light beams – a myriad of images and sounds, twisting and turning out of time, out of sequence, yet very real. The bowed, silent figure of Aragorn remained sadly unaware of them, but Legolas was sharply alert. The elf trained his sight and hearing on the perplexing whirlpool of voices and visions from the past, reading fleetingly each incident of Aragorn’s life that he could perceive amidst the collection. Then, latching onto one and scrutinizing it quickly before moving onto the next, he described the images and sounds to the man, as many as he could see and hear, delivering his past to him.

“Estel, do you remember?” he said. “The first time you held a sword? It was Lord Glorfindel who taught you… you were but a young boy then…ah, I see you, Estel, your determination. I hear your laughter… the lord’s praises… here it is…how thrilled you were then, but also fearful.

“Now you are in the wilds…What is this you were skinning, Aragorn? What… I do not wish to know, mellon nin; you have had strange diets. 

“And here… what is this? Paint… paint? You brushed paint on yourself… Estel, you were trying to shine like an elf? Oh, young child that you were – you need do no such thing, for you have the heart of an Eldar!”

How long they remained thus, Legolas could not tell. He continued to hold the man, refusing at times to look at his face for fear that he would see the features disappear. He could not lose hope now – he could not lose Estel.

“Rangers! Estel, think of your brothers true and faithful – you cannot have forgotten them! See how you kept their company, became one of them, shed the robes of Imladris and donned poor cloth…

“And here you were…in… in Mirkwood. Do you remember that, Estel? When you first saw Adar… the crown of flowers he wore…how you could find no words to say…and the pool we loved…feel it, Estel!” 

On and on Legolas narrated all that he could see and hear of Aragorn’s life, holding onto single memories and drawing each out like a fine thread from among a moving mass of fibers. There were millions and millions of strands, and each thread tied to countless others: memories of the smallest of details like the first waking moment of each day to the most significant events of the man’s life. Legolas chose quickly from among the memories, ignoring the most trivial and focusing on those he could speak about with confidence. Tirelessly, he reacquainted his friend with his rich past.  

“Lo! Here is your journey with Gollum, Estel. Surely you remember it, for you loathed him, grew sick at his stench. Remember that stench, Estel? Awaken your mind to it again!

“Ah, here you are in battle… but I was not there, my friend. This was… this was in a time when… Thorongil! You were Thorongil at this time, and I missed you. But you were no less a captain then, Aragorn.  

“And there… there, Halbarad’s death. There you saw him dying, his blood spilt to help you reclaim Gondor. Painful to see, but so important to remember, Estel – you cannot forget his sacrifice. Look, Estel! Look, for I can, and so can you again! Reclaim that memory in Halbarad’s honor!

“Ah, now here are all the sick and wounded you healed, Aragorn – see their gratitude, remember the lives you saved, how fulfilled you felt. Remember the smell of athelas, my friend, clean and fresh – ever had it been of use to you. 

“And here – here  is what is closest to your heart, dear friend. Behold Cerin Amroth, and the woods of Lothlorien, fairest elven realm on Middle-earth! Remember it, where first you met your beloved Evenstar… how fair she was then as she is now… remember Arwen, mellon nin; take back the love of your life! Take back the memories dearest to you!”

And to the elf’s delight, the mention of Arwen drew a movement from Aragorn – nothing more than a slight lift of his head – but to Legolas, it was the like the rising of a star. It was hope. Desperately, the elf searched among the memories for one that he needed Aragorn to see and hear, and when it surfaced, he ushered it closer to the man, both with his hands and with his recount.

“And here, my friend, here is Eldarion – blood of your blood, flesh of your flesh! Remember him, for he is part of you, from you, and of you! Behold his birth, my friend – here, his first few breaths in your arms, and here… wait, let me find it… here it is: see his first steps towards you… how he reached for you!

“You must remember him, Aragorn, you cannot leave him, nor desert the memory of him.”

Again, Aragorn responded. It was only a fleeting spark of awareness, quicker than the blink of an eye, but Legolas sensed this, and encouraged him on.   

“Aye, my friend, re-awaken! You are greater than the darkness, stronger than the Shadows! You have but to strengthen your resolve. Reach out to your memories – they will come to you! Fear not the darkness, Estel, I am here with you and I will keep the Shadows from you. Reach out to them!”

Aragorn said nothing in reply, but Legolas could feel him becoming agitated, bewildered… as if he was seeking.

Immediately, Legolas swept more of the dark waves aside, revealing more of the memories in the clear radiance of the Undying Light. The elf continued to chase the Shadows away, repelling them so that only the memories remained – suspended, and waiting.

Then, finally, to his joy, Legolas sensed Aragorn reach out – tentatively, almost fearfully – but he was reaching out, and hope ignited anew within the elf.

But now, as Aragorn began to awaken, Legolas could feel the Darkness approach the man again, trying to consume him and retain its hold on his soul. Even more forcefully, the elf drove the Shadows back.

“Back, vile thing!” he cried to the Darkness. “You have no dominion over me or the Light of Eärendil. Begone!”

And as if Legolas had pulled on some hidden lever, Aragorn came more to life than he had since Legolas first found him. The elf could sense in his friend the slow rebirth of strength, and with it a desire to break free of chains that no one could see.

Legolas felt Aragorn look outward of himself, puzzling at the memories around him, striving to connect with them, battling with some power to make sense of where he was and who he was.

“Yes, Estel!” cried the elf. “Come back, come back! I am here with you – fear not the darkness!”

Firmly, the Firstborn swept back the black waves that threatened to overpower them and drown them both in its greedy malice.

“Estel! Reclaim who you are,” Legolas urged.

Then he felt in Aragorn the stirrings of something that made his hopes rise even higher: the man was coming to awareness. But even as Aragorn teetered on the edge of understanding, the Shadows swooped in again to cloak him. Legolas acted at once.

“You will not possess him twice, Shadows of Isengard and Mordor!” he exclaimed, forcing the Shadows away from his friend. “He is not yours to take; he belongs to another world – the living world. My world. I have him in my embrace, and here he will remain. Begone from him!”

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

As Legolas battled the darkness in the Realm, the company outside the stone prison felt a tension they could not explain.

 “Look!” Pippin said suddenly to Gimli, nudging the dwarf and catching Hamille’s attention as well.

“Hush!” Gimli hissed in annoyance. “Did I not tell you –”

“No, look!” the hobbit persisted, pointing excitedly to where Legolas and Aragorn lay. “Look at their hands!”

With a grunt, the dwarf’s followed the hobbit’s finger, and to his surprise, he saw his friends’ hands grasp each other more tightly, and the Lamp between them flickered as if the beams were in a struggle with some other force.

“Aye, we see it,” Lord Celeborn said, preempting what would have been Pippin’s excited shouts. Holding out his hands on either side, the elf lord received the firm grasp of Elladan and Hamille. “It is coming to pass. Legolas is in a fight for Aragorn’s soul,” said the ancient elf.     

And the Eldar bowed their heads gravely, clearing their minds and hearts of all thought save to send their kinsman their strength.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

In alarm, Legolas watched the dense darkness continue its unrelenting approach towards Aragorn.

As if it could sense the coming loss of another soul – perhaps the last to ever enter this Realm if an ancient Elf lord could make it so – the mists of the Shadow Realm rushed forth like a living murderous sea of fierce, almost desperate, waves. Cold rage, too, there was in the approaching tide, for the mists knew Aragorn; aye, they knew him as the one who had thwarted the power of the Realm and released its previous prisoners, and they were eager to keep him as compensation.

Legolas retaliated with no less fury of his own. Mordor and Isengard could try to claim Aragorn, but they did not expect to contend with a resolute Firstborn and an unwavering friend who would stop at nothing to save him.

Yet, the elf realized with horror as the Shadows grew more aggressive, he could not do it alone; Aragorn needed to fight the darkness as well. Keeping the darkness at bay, Legolas urged the man to retain his diminutive hold on what seemed to be his awakening to his Self. “Aragorn, awake! Fight now, fight the Shadows!”

