CHAPTER 13:  PATHS OF FEAR

“Aragorn.”

“Aragorn, can you hear us?”

Mmmpph…?d

“Estel.”

Mmmmph… so dark. Where am I?

“Aragorn!”

Aragorn, that is who I am. I’m here. Uhhh…but it is so dark… Where was I before? Where am I now?

“Estel… can you hear us?”

Heavy dark, so heavy. I’m leaving, leaving now, uuuhhh… spinning… everything is spinning…

Aaaa… what is that roar? Faint, but getting louder. And someone is calling to me – or is that the roar? The steady pounding… pounding…

“Estel?”  

“He’s so pale…”

“Come, Elessar, awake.”

I hear you, I hear you.

Aaah… spinning… I’m leaving…aaaa… the darkness lightens, the weight lightens. And I hear you. I feel you. I feel it… what is in my hands…?

“Keep the Phial close to him, keep his hands around it.”

“Look – he stirs!”

A touch leaves my brow, but not my hands, not my back.

“Estel, awake, my friend.”

I hear you. I hear rain, heavy rain. Aaaa… a little light. Mmmpph… there you are, there you are.

I am coming.

Aragorn’s eyelids fluttered slowly open and he blinked. They closed again quickly, and moments passed while he stayed still – waiting for the spinning to stop, doing nothing more than wait and wonder. He felt himself struggling to rise to the surface from some unknown depth, and when he finally opened his eyes again, the things that filled his vision now remained in one place, but he continued to look around in a daze.

It took some time before he could gradually discern some very anxious faces above him, watching him intently. There was… Lord Celeborn, looking grave; Gimli and Elladan and Hamille, all with wide eyes; Mathgor and the village elders a little beyond them – peering worriedly at him, then turning to speak in another direction. To whom were they speaking…?

He looked away from them and turned to the right. And there was Legolas. The dazed man slowly realized that he was seated on the floor, propped against the elf prince, whose blue eyes looked searchingly at his face and locked with his own grey ones.

“Estel?” Legolas called softly. Aragorn could tell the elf was holding his breath, awaiting a response which did not emerge from his strangely reluctant throat.

“Is he… is he… himself?”  This was Gimli, posing the question in a worried tone.

“Estel?” Elladan called brokenly, his face blanching. At his side, Lord Celeborn and Hamille studied the King with unwavering eyes.

“Estel, saes – say something,” Legolas urged breathlessly, and Aragorn could feel a slender elven arm tightening its hold around him.

The man blinked and swallowed. “Legolas – what happened?” he finally croaked.

A wave of deep relief that had been waiting to break washed over the little group, riding in on sighs heard clearly above the steady beat of the rain.

The elf prince closed agonized blue eyes. “Thank the Valar,” he breathed before his forehead fell slowly against the dark hair of the bewildered King.

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“We feared we had lost you to that… that which has hold of Mathuil,” Elladan confessed to Aragorn as their little company sat around a fire crackling in the hearth of the small but clean cottage that had been prepared for the King’s company.

As soon as the rain had begun to lighten, and Aragorn had felt up to walking, they had left the home of Mathgor’s parents and rushed through the wet night to their accommodation for the night.

“Aye, you gave us quite a scare, man!” Gimli declared from where he sat sharing the warmth of the fire with the wet clothes hanging in front of it. “We thought you’d freed the old man, but you passed out so suddenly! What happened?”

Sitting in an armchair, with his fingers closed around a cup of hot tea, Aragorn stared into the flames as he recalled his experience. He shook his head slowly, still feeling a little weak.

“Nothing is really clear to me,” the man explained. “I felt I was sinking into some cold, unpleasant darkness. I seemed to be heading somewhere… yet I was… lost.”

“Did you feel him – it – trying to take you?” Elladan asked.

Aragorn reflected for a moment. “I cannot say for certain,” he admitted with a sigh. “I had the odd feeling of… of going outside myself, and I did not know where I was, but all was dark. Then I heard you call me… and it grew lighter… and I awoke to see all of you.”

Lord Celeborn leaned back in his chair. “Whatever it was that befell you, Elessar, it is fortunate that it was only for a brief time,” he said.

“Perhaps it was the Light of the Phial that brought you back,” Legolas surmised. “Perhaps that is why the Lady sent it: to keep you from being taken, like Mathuil.”  

“Can’t say the same for that poor old fellow,” Gimli said. “Still living with that evil inside him. I thought you’d wrenched that thing out for sure, but it’s like it’s got claws of steel sunk into Mathuil’s soul! I can still hear the shrieks ripping out his throat when we brought the Lady’s Glass near – ”

“Aye, grievous it was to hear,” Elladan recalled. “He – or it – must have feared the Light greatly.”

