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!