The elf could sense Aragorn begin to struggle with the Darkness – no longer was the man completely submissive, but there was still no sign that he knew what was happening. In dismay, Legolas realized that he could not keep the darkness from him forever; Aragorn had to regain his own strength; he needed to reclaim his memories.

It will not be easy, the elf thought. One memory at a time – that is how his recovery can begin: one memory at a time.

And he would help Aragorn gain cognizance by being aware of the one person in his life who was here beside him.

Turning his back to the Shadows, the elf went as close to Aragorn as he could, so close that their spirits almost felt as one.

“Estel,” the elf called firmly, and when the man turned to him with an almost featureless face, he fought not to recoil. “I am here, my friend. It is I.”

Aragorn did not struggle against him, and Legolas felt encouraged. “See me, Estel, and nothing else,” the elf coaxed. “Know me and nothing else. Feel only me – for there is nothing else around you, Aragorn. There is no darkness, or cold; only I, only a friend who loves you. Reach out to me, reclaim your memory of me,” he urged tirelessly.

The elf then reached into his own memories of which Aragorn had been a part: the times they had fought together and laughed together, the joys and hurts and fears and dangers they had shared, and the moments of most intense emotion each had known in the company of the other. Legolas ignored the threat of the swirling Shadows around them, forgetting all danger, all knowledge of his worlds – inside or out – and his whole being at this moment was to serve but one purpose: to exist only as Aragorn’s link to his past. He  spoke of each memory with all the passion he could evoke, making each recollection a living, breathing account of what the man had felt, tasted, touched… and he willed it all into the man whose spirit he held in his protective embrace.

As the hours passed, weariness came over the elf once more, and only his refusal to lose Aragorn to the Realm gave him strength, kept him speaking ceaselessly, patiently… till at last… he felt once more the stirring of Aragorn’s thoughts.

And with it – in no more than the mere hint of a sigh, like the imperceptible beat of a bird’s wing – came the sound of Aragorn’s voice.

Legolas froze.

It had been but a whimper, the first release of breath upon waking, but the elf heard it like the loudest heartbeat, the clearest sign of life, and he felt the man begin to reach out to him.

Quickly, Legolas drew apart from Aragorn to face him, and what greeted him was a vision more welcome than light in this dark realm: the familiar features of the King – the features Legolas had been afraid he might never see again – were taking more visible form.

With a gasp, the incredulous elf held his friend close again, afraid to let go, afraid to risk distancing them and losing the long-missed voice once more.

But the fear did not return, for finally, finally, the weary elf heard the one word from Aragorn he had hoped to hear since he first entered the Realm. 

“Legolas?” the man breathed.

Whether his wraith form could shed tears, the elf did not know, but he felt awash with relief and joy, and his spirit shone like a cluster of stars as he replied immediately. 

“Yes, Estel, it is Legolas! It is I!” he said. “I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to hear your voice again, my friend.”

He waited for Aragorn to come to knowledge of him, sensing the man’s struggle.

“Think of me, Estel,” he coaxed gently. “Remember me – remember all that I am.”

Resolutely, Legolas ignored the Shadows, bending all his thought only on Aragorn, for he found that as long as he remained so bound to Aragorn, the darkness could not reach the man.

“Legolas,” Aragorn said again like the long-missed sound of rain after a drought, and the elf could hear more conviction now. “Legolas…” the man continued. “Green… green…”

“Yes, Estel, I am Greenleaf,” the elf encouraged. “Keep your attention on me – what else can you remember?”

“Wood, water, arrows…” said Aragorn suddenly, sending a thrill of hope through his elven friend. “Wood…” the man seemed to be deep in thought. “Roch nin… Rallias?”

Rallias – his horse! Legolas’ excitement leapt another notch, for Aragorn was now thinking about the horse Legolas had trained for him. The man was seeking memories beyond his friend, making vital connections.

“Yes, Aragorn – you remember Rallias!” Legolas affirmed. “Keep reaching for your memories, my friend. Think about us, and all we have been through, all we are. Do not stop.”

And the man did not. He continued to breathe words, phrases – snatches of speech about things and places and events that bound his elven companion to him: caves, wounds, songs, conversations they had had, secrets they had shared, even people they had known.  Steadfastly, Legolas repelled the aggressive Shadows that threatened to engulf the struggling soul, and patiently urged his friend on, suppressing the temptation to rush him or to provide the memories himself, for Aragorn needed to recall them on his own.

And then, when the man began to say them with greater conviction, Legolas thought it was time. Firmly, the elf swept away the dense, dark mists from around them, exposing Aragorn to the full array of memories that remained: visions and sounds and sensations suspended in the Light of the Lady. They were waiting, as was Legolas.

Of a sudden, Aragorn began to say a whole string of words, mentioning people and times and events from various points in his life. His speech grew more rapid, tumbling upon itself like the millions of memories wrapped around each other before him; ceaselessly, his voice flowed, too fast for Legolas to follow.

But Aragorn was not confused; he seemed to know what he was saying, for his voice grew in confidence and clarity. He was finally beginning to reclaim his life.

In wonder, Legolas watched Aragorn’s memories approach Aragorn’s form, sweeping towards him like a tide to shore. But unlike the tides of the Sea, they did not ebb from him. As the man continued to recall his memories, they seeped into his form, flowing in one long, unbroken stream into his spirit – and did not depart.

In quiet happiness, Legolas witnessed the essence of Aragorn’s life returning to him, and then – to the elf’s utter joy – he saw, at long last, the reformation of the beloved, kingly countenance: like the slow clearing of vapor from a misted mirror, each detail of Aragorn’s face reappeared – from the lips softly uttering the speaker’s memories to the outline of the man’s high, straight nose, to the sensitive eyes – all ethereal still, but all instantly known to the elf who had brought his own soul into the realm of death so that those features would find their home again.

Triumphantly, Legolas cried now to the Shadows: “Begone, ye Darkness! Leave him; he is no longer yours to have!”

And at the Firstborn’s passionate rebuke, the Shadows rolled back farther, swirling in confusion like a living thing thwarted.

In satisfaction, the elf turned his attention back to Aragorn, watching his friend repossess all that was his from the mists of malice. And then, when it seemed all of the man’s memories had been reclaimed, and there were only the unembellished, brilliant beams of the Phial left before them, Legolas called gently to his friend again.

“Estel?”

Aragorn turned, and he filled the elf with sheer happiness as he responded. “Legolas, it is you,” he said, though bewilderment rang clearly in his voice. “You look… like a moonbeam come to life… but it is you.”

Legolas did not know if his friend could see him smile. I could say the same of you, dear friend, he thought. “Yes, Aragorn, it is I – and no matter how I appear, I am truly here,” he said aloud. “Do you know where you are, and why you are in this place?”

The elf could sense the hesitation and puzzlement in the man as he looked around and noticed – apparently for the first time – the oppressive Shadows beyond the small area   of light enveloping them both.

“Dark have been my dreams of late,” Aragorn murmured, echoing words dredged out from the deep pool of his memories, unknowingly pleasing Legolas with the recollection. “I know now how Theoden of Rohan felt when he uttered them, for I too was lost, Legolas. Lost without knowing where I had been come from, or where I needed to go; not knowing who I was, or… or…” The sorrow in the man’s voice was evident as he struggled to put his ordeal into words and found none adequate. “I… I merely… was. I merely existed.” He turned his face to Legolas again. “But I still cannot tell where I am.”

Legolas understood his friend’s extreme bafflement, for Aragorn had been taken by Saruman’s curse before word of it had reached either of them.

“I feel… I feel I have slept long,” the man finished.

Legolas paused at the understatement. “Indeed, you have, Estel,” he said simply. Swiftly, he told the man all that had befallen him, reminding him about his pardon of the Forgotten Ones, explaining what Saruman had condemned him to and what he and Lord Celeborn were attempting. The elf watched Aragorn study his own wraith form and grow both angry and fearful as awareness sank in.