Lord Celeborn drew a deep breath at his grandson’s words, and a look of doubt crossed his fair face. “Indeed, I perceived his fear,” he said. “Yet – strange though this sounds – it did not seem that he feared the Light itself; his fear was not one of pain. Rather… I thought that he feared being driven out against his will.”

Aragorn tapped his fingers on the mug. “I confess I have been puzzled by the same question – why he fought so hard against being cast out,” he said. “I did not expect him to hold on so tenaciously. I would have thought that he would relinquish the old man quickly if it meant release for his soul, for that is what I offered him. Isn’t that what they desire?”

“They most undoubtedly do, Estel,” Legolas said. “But he kept saying it was not yet time.”

Celeborn looked thoughtful. "One other thing," he said. "When he was saying that Häthel placed on him the same curse as those behind the Gate, I sensed that he was holding back some other truth. But though I pressed him to reveal more, he merely repeated the need to fulfill the oath. I could get nothing further out of him. I wonder if it had something to do with why it was not yet time." 

"It is most puzzling," Hamille observed, "Perhaps that is the reason he said he still needed to speak with you, my lord."

Aragorn nodded. "Possibly," he agreed. "Yet I cannot imagine what else he needs to say. He has made it quite clear – to me and to you, Lord Celeborn – what it is I need to do: summon the others and lead them to the Stone. He could have released the old man by now.”

“Perhaps he is holding Mathuil as surety, to ensure you do return to the Paths and summon the others, before he releases him,” Gimli suggested. “He was ready to take the poor fellow’s life because you would not heed his wish for you to leave him in possession of it.”

“Would he would truly have done it: taken the life of one of his own bloodline?” Hamille wondered.

“Perhaps not, perhaps it was merely a threat, for did he not first go on the Paths in a well-meant, though foolish and impetuous, attempt to free his kin?” Elladan said.

“That is so," his grandsire responded. "Still, they have been walking the Paths without knowing the peace of redemption and pardon for so long that all sense of concern for anyone other than themselves may have fled, and Mathuil – though he be a descendant – may be seen merely as a means of freeing many others cruelly imprisoned in stone for far too long. Desperation of need drives one to acts of folly or careless hurt that bring regret only upon reflection. But for the Forgotten Ones, what time or need is there for remorse? They are certainly desperate enough. It is a wonder that the One in Mathuil has stayed true to the task he appointed for himself.”

Aragorn sighed and took a sip of hot tea before he voiced his concern. “For whatever reason he has chosen to possess Mathuil still, I pray the old man survives this ordeal. I fear that even if the Dead do not claim his life, the exhaustion will drain him of it. Bitterly shall I rue it if he should succumb to this torment, and I am powerless to stop it, and who then shall mend the broken hearts of his wife and son?”

“Let us hope that will not come to pass,” Legolas said. “And be thankful that he allowed Mathuil to await you and the rest of the Forgotten Ones at Erech, instead of insisting that he be dragged back to the Paths first. No carriage could ascend that steep, narrow way, and we can only ride on part of that road, after which – if you recall – we must dismount and walk. I cannot imagine that Mathuil, in his present condition, could survive such a journey.”

“No, he could not,” Gimli agreed. “But horse or no horse, no one could withstand the despair in that accursed, ghost-infested place for any length of time, let alone someone whose sanity and strength already hang by a thread!” The dwarf shuddered as he remembered his experience, and added almost under his breath: “I know I couldn’t again.”

So low had been the whispered lament that ordinary men would have missed it. The roomful of elves and the keen-eared King did not, but they tactfully refrained from showing any knowledge of what they had heard. Legolas, who had been closest to Gimli throughout the dreadful journey on the Paths elven years ago and had witnessed his utter terror, understood his trepidation, and formed a little plan in his mind. He sent Aragorn a silent signal with his eyes, which the King caught easily.

“Mathuil is not the only one we should be concerned about, for your guards will also be unused to the presence of the Dead, Estel,” the elf prince said aloud. “Perhaps your men need not enter the Paths themselves. Some could go ahead with Mathgor, and the others could wait for our return at the start of the uplands.”  

Legolas hoped this observation would offer Gimli the option of joining either group of men, but the elf was in fact making the suggestion for Aragorn’s sake as much as Gimli’s, for he noted the pallor of the King’s face. The elf recalled how grievous the fear of Men and horses had been before the entrance into the dreaded Mountain during the Quest, and how they finally went in only because Aragorn’s will was strong enough to hold them together. They would be using a different entrance tomorrow, but from whichever end they entered, the elf thought, the terror might be the same, as long as it was still the tomb and dwelling of some of the Living Dead. Aragorn – still a little shaken from whatever had assailed him – had no need of yet another petrified group of men to will forward. The elf waited for the King’s answer, and was relieved to see a nod.

