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.

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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!