“Are we not dead then, Legolas?” Aragorn asked.

“Nay, Estel,” replied the elf. “We are not one of the dead, for our bodies still live.” Yet we must revive you very soon; your hold on life is tenuous, he said silently, not wishing to frighten the man more than he needed to. “But now that you are no longer lost, Aragorn, and in possession of your self again – you must return where you belong.”

“Arwen!” the man said suddenly. “Arwen, does she –?”

“She knows all,” Legolas reassured him. “Your lady and your son await you, as does your kingdom. Fear not the Shadows, mellon nin. We will depart from this accursed realm. We will seek the Door and leave.” The elf was not entirely certain how he would do it, but he knew he would not stop till he had found it and brought Aragorn out of the darkness. “Come, let us make haste,” he said, drawing Aragorn away from where they were.

Aragorn watched the Shadows retreat from them as they moved, yet follow them like a hungry predator.

“You came for me,” he said unexpectedly, surprising Legolas. “Into this dark… you came.”

The elf halted, taking a moment to appreciate how, even in this time of what must be intense terror for Aragorn, the man could still be concerned about his friend’s dread.  

“You are here, Estel,” the elf said, allowing the simple statement to convey all that the man meant to him, and the only reason he needed to come.

Aragorn bowed his head. “I wish to remain no longer, Legolas,” he said, suppressing his fear. “For both our sakes, take me home.” 

“Gladly, dear friend,” the elf replied. “Let us depart. Take care to stray not from my side.”

As he led Aragorn in a direction that he sensed would lead them to the Door, Legolas once again breathed thanks to the Lady for the Light she had provided, for without it, he would never have found Aragorn, nor would he have any hope of finding the way back. Yet, the Darkness, the elf found, was not easy to overcome. Along the way, its Shadows reached greedily for Aragorn, filling the man with uncertainty and trepidation.

“Back, vile thing!” Legolas cried in defiance, sweeping his hands around them. “You have no dominion over me or the Light I bear, and you shall not wrest this soul from our embrace!” He turned to Aragorn and comforted the frightened man. “It will not possess you again as long as I am here, mellon nin,” he said, drawing him close. “Come.”

Slowly, the companions traversed the dark realm, seeing nothing around them, and having no guide save elven instinct. Long did their journey feel as their forms waded through the seemingly unending Shadows. No warmth could they feel in this chilling domain of death; no sound could they hear save their own muted, hollow whispers. 

They soon reached the solid shapes that Legolas had seen a little after he had entered the Realm: the morbid remains of cursed Men, the Twice Forgotten that Aragorn had pardoned – and both friends thought silently how ironic it was that the King was now before those very bones, bearing their punishment. Man and Elf turned their backs decisively upon the gruesome sight and hastened on, desiring only to be rid of this morose, meaningless existence.

Their search for the exit seemed unbearably interminable – on and on they went, till at length – Legolas heard the murmur of voices surround them. In dismay, Legolas halted and listened carefully, wondering if this was some trick of the Darkness.

Then his tension melted away and great relief flooded him. “Do you hear them, Estel?” the elf asked. “The Valar be praised!”

Aragorn was puzzled. “What?” he asked. “Hear what? Who – ?”

“Those, my friend, are the voices of deliverance,” Legolas said. “Lord Celeborn’s, and Elladan’s, and Hamille’s. Those are supplications to the Valar, and they will lead us back to the Door as surely as signposts.”

Their hopes and confidence renewed, Legolas and Aragorn resumed their slow passage to freedom. Neither companion spoke as the elf led the man towards the voices, and at last, Legolas gave a cry of delight and halted their movement.

“The Gate, Aragorn!” he said, using the light from his hand to light a wall of stone before them – though no outline of any door could Aragorn see. “We have found it!”

How do you know? Aragorn wondered.

“I know,” the elf said simply, reading his friend’s unvoiced query. “I am drawn to it.”

“How does it open?” the man asked aloud, his question tinged with doubt.

Legolas did not answer, but raised his hand to study the wall before him. He could hear the voices of the Eldar; as soft as they were, they gave him hope. “Lord Celeborn provided no guidance as to the manner by which we should leave, for he had none to offer,” he said honestly. “Yet, we must try, for we are now here.”

Gingerly, the elf extended his illuminated hand to the stone wall, to see what would happen.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

“Merry, look!” Pippin hissed in alarm.

“Ow, steady there, Pip!” Merry hissed back, rubbing his side from where his cousin had given him a sharp jab with his fingers. “I know hunger makes you jittery, but could you not –?”

“Shush, Merry – and look!” the younger hobbit said indignantly, inevitably drawing the attention of a worried dwarf and several Gondorian guards to himself. Ignoring the looks of irritation shot at him, the incorrigible hobbit guided Merry’s line of vision to the Door of the stone prison – pointing out the faintly visible red glow marking the outline.

“Well, I’ll be a mushroom’s uncle,” Merry breathed in awe. “You’re right this time, Pip. Gimli – can you see that?”

The dwarf lord was already studying the scene, his beard fairly bristling with excitement and his stout body – tight with apprehension – halfway off the floor. Like the hobbits, he was bursting with a need to know what was happening. Indeed, the company of mortals were sorely tempted to rain questions upon the Firstborn, but they feared to disrupt the deep concentration of the elves, so they bit their tongues and held their queries in check instead, forcing themselves to wait in tense silence for what would unfold.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

As soon as the Light from his hand touched the wall, Legolas felt the stone tremble, as if it were a living thing – sentient to the touch of en elven hand and elven light.  

Eagerly, he applied greater force, thinking perhaps that the Door would yield to the pressure. It did – but in a way the elf did not expect, for it did not swing open, nor did it retreat. Instead, it allowed his wraith form to meld into it.

At last the elf understood. He would penetrate the stone, for it could not hold the Life and Light that could overwhelm it. But what of Aragorn? In concern, he wondered if he might pass through the Door but Aragorn fail to. The man being left behind was not a possibility he would even consider.

Looking squarely at his friend, Legolas spoke gently but firmly. “Aragorn, in a moment, our spirit forms shall try to breach the Door that has held you prisoner,” he said. “It will be a different battle from any other we have faced, so I do not know how to counsel you as to what you will feel or see – or even whether we shall succeed in passing through it whole and unscathed. But I ask you to have faith, and to know this: whatever happens – whether we should live or perish – I shall never leave you. Do you trust me, Estel?”

Fear radiated from the man as he faced Legolas, but fiercer still was his belief in the love of his friend. “Always,” he answered steadily.

“Then walk with me as one,” said the elf. “As we breach that Door, Estel, your spirit must join with mine. Let us not be parted, not for one moment, so that whatever befalls one of us, the fate shall be the same for the other.” The elf looked unflinchingly at his companion. “We have held on to each other through the long years of our friendship, Estel. Hold on to our bond, trust it and nothing else. Now, with everything in you, Estel, bind your spirit to mine – and we shall leave this place together.”

The elf’s words enveloped Aragorn like the safest arms he had ever known, and he obediently went limp, erasing all doubt, all hesitation. Willingly, he let the elf hold him close, till their souls felt as one, and distance between them was no longer a known thing.

At once, Legolas felt a great evil upon them, an almost physical entity that sought to remove them from the Door, determined to force them back into the Darkness they were trying to depart from. Stunned at the ferocity of the attack, the elf called forth all his strength to resist it, for he now had to fend for two souls.

“Defy it, Aragorn, do not let it take you!” he entreated.

Too bewildered at the sudden assault and depleted of vigor from his long captivity, Aragorn could say nothing in return, but he held to Legolas as to a lifeline.  

Great stress was upon the elf as he fought not to be wrenched from their position at the Door. No sound accompanied the vehemence of the dark Shadow tide, but its fury pressed upon him like the fiercest and loudest of storms, and he began to weary. Desperately, he pleaded for the support of his kin on the other side of the Holding Gate that cruelly separated them.

“Do not fail us, my lord!” he beseeched. “Not when we are so close!”

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

Beyond the impregnable Holding Gate, the Lord of Lothlorien responded to the call of distress and tightened his grip on the hands of his companions. Sweat broke upon the brows of the Eldar as they intensified their implorations to the Valar. Their fair voices built in volume, pulsating through the air of the tomb chamber as they communicated their strength to Legolas.

So obvious was the growing anguish of the Firstborn that Dwarf, hobbits and men rose to their feet, hardly daring to breathe. Their ears were filled with the unwavering voices of the Firstborn, but their eyes were fixed on the outline of the evil Door, for it was now a fierce flame-red as the Great Lidless Eye of Sauron had been.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

“Retreat, depart from us!” Legolas cried as the Shadows continued to churn ferociously around him and Aragorn. “You are naught but the remnants of a defeated evil. No longer do you have power over this soul. Begone!”

Legolas could feel Aragorn’s agonized struggle as well, though no word did he hear from the man. Grievous it was to see the torment on the face of the King, who had wandered lost in the loathsome Realm for too long and was desperate to leave. Again and again the elf raised his hand angrily against the dark storm, struggling to keep it away from his friend. He sought only a space of time – a few critical moments – in which he could thrust them both forward and overcome the final barrier that stood between their life and death. But the pull of the Shadows was strong, and the elf was fast wearying. The threat of failure began to loom before him, taunting him.

No… he thought. No, I cannot fail…

Then renewed strength came to the valiant elf prince, and it was from Hope itself.

“Leave us, foul breath of Saruman! You shall not have my soul!” Aragorn cried out at last in defiance of the Shadows. “No wrong deed did I commit when I released the Cursed Ones from your clutches, and no retribution will I accept! Keep your vengeance for your own Makers, for I will be your prisoner no more!”

Had Legolas been in his living form, he would have shed tears of joy at the return of Aragorn’s confidence, for it uplifted him more than anything else could have. But the boldness of the King had enraged the Darkness. Hardly had Aragorn voiced his defiance before Man and Elf were assailed by yet another onslaught of the Shadows, the most aggressive since they began their bid for freedom. Legolas could almost hear the Darkness shriek its claim on the Heir of Isildur:

Deep in the Shadow Land

Hear the bitter cry:

Return, return, O King of Men,

Where the dead do not die!

Legolas instantly braced himself for one of the hardest battles of his long life, for hard and cold was the stone of the Door that guarded the legacy of Isengard and Mordor, domain of the Dead.

With this Gate I hold thee fast

From this day forth until the Last!

As merciless as the tides of the Great Sundering Seas, the vicious current of hate strove to separate him and Aragorn. Dense, black waves poured in between them, trying to pry them apart. That threat to take his friend from him was all the motive Legolas needed for one final effort to overcome the malicious force.

“Hold to me, Estel!” he instructed for the last time. “Do not let go.”

Steadfast were the Light and Life of the Elves that challenged the Holding Gate: deathless were they, and pure. 

Till Light and Life can overwhelm

The Dark and Death of Shadow Realm.

Without further thought, the elf placed his trust only in the Light in his hand, and turned resolutely towards the Door. Crying the names all Elves hold in reverence: “Elbereth Gilthoniel!” he clasped Aragorn to himself, and propelled them forward as one.

Immediately, a tremor – greater than any Legolas had ever felt – shook their wraith forms.

--------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

And the Holding Gate trembled with the rage of one trespassed.

Of a sudden, the bodies of Legolas and Aragorn began to thrash against the hard floor upon which they lay, drawing loud cries from their shocked companions, mortal and immortal alike. Harsh distress was written upon the faces of Man and Elf, their closed eyes and lips compressing as in pain. Their clasped hands held desperately together, and the Phial lying between them burnt with a fierce radiance.

Before anyone else could act, Lord Celeborn leapt in between the thrashing figures and removed the Phial to place it in Legolas’ free hand.

“Keep it fast!” he instructed a startled Hamille, who clamped his own hands around his prince’s, holding the Phial in place. The elf lord himself grasped the bound hands of the two companions, securing them so that they would not wrench free.   

“Great Mahal!” Gimli exclaimed in fear. “What is going on?”

  --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

Violent shudders continued to wrack the spirit forms of Legolas and Aragorn. Blinding black drowned them once more, and a cruel cold surged through them, freezing them beyond endurance, till they could no longer think, and all cognizance was robbed from them.

Shaken to the core, and numb from the bitter unearthly chill, Legolas lost all sense of the friend he had kept him in his embrace, and horror seized him.

Aragorn! He screamed in mute panic. Aragorn, where are you?   

   --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

A cry of terror pierced the air of the tomb chamber, erupting from the throat of the elf prince as if his life were being ripped from him.

“Aragorn!” he called in distress as his head twisted from side to side, seeking the one he named. “Take him not from me! No! Aragorn!” Heavy sobs now shook the body of the elf and tears leaked from his tightly closed eyes.  

Around him, the faces on the men of Gondor turned grey, and a dwarf was no longer breathing.

“Saes, spare him,” Legolas begged in a choked voice. “Aragorn!” he screamed again, drawing tears from two hobbits and his elven kin.

  --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

Estel, Estel! Legolas continued to call frantically, though no sound resounded in the strange dimension he had entered. The elf’s spirit felt it was disintegrating, not from the violent tremors that rocked him, but from a growing despair.

No… he lamented. Saes, I cannot lose him again.

But then a quiet thought – composed and confident – reached the quaking, terrified elf prince from somewhere within his embrace.

You have not lost me, Legolas, it said. I am here. Safe in your keeping, my friend, and one with you.

No face could Legolas perceive in the tempest around him, but the quiet message brought him comfort in the same manner it claimed refuge in the elf prince.

You are my harbor in this storm, said the soundless voice. Nothing can touch me where I shelter. Here I remain as you asked.

As soothing as the touch of a comforting hand in the dark, those words of reassurance eased the elf’s spirit and turned his fear to fortitude. They returned his courage to him and reawakened his senses to the power of the Firstborn.

A bright light began to fill the vision of Legolas, Child of the Eldar. It grew in its radiance and magnitude, and its coming was as a great warmth that drove out the freezing cold and quelled the potent storm. With renewed faith that soared above the Dark and Death of the Shadow Realm, Legolas raised his face to the Light, welcoming it and letting it envelope him and the King of Men in his embrace.

--------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

Nestled in the right hand of the elf prince, the Glass of Galadriel passed painlessly through flesh and bone, and flared with the glorious brilliance of the Star of Eärendil whose light it encapsulated. For long, wonderful moments, the walls of the mountain tomb were awash with the Light of Valinor, and darkness and death bowed in humble defeat to it. The beauty and glory of the Lady of Lothlorien held reign as tears welled in the eyes of Lord Celeborn and his grandson, and all who witnessed the splendor were struck with wordless awe.

Then the light slowly diminished. And as soon as it had returned to its quiet radiance within the glass, the shudders that had rocked the Holding Gate with their vehement fury ceased as abruptly as they had begun.

The bodies of Legolas and Aragorn had also ceased their agitation. Their fingers were still firmly twined – but a peace was upon their features.

--------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

A sudden calm and utter silence descended upon the spirit forms of Legolas and Aragorn. And they knew darkness once more.

--------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

Legolas…

The voice came as from a far place.

Legolas!

Faint it sounded, but it was growing louder.

Legolas... Awake, Legolas!  

“Legolas, saes, awake.”

“Wake up, you fool elf!” the frightened voice of Gimli penetrated his sleep.

Ai, sleep. What a dream… The elf opened his eyes wearily, blinking at faces above him, blurred faces he knew, coming into sharper relief in a hazy, gloomy place. It was a place he had once seen: it was the dimly lit tomb chamber on the Paths of the Dead.

Legolas drew in a deep lungful of air. Then all awareness came flooding back to him, and his long, long hours of agony in the Shadow Realm hit him like a hard painful rush of water.

“Aragorn!’ he cried in a voice no longer hollow. “Aragorn – is he – ?”

“He is here, Legolas,” came a quiet voice from above him, and the prince found himself looking into smiling brown eyes unashamedly shedding tears of relief. “Mae govannen, bridhon nin,” said Hamille in a shaky voice. “Well met again.”

Legolas immediately tried to raise himself from his prone position, but the images around him began to swim, and he felt the strong yet gentle hand of Lord Celeborn holding him down easily.

“Be at peace, Child,” the elf lord’s deep timbre resounded in comforting tones. “You have conquered the Realm of Death, and brought Elessar back as you vowed to. Well have you kept the honor of the Elves, and returned Hope to Men. Now, rest.”

A sigh of satisfaction passed Legolas’ trembling lips. As keen as he was to respond to the glad greetings of the men, hobbits, elves and dwarf around him, his eyes merely spanned their smiling countenances swiftly, for at the moment, he sought only one face, one person.

He turned to his left, and there he was: beside him, resting upon the supportive arms of his deeply relieved foster brother. Aragorn’s face, framed by long dark hair, was pale and gaunt, but tranquil. All its features were complete, including grey eyes that were fixed on his.

Though the elf’s heart leapt with boundless joy at the sight, he felt his throat constrict.

“Estel,” he choked out feebly. He felt a pressure upon his hand, and he realized then that it was still bound with Aragorn’s, and the Phial lay between them, reminding him of the role it had played in their salvation from the Shadow Realm.

No response came from Aragorn, who merely continued to gaze at him with a weak smile upon parched lips.

A shade of doubt marred Legolas’ joy as he swallowed and addressed his friend again. “Estel,” he said nervously. “Estel, do you know where you are? Do you… do you know me?”

The King of Men looked unblinkingly at the elf a moment longer before the grey eyes softened.

“And how shall I not know part of my soul, Legolas?” the man replied softly. His words were few, but no further speech was needed. That reply was enough to reach the heart of the elf with whom he shared a bond, a bond for which no name could be found.

Reassured of the man’s presence, Legolas managed a smile before he closed his eyes wearily and lay quiet.

The two friends heeded not the bustle of activity around them as their companions prepared for a welcome departure from the loathsome Mountain of the Dead. Neither did they have the strength to engage in lengthy conversation with a dwarf and hobbits who longed to hear their tale of horror. Not yet did Aragorn feel the cold or hunger that would wrack his body as he recovered from his unearthly sojourn in a tomb for the condemned.

For now, the King desired only to reflect on what he remembered of the people he loved and had lost for a time, and the elf prince sought only the confidence that Hope had been truly returned to them once more.

And both friends were content to rest in peaceful reverie outside the Shadow Realm: a sleep from which they knew they would surely wake.

Note:

Well,  we’ve come to the end of this long, critical chapter, and the end of the tale. Almost. There’s one chapter left. I’m exhausted. So I shall take a little rest (like Aragorn and Legolas) before that final part. My thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter.

By the way:

The Sound I was referring to is what is known in some philosophies as the Cosmic sound, heard only in moments of deep consciousness, where one connects with everything that exists in the universe. I wanted to include it in this story as I think that elves would be even more sensitive to it, but feel free to consider it an AU element if you see it as such. And, oh, it is quite different from Tinnitus :–)  

Pre-chapter note:

I began this chapter a couple of months ago at home in Asia, wrote the last paragraph on vacation in Quebec last weekend, finalized everything as best as I could on board a plane to Vancouver, and am now posting it from an Internet café in San Francisco.

Oyez. It’s got to be the hardest chapter I’ve ever had to generate due to time constraints.  But it’s been fun. :–)  And I can finally give the story closure.

RESOLUTION

It was going to be a beautiful Fall, everyone could tell. The season promised to drape the elven realm of Ithilien in vibrant reds and golds, and soft greens and browns. Already the hues, both rich and subtle, were painting the perfect backdrop for the coming bonding ceremony of Hamille and Faewyn, the first ever to grace the fair elven woods.

Weeks ago, Hamille had been shaken by the long hours spent sitting helplessly before the unmoving body of Legolas outside the Shadow Realm in the Mountain of Death. In the empty hours, he had pondered on the light and joy that the smiles and laughter of his prince had cast upon the realm of his people. He had realized more than ever before the fragility and uncertainty of that precious life, and in his fear, Hamille had resolved that if Legolas should escape the realm of death, he would immerse Ithilien in the cheer of a celebration to drive away the dark memories while his prince healed. Thus very graciously but firmly, Hamille had persuaded both families to hold the ceremony in Ithilien. Faewyn was quite happy with the beautiful woods, and so the matter had been settled with considerable ease.

As the elves of that young woodland realm made preparations for the ceremony, Aragorn recuperated in the comfort of the White City’s rooms under the watchful eye of his Queen and the Citadel’s healers. Slow had been his healing at the start, for his body and spirit had suffered much, but under the gentle ministrations of many caring hands, he began to partake of food and drink, and to regain some strength. Legolas had been under similar care for the first week, but the child of the Eldar, once assured of Aragorn’s steady if slow recovery, had soon chosen to return to the beloved oaks and beeches of Ithilien, for his true respite came from the sun and the good earth, and it was the song of trees that gently drove out from his mind the dark whispers of his battle with black Shadows.

Yet, the elf prince had not stayed away long, for no great peace could he find till he could see and hear for himself the return of confidence to the friend he had risked his life to save. He worried still for Aragorn, for though the King had no lack of care that would restore health to his body, the elf knew that it would be harder for his spirit to recover from the terror of the Shadow Realm: an ordeal unlike any other that he or Aragorn had encountered in their lives.

“A stranger foe I have not met, Hamille, and few have been more deadly to Aragorn,” the elf prince recounted to his friend as he gazed at the dark mantle overhead one moonless and starless night. “It weakened me more than I ever thought it could, but it must have been infinitely worse for Aragorn, for it exacted much of his life force.”

Legolas knew that no one but he would understand the dark dreams from the past that might assault the man’s mind at moments of vulnerability; no other person save he who had ventured into the Realm with Aragorn – where the man had lost his very self – would feel the depth of fear and agony those recollections could bring.

And so Legolas had returned to reside in the City for a while, to be near his friend: a discreet but observant presence. When Aragorn lapsed into pensive reflection and thought no one would notice – Legolas did. When the demons from a damned existence troubled him, and he fought not to show it – Legolas knew. The elf prince took care to spend time with Aragorn each day, sometimes to listen to his thoughts, and sometimes to merely sit beside him in speechless companionship, while the man took time to grasp the full significance of all that had taken place and come to terms with his narrow escape from becoming one of the Forgotten.

Aragorn grew stronger, gradually resuming the lightest of his duties each morn and afternoon, meeting with his Councilors and attending to the smaller matters of court as soon as he was able. But at the close of each day, he quietly and gratefully sought the calming presence of his elven friend: the one soul in whom he could confide without hesitation any lingering doubts or questions about his long, long days in the unnatural tomb of the Shadow Realm. Legolas had been his harbor when they stood in that uncertain plane between life and death during their escape through the Holding Gate, and the elf was still his refuge even during this period of healing. Here, he felt as he did then: safe and understood, anchored to an unchanging strength when all around seemed to move relentlessly fast. 

Thus Elf and Man sat this cool evening in the King’s study, having retired early from the chill of the outside to seek comfort in the warmth of a crackling fire, in the feel of thick, soft fur beneath their feet, in the taste of a light wine and cheese, and in the company of good friends. With them sat Faramir and Lord Celeborn also, for the latter had stayed on in the City with his grandsons, partly to make certain of Aragorn’s healing, as well as to attend Hamille’s bonding ceremony. In between the strings of easy conversation, Legolas studied the face of the King, and it saddened him a little to see that though Aragorn was as close to his hale self as he could be, there seemed still a touch of the Shadow upon him, noticed only by those who knew him best and by he who had fought the darkness  with him. Not for the first time, Legolas shivered to think of how close they had been to losing the man altogether.

“I am well, mellon nin,” Aragorn said quietly, catching the elf’s eye. “Be not overly concerned.”

Legolas smiled at having been caught in his contemplation, but Faramir only frowned at the reminder of the events that had almost robbed Gondor of her ruler: not only the malicious curse of Saruman but also the foul deeds of Fierthwain and his mates. At the thought of the villagers, the Steward cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.

“I pray we do not rue the decision we made to spare those villains,” he stated in his characteristically even tone, though the elves and Aragorn knew the ire that it hid.

Upon first hearing the full account of Fierthwain’s merciless deeds from Lord Langley, Faramir and other Council members had held discussions in the King’s absence while the monarch was still healing. Most of them had been so horrified that they had called for the execution of the villagers, and they knew that they would have the support of Legolas’ incensed kin. But there had been one or two dissenting voices.

“Execution! Is that not too drastic?” Lord Burion protested. “Those men did not attempt to kill the King himself, and their only wrongdoing was against the elves.” The Councilor had little liking for the Firstborn and made even less effort at concealing it. He raised his scanty eyebrows and snorted smugly while his pudgy fingers drummed against the table. “Come now, does that warrant execution?”

Lord Langley was horrified. “Surely you jest, my lord!” he said disbelievingly. “To my mind, what they did to the two elves still amounted to treason, for the elves were part of the King’s Company and the Lamp in Prince Legolas’ possession the key to the King’s salvation. If it had been lost, it would have led to the King’s demise!”

“Aye, aye!” agreed other Councilors, whose rage called for a fitting punishment.

Yet it was Elrohir and Legolas themselves who, when consulted on the matter, took pity upon the villagers.

“I cannot express enough my utter anger at what they did, but… the life of a man – any man – is too brief to end needlessly,” Legolas said, thinking about his mortal friends as he spoke. “I would not take it unless there was truly no other choice.”

“I concur,” said Elrohir. “It was despicable what they did to us, but it was out of fear - however senseless - and I would give them a chance, my lords. Clap them in irons and throw them into the deeper dungeons if need be, and put them to good use in service of the City. If they should still refuse to repent thereafter… we shall then submit the entire matter of penalty to you.”

“Ultimately, though, the decision lies with Aragorn,” Legolas pointed out. “They are his subjects, and we shall abide by what he deems fit.”

When Aragorn had recovered sufficiently to hear of the debate and make a judgment, he had quickly acceded to the suggestion of his elven friend and brother. In truth, he had been greatly relieved to hear it, for, though his initial reaction before they left the village had been one of unbridled wrath, that sentiment soon warred with his sympathy for Mathgor and his kind mother who had raised Fierthwain.

“Spare him if you can, my lord,” Mathgor had pleaded before the King’s company departed from the village. “I am ashamed to face your court on my cousin’s account, but I ask for pity upon my aging mother and father, who have loved him as a son.”

Thus it was that by the King’s judgment, Firethwain and his mates were made prisoners in the deep, dark dungeons of the White City. But Aragorn had been firm in commanding that they merely be spared death, not punishment. Watched closely by the most alert of guards, the prisoners were assigned to hard labor during the day. They worked on the construction and restoration of stone structures and plumbing systems in and around the City, receiving little mercy from overseers who had learnt that the villagers had themselves shown none to Legolas and Elrohir and the King himself. Among the overseers were the dwarf lord Gimli, who took delight in assigning the heaviest of tasks to the men who had caused injury to his elven friend. With him were the brothers Bragor and Dagor, the latter two being honored guests of the City at the invitation of a grateful Queen.

Hard enough was the prisoners’ burden during the day, but when evening fell and they sought what rest they could in their dank, dark cells, came the second – and at times it seemed less bearable – part of their punishment. It was a torture not meted out by order of the King, but designed and delivered expressly for them nevertheless, courtesy of the dwarves.

This was the hour – often two – when the villagers were made to endure the very loud and spirited singing of Gimli, Bragor and Dagor. Late each afternoon, or in the night if they so chose, the dwarves came stomping into the dark dungeon and sat themselves just inside the doors of the cells, out of reach of the prisoners who were chained to the wall at the ankle. Then, with their vigor boosted by mugfuls of ale at the ready, the threesome heartily sang every song they knew, knowing that their booming voices would set off deafening echoes in the stone enclosures, loud enough to rattle the bones and curl the insides of the prisoners. The dwarves held nothing back. They bellowed out rousing tunes about courage and loyalty, and war cries that they greatly favored, as well as songs of ire with no few curses in the lyrics. They rendered, too, their dirges for the dead, complete with wailing, for the passion of the Dwarves was something they had no qualms about displaying. The dwarves also beat out their passion - often in deliberately ill rhythm - upon drums fashioned expressly for the purpose. And though the songs resonated well with the hardiness of dwarves and their stone homes, the sounds were hard on human ears unused to such robust expression. Even the prison guards kept a respectful distance away when the dwarves visited.

“I am most grateful to Gimli for showing no quarter to those merciless scoundrels,” Faramir remarked. “It will be long before those sounds can be dredged out of their nightmares!”

Aragorn and Legolas could not help smiling as they imagined the villagers trying - and failing miserably - to stop their ears against Gimli’s roar, for flesh and bone had little hope against a voice that could quite easily penetrate wood and stone.

“But has Gimli not become weary of the task?” Lord Celeborn wondered.

Faramir almost snorted in amusement. “Weary? On the contrary, my lord, Gimli is only too happy to oblige! I’m sure he wishes it could go on longer!” he exclaimed. “But the men shall be sent to Ithilien next month, as we agreed. They shall be put to good use there, I trust. Hamille shall see to it.” 

Legolas nodded. The villagers, at Aragorn’s suggestion, would be sent to Ihitlien to help with the building of talan to house the guests from Mirkwood who would be traveling there for the bonding ceremony. The elves did not truly need the help, of course, but Aragorn thought that it would allow the villagers to see for themselves how good a people the Elves were, and he was certain that they would subsequently beg to serve the remainder of their sentence there rather than face the dwarves again. How long that sentence would last, no one could yet tell, for Aragorn was adamant about one point: that they would be released only when they felt true remorse for what they had done to Legolas and Elrohir.

“My people will be quite happy to oversee their conduct for a while, but remorse may be slow in coming,” Legolas remarked. “They will have to be returned to the City at some point.”

Faramir raised a hand in assurance. “Leave that to us, Legolas; if they have not seen fit to change their thinking by then, we shall do as we see fit,” he said. “But in the meantime, here’s a question that is entirely unrelated, and I hope I am not being too forward with it: are there no plans for you to be wed, Legolas?” 

The abruptness of the question left the three listeners reeling – Legolas not the least. Rarely witnessing such directness from the Steward, and never on the subject of marriage, the elf prince was dumbfounded for a moment.

“I? To be wed, you ask?” Legolas spluttered at last. The pallor on his face drew one of Lord Celeborn’ rare smiles, and Aragorn bit down on his lower lip to keep from showing his mirth.

“Yes, you,” Faramir answered without blinking, his expression sincere. “To be honest, I would have thought yours would be the first wedding held in Ithilien, but it seems Hamille has been a better wager –”

“Wager?!” Aragorn held up a hand to interrupt, amused surprise apparent on his face. “I knew of no such wager!”

Faramir coughed self-consciously in the manner of one who has revealed too much and absently ran a finger along the arm of his chair, keeping his eyes on the movement rather than his companions. “I fear this good wine has loosened my tongue somewhat,” he admitted sheepishly. “It was a wager only between Eowyn and myself. We – er – discussed whose would be the first wedding in the woods of Ithilien. I – wrongly of course – insisted it would be Legolas’, but my lady was quite certain it would not be. It turns out that she had the greater foresight.”

A spurt of laughter from the three listeners followed this confession. “She did indeed!” Legolas concurred light-heartedly in his silvery voice. His tone was one of mirth, but deep within, he was reminded of the decision he had made many years ago: that the remainder of his time in Arda would be devoted to Aragorn and his family and the running of his kingdom, for they would be gone in the twinkling of an eye in the span of an elven lifetime, and the immortal would then have ages uncounted to think of other matters. “There will be time in abundance to pursue that,” the elf said, smiling. “Besides, Faramir, my life is often so unsettled; which elleth in her right mind would wish to be betrothed to me?” 

Faramir and Aragorn raised their brows in genuine disbelief and shook their heads.

“Almost the entire female population of the Greenwood, I would imagine,” the Steward said teasingly.

“Aye, and half the maidens in my kingdom!” Aragorn added. “And that’s only counting those who would confess it openly!”

Laughter rumbled again within the group, and Legolas felt how good it was to hear it once more from Aragorn. Little had the man been able to laugh since their return, and the elf silently thanked Hamille for holding the coming celebrations so close to Minas Tirith, for the joy was already spilling over to the hearts within these stone walls.   

Just then, more laughter came drifting in, and a bright-faced Eldarion entered the room with the children of Faramir, their mothers in tow. Standing to greet the ladies, the men and Legolas noticed Eldarion holding something in his hands, where it lay carefully nestled.

“Father, Legolas! Look what we found!” the young prince called out excitedly, running towards Aragorn and extending his hand, displaying a bird with a broken wing, a fledgling of no more than three weeks.

“We found it outside his window, and its mother is nowhere to be seen!” Faramir’s daughter explained to her father. “So we have to care for it.”

“And now you must show us how to mend the wing,” Eldarion said to Aragorn, stroking the frightened bird comfortingly. “Please, Father? Could we do it now, before bed?”

Three wide-eyed expressions pled with the King and Steward, and the long-suffering mothers standing behind added their own resigned looks.

“Pray excuse this disruption,” Eowyn said with an apologetic nod to Legolas and Lord Celeborn. “They insisted on bringing their – um, patient – to the King.”

“Even his uncles would not do,” Arwen laughed softly, placing her hands on her son’s shoulders. “Elladan and Elrohir were only too glad to relinquish the task to you, Estel.”

Aragorn gazed lovingly at his beautiful Queen and realized how hard-pressed she and Eowyn had been to keep the children occupied after the departure of the Hobbits and their young ones. Much as Merry and Pippin would have liked to prolong their stay, the Mayor of Hobbiton felt they had neglected the Shire for too long, and so – with the Phial of Galadriel safely returned to him – Sam and his company had said their farewells, leaving behind three disappointed children who sorely missed their company and who grew restless as a consequence.

Taking pity upon their wives, Aragorn and Faramir nodded of one accord. “Come along then,” said Aragorn in a gentle voice reserved for his son. “Let us perform our service to this poor fledgling, and we shall put him – and three other young ones standing before me – to bed for the night. Take your leave of these gentlemen and let us be on our way.”

Among happy cries, the children bade Legolas and Celeborn good night and skipped off with their parents, dragging their fathers along by the hand. Aragorn turned to give Legolas a smile that promised he would be back, before giving his son his full attention.

Celeborn looked fondly at his granddaughter and her family as they left the room. The eyes of the elf lord – eyes that could freeze or kindle fires in the stoutest of hearts – now softened in a face where wisdom resided without age. Sitting down slowly, Celeborn continued to gaze at the door through which Arwen had just exited.

“It was for this that I stayed, Legolas,” the elf lord whispered, almost to himself, yet fully aware that Legolas would hear him. “It was for times such as this.”

Legolas looked at the aged elf in surprise, for it was rare for the mighty and elusive Lord of Lothlorien to speak to him – a child by comparison – of matters so close to his heart.

It was for this that I stayed.

The words echoed in the elf prince’s mind though the speaker had gone silent, for the prince understood to what Celeborn alluded. It was the answer to a question that Legolas had long wished to ask but had never voiced - till now.

“And this is why Elladan and Elrohir chose to stay as well, is it not, hir nin?” the young elf queried. “Why all of you did not sail with Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel?”

The nod was almost imperceptible, but Legolas saw it.

“Dire indeed would have been the fate of Elessar in the Shadow Realm had I not still been in Arda, and the heart of Arwen would never have mended,” the elf lord replied. “Aye, Legolas… it was for times such as this that we chose to stay. There may yet be times when they will need us in the coming years… till they have lived out their lives.”

The elf lord’s eyes glistened when he had finished, and he turned them full upon the silent elf prince. “But this is no strange matter to you, is it, Greenleaf?” he asked quietly. “You understand this, for you feel and do no less for Elessar, and for Gimli.”

It was Legolas’ turn to nod. “Aye, hir nin,” he replied, casting his eyes downwards. “Aye.” And he could say no more.

There was a hint of a smile from Celeborn as he took a deep breath. “It is well, then,” he said. “These whom we cherish shall not want for love.”

The two elves sat still and silent for a while. Young and old they were, ages apart, but each understood the fullness of the other’s heart, and they were glad.

“I hear that your kin will soon be here for the bonding,” said the elf lord, lightening the tone of the conversation. “It will be good to see your adar once more. When last we met, we were in arms, and though the victory over Dol Guldur was sweet, it is best left in the past.” 

“Aye, my lord, he will be here in two weeks perhaps, and he will be very pleased to have your company as well,” Legolas said. “And though I too look forward to meeting with him, I cannot say I welcome the thought of listening to all he has to say to me. I have not faced him since… since the Shadow Realm.”

Celeborn grew grave again and leaned back in his chair. “We shall both have to face him.”

Legolas shook his head. “Hold no blame against yourself for what you did, my lord; Adar will understand,” he said.

“Let us hope so,” said the elf lord.

“The ceremony will raise his spirits at least; he is very fond of Hamille,” Legolas smiled as he thought of his friend. “And Hamille himself will finally have something to divert his attention from me. He would not release me from his sight for weeks after our return, while I recovered.” 

“He had a right to worry, for it was an unnatural dark you were subjected to, Legolas,” Celeborn said, studying the face of the younger elf. “Are you quite well now?”

“Yes, hir nin, quite well,” Legolas replied.

“And how is Hamille?” asked Celeborn.

“Happy, of course – ”

“That is not what I meant,” said the elf lord. “Is he coping with the Sea longing?”

Legolas drew in a breath. He had not expected that question.

“Has he spoken of sailing?” the elf lord pressed on. 

A slight shadow passed over the elf prince’s countenance at the mention of the affliction that he himself bore. “Aye, he has spoken of it,” he replied after a pause. “And his family would not be averse to it.”

Legolas stared into the fire unblinkingly, and Celeborn wondered if the elf might be pondering the impending departure of a good friend. 

“He will sail then?” Celeborn asked in his deep voice.

There was a slight shrug of slim shoulders. “That chapter of his life has not yet been written, my lord, and I cannot read it,” Legolas replied. “But… for now… he has said that he will not leave so long as I remain.” The elf looked up and smiled. “I fear he takes too much to heart my adar’s charge to see to my well-being - and I cannot deny, hir nin, that I am glad.”

Celeborn nodded in understanding. And the two elves sat speaking quietly till Aragorn and his brothers came to join them, and the rest of the evening passed in pleasantness.

That Fall, Hamille and Faewyn were bonded in a beautiful ceremony, in the presence of their King and Prince and Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien, and the White City of Gondor rejoiced with them.

  ---------------------------<<>>---------------------------

As much as the celebrations had lifted his spirits, Aragorn still felt a disquiet within that could not be assuaged by the cheer of festivity, or the comforts of his kingly residence, or the administration of healing herbs. The glow of health had returned to his countenance,  but in his eyes, a trace of pensiveness still remained, as one who has been witness to some secret sorrow that is impossible to tell in words and therefore cannot – save to one who has been there with him.

And so it was not long after the wedding that he sought the companionship of his friend Legolas, and together they journeyed to the Glass Pool, with only a small group of elves as escort. Glad was Aragorn for this avenue of escape, for as soon as they began to climb the trees that both concealed and provided the only access to the place, his heart began to lighten, and when his feet touched the ground that ringed the pool, he felt - as he always did - that he had returned to another home.

In this refuge, there was a calm that Aragorn could find nowhere else, even if it was only for a while. Strange though it was, he felt safe here where no walls hemmed him in, a security reinforced by the presence of Legolas’ eagle-eyed elven guards positioned in the tops of trees, assuring that no intruder could approach within miles of the place. Here, Aragorn felt a warm peace even in the cold of the season, and the random array of woodland sounds seemed to him the sweetest music. The shifting rays of the sun, as they filtered through leaves of red and gold, played on his skin and left shadows he did not fear.

It was in this haven that Aragorn finally found a greater freedom to speak of his ordeal than he had done anywhere else. In the hours beneath the dark blue of twilight, as he lay wrapped in the thick blankets Legolas had brought for him, and the elf kindled a fire for his benefit, the man cast away the Crown of his rule and the stoicism the role demanded. Listening to the melodious voice of the faithful lomelinde, he let it draw tears from his eyes as if it were singing his tale. Here at last, Aragorn the man - not the King - felt touched by a cleansing purity, and the remaining traces of his dark memories washed slowly away.

“I was in a strange place those long, dark weeks, Legolas,” he whispered, his breath misting in the cool air. “I think… I was in a shadow place even before I entered that stone prison. And then… and then when my memories were taken, I was so lost. I have never faced such fear, such despair…”

Legolas’ hands worked deftly to build the fire as he listened to his friend. He wished he could remove those dark memories quickly from Aragorn’s mind, lamenting that only Time had that power.

“Fear no longer, Aragorn, you are in the light now,” the elf said nonetheless, and the fire sprang to life as if to illustrate his words of comfort. Brushing off bits of dry leaf and dirt from his hands, Legolas settled himself on a blanket beside his friend.

“Yes, I am, Legolas, and it is blessed,” Aragorn responded. His eyes were trained on the dancing flames, but it was not the fire he saw, and when he spoke, his tone was low and sad. “If there is one thing the Shadow Realm has taught me, my friend, it is this: that I could lose all that I love, and all that mean much to me, in an instant.  And thus it has reminded me in forceful terms to use well my days on this earth.” 

Legolas smiled in understanding. “That has ever been part of your wisdom, Estel,” he said. “The Shadow Realm merely prompted you to remember it.”

Indeed, since his return, Aragorn’s mind had taken inventory of many people and many things that held value for him as he lay healing in the White City, for he had forgotten them once, and wished never more to do so again. He devoted much time to Arwen and Eldarion, noting things they said and did that he had taken for granted before. Lovingly, he wrapped each memory and stowed it away, hoping he would never lose it. He had spoken at some length with the hobbits before they left for home, and in doing so, reminded himself about each of their strengths and quirks. His brothers, too, received his attention as he engaged them in happy recollection of the days of his childhood and youth.

But this moment here in this refuge - as he lay looking at the stars and revealing his innermost thoughts without restraint - this moment was for Legolas alone.

“For those dark, dark hours, my friend – who knows how many? – you were all I held on to, all that I believed in - indeed, all that I knew,” Aragorn said. “I escaped a fate worse than death only because you were there, and you knocked at the door of my soul till I answered, even as you promised you would. Ever shall that door be unlocked for you, Legolas.”

Then Aragorn’s spirit finally broke free of some unseen chain upon it, and Man and Elf talked as they had not been able to do for many months. The King, whose heart had not truly reopened in fullness since his release from captivity, now spoke of hopes and fears and of things past, present and future. He hid nothing, for Legolas had seen his whole life. All its moments - significant or trivial - had been laid bare to the elf in the light of Galadriel in the Shadow Realm. The years fell away, and their hearts were both young and old, their laughter was of joy, and even their silence was of a deep faith in their bond of love.

Then in that span of silence, Legolas kept the vow he had made in the darkness of the  Realm: that he would teach Aragorn to listen to the Sound of Existence. The friends closed out the rest of the world that night, seeking only the Sound. They listened to it and remembered that they were but two minute beings in a vast, endless World: one part of it they could see, and the other they had yet to encounter. Aragorn learned all this and marveled at it, and he kept that knowledge ever in his heart, so that in the latter days of his life, he too would stop from all that he was engrossed in, and take some time to find that Sound, for in doing so, he would touch all there was in his world and beyond.

Having heard the Sound, the friends engaged once more in deep conversation; and though their hearts were lightened, their eyes grew heavy, and ere long they fell asleep to the sweet, unceasing song of the nightingale.

In the middle of the night, when a lingering wisp of the black haze in Aragorn’s memory sought to trouble his mind and push him onto shadowed corridors where he would once again walk in fear and loneliness, Eärendil shone forth brightly above them with the light no shadow could reach. Then, without conscious thought, the adan sought Legolas’ arm, and he clasped it in trust and companionship as he had done when their spirits had been wandering lost in the dread and depression of the Shadow Realm. One quick grasp was all that transpired, but it was enough to reassure the mortal soul that he was not alone, enough to tell him that the Life who had once delivered him from Death was still here, still with him.

And thus they remained, mortal and immortal, peaceful smiles ghosting their slumbering faces, till the sun rose once more to drive away all darkness. Here, no foulness would touch the souls of the Elf and the Ranger. Here in their secret haven, they were confident in the knowledge that whatever shadowed realms they might enter throughout the years to come, they would endure; for – stronger than the sun, and brighter than the Glass of Galadriel – was the light they would always be for each other.

FIN

It will soon be 2022. After almost two decades, I still respond to all reviews posted and will continue to do so as long as I can. I poured many, many, many hours into the writing of this tale so if you enjoyed it, please do leave a note if only to say hello. :-) 

Note:

(I dedicate the section about Hamille’s wedding to Red Squirrel, as the idea for Hamille’s bonding was inspired by her question about the little elleth who had been so interested in Hamille in Once Upon a Strongbow. You are free to feed her acorns for inspiring the end of Hamille’s bachelorhood and getting him a wife, or chase her up a tree because she has made him no longer available.

The Glass Pool, for those who are unfamiliar with it, was first mentioned in my other story, For the Love of the Lord of the White Tree.)

And so we come at last to the end of this tale. I have felt great satisfaction in the telling of it, as I had long hoped to weave a tale around one of the most intriguing - and largely ignored - mysteries in Tolkien’s works: the skeleton by the door in the Mountain of the Dead. In Shadow Realm has thus been the fulfillment of a personal dream. It seems apt that I finished this chapter while flying over the Rocky Mountains, for it had also been another of my dreams since childhood to see these magnificent mountains. Though I have now seen and visited part of them several times, their majesty never fail to bring tears to my eyes each time they come into view. What a privilege. They remind me much of the Misty Mountains of Arda.  

I thank the readers who have shared this journey of the Shadow Realm with me. As always, my appreciation goes out to those who have taken time to post reviews, particularly those who have done so faithfully since the beginning. You know there is no other reward writers ask for than your continued interest and responses. I made several new friends during the course of this story and am proud to count myself among those whom they have chosen to add to their fanfic list. I hope to make many more. 

In response to a frequent query that sounds something like “when will you post a new story?” - I’m afraid I have no answer at the moment. It may be some time before I can write and post another, but you know that Aragorn and Legolas are never absent from my heart and mind, so when I find inspiration - and mainly, when I find TIME - you’ll hear from me again. :–) Till then, my friends - keep well, may the Light of Hope and Love ever be with you.

Namárië.