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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.