“That had occurred to me: indeed, not all of us need to tread the Paths,” Aragorn agreed in a nonchalant tone. “We are not at battle, and even if we were, one or many should make little difference against the kind of host I will encounter. Some of my men will ride ahead with Mathgor, and the others will wait at the start of the ravine, as you propose. Whoever chooses to join them may do so, with no foreseeable consequence to my task; after all, the smaller number would make the completion of it swifter.”

In their wisdom, the elves merely nodded and appeared to reflect on Legolas and Aragorn’s suggestion, giving Gimli a chance to elect to wait with the men. But he merely cleared his throat and scratched his nose, and whatever he was thinking remained unvoiced, so the others left the matter alone.

Lord Celeborn spoke then. “Elessar, I do not yet see the manner in which I am to aid you – unless it was with reading the mind of Mathuil – for it already seems clear that what is to be accomplished on the Paths can only be executed by you, no one else.” He paused to study Aragorn’s face. “But the Lady would not have spoken lightly. Let us see what the Paths have to reveal.”

Aragorn nodded somberly and closed his eyes, feeling weary from the thought that he had hardly emerged from one strange darkness before he had to enter another. “It will be a long, long day,” he sighed.

“One step at a time,” Celeborn said sagely. “And the first steps should take us back to the Mountain.”

Aragorn opened his eyes and stared into the fire. “A step that brings me no joy, but I can wait no longer,” he said quietly. “Once again, my path is laid before me.”

“A path you do not tread alone, Estel,” came the firm and reassuring reminder from Legolas.  “We go with you – to whatever end.”

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The next morning displayed a village washed clean by the storm of the previous night. Rain fell no longer, but the sky was grey and overcast, doing little to lift the gloom felt by the King’s company and the villagers.

A quick meeting with Mathgor and the village Elders had imparted the decision made by Aragorn and his friends the night before: Mathgor would ride to the Stone with his father, and they would be accompanied by Fierthwain, who refused to stay behind, and by some of Aragorn’s guards. Everyone else would ride to the Paths – or to the start of the ravine approaching them – with the King.

Hëmuth and Dèormal, along with nineteen or twenty other villagers, accompanied the whole group as they walked to the edge of the village where the horses were waiting. Only the old man – too feeble to walk or ride – would ride in a cart. He had spent a quiet night after Aragorn and Lord Celeborn had ceased all efforts at driving out the spirit that held him and left the cottage. He was reclined now against Fierthwain in the back of the cart, already awaiting the rest of the company on foot. Their ride would be slow and leisurely. It would be day’s end at the earliest before Aragorn could summon the Forgotten and lead them there, and the cart in which Mathuil lay could go no faster in any case.

Walking towards the meeting point, Aragorn noticed other men and women in their yards or kitchens, watching them from a distance. He noted, too, the suspicious looks some of them still cast the elves despite the declaration he had made about their innocence the day before, and the calm manner in which the Firstborn received the looks.

The group had almost reached their destination when a little girl emerged from nowhere and ran up to Legolas, boldly patting his thigh before anyone could stop her. Surprised, the elf prince halted his steps, as did the rest of the company, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Perienna!” Dèormal called to the child and reached to pull her away, but Legolas held up his hand to check him. The elf prince went down on one knee in front of the child, an amused smile gracing his fair face.

“Are you a real prince?” the childish voice asked without ceremony. “Mama says you are.”

Legolas exchanged a quick glance with Hamille before he responded with a twinkle in his eye. “And what if I am, little lady?” he asked.   

“You must live in a palace, like in the stories,” she replied without hesitation. “Can I come see it?” Her spontaneous question drew broad smiles and chuckles from the company, although the Elders could only bring themselves to laugh nervously.

“What do you think a palace looks like?” Legolas asked, indulging the child in her fantasies.

The eyes grew bright. “Sometimes, when the moon is bright, I look out my bedroom window and see it!” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s shining – like your hair.” She reached out a hand to gingerly touch the golden silk flowing from the prince’s head.

“Well, young lady,” Legolas said, looking at her with smiling eyes. “My father’s palace is quite different from what you might imagine, but if you are ever in the Greenwood – ”

“Perienna! Come back here, child! Get away from there!” The shrill voice of the girl’s mother pierced the air as she ran up the path, frantic at the sight of her child in close proximity with one of the strange elven visitors.

“I was just talking, mama!” the child protested as her mother drew even with her and jerked her away from Legolas. Maintaining his composure, the elf rose gracefully and nodded courteously to the clearly horrified woman.

“Please, sir, my child t-tends to shoot her m-mouth off where it - it’s not wanted. Don’t think poorly of her, I beg you!” she stammered, her own eyes wide with fear, as if she expected firebolts to shoot from Legolas’. “You be powerful, I’m sure, but we – we be just plain folk – ”

“And what do you expect to happen, madam?” Aragorn asked quietly, stepping up to stand beside his friend before Mathgor or the Elders could intervene.

The woman quivered and hid her daughter behind her ample body. “B-b-begging your pardon, my lord, sire,” she said nervously at the sight of the King, attempting an awkward curtsey. “I don’t mean offense, sire – just being cautious. My Perienna is but a child, and I have to watch out for her.”

Watch out for what? was the challenge on the tip of the King’s tongue, but Gimli preempted it with an indignant remark of his own. “Do you have scrambled eggs for brains, lady?” he sputtered, making no effort at hiding his bristling anger.

Legolas restrained his friends with a tactful touch on each shoulder. “Have no fear, madam,” he said with a poised smile. “Your daughter is an engaging child, and she was merely asking me a question out of curiosity, to which I gave a short reply. Nothing else happened, and nothing else will, I assure you.”

The woman went red in the face, at a loss to how next to proceed, when Legolas spared her from further embarrassment by nodding and saying: “Excuse us, we must be on our way.”

As the little girl peeked out with an inquisitive smile from behind her mother’s skirt, the elf gave her a little nod and smile, and with a gentle nudge, urged Aragorn and Gimli to turn and resume their walk to the horses.

Farewells and thanks were exchanged, for Aragorn did not expect to return to the village once the Dead had been summoned. He would lead them straight to the Stone to release their souls, and from there, he and his friends would ride home to the White City.

“Till we meet again at Erech,” Aragorn said to Mathgor and the men accompanying him as they turned their horses towards the south.

When the group bound for Erech had set off, Aragorn and his company turned their own steeds reluctantly in the direction of the Haunted Mountain. There it stood, looming grey-brown and dreary in the distance, beckoning them. Aragorn patted the horse he was mounted on and clicked his tongue, signaling the start of their journey. Taking the first few steps, he cast a backward look at the village and the people who were still watching them. Among them was the mother of the little girl who had spoken so ignorantly to Legolas, and the sight of her still peeved the King. He turned to the elf riding beside him.

“You could have said something to put her in her place, Legolas; why did you not?” he asked suddenly, catching the elf unawares. “Why do you tolerate it?”

Legolas looked questioningly at Aragorn for a moment before he understood what his friend meant, and grinned. “Surely you know why, my friend: it is for the same reason you bore the suspicious remarks cast your way when you first encountered Adar’s guards in Mirkwood,” he replied easily. “They expected you to be uncouth and feared you would be treacherous, and you did not want to prove them right.” A glint came into his blue eyes as he added: “Of course, your dour Ranger look did not alleviate their concerns.” Seeing the wry expression that appeared on the face of the man and the tactfully hidden smile on Hamille’s, the elf prince laughed lightly and clapped his friend on the back before he continued on a more sober note.

“You have made it clear to the villagers, Estel, that despite their misgivings, you choose to remain friends with me, and that is ever in their minds,” he said. “What is ever in mine is that the choices of their king must be seen to be good ones. How would it look if the king’s friend acted in rage against some simple folk who merely suffer from a lack of acquaintance with my kind?” The elf tilted his head and smiled at his friend. “Do you not know, Estel? I – as the others do – exercise patience not for their sakes, but for yours.”

Aragorn turned to glance briefly at the calm faces of Lord Celeborn and Hamille riding behind them, then knitted his brows and cast another look at the diminished figures of the villagers behind them, chastising them for their narrow-mindedness, yet feeling sorry for their never having the privilege of truly knowing the beauty and wonder of the Firstborn. He returned Legolas’ smile with a regretful one of his own, and nodded in silent gratitude of the elf’s unwavering loyalty.

Offering thanks in his heart for the company of these elven friends on this day of all days, he turned his face resolutely towards the wretched sight of the high cliff walls – a brackish green-brown in the light of day – marking the southern entrance to the Paths and the site of the unpleasant task that lay beyond.

Cursed still is your fate, ye mountain, Aragorn found himself saying silently, for long should you have been free of the Dead that haunt you, and purged of the darkness that dwells in you, and eyes should be falling upon you now in delight and joy over a high place of majesty. