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.

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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.

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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.

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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. 

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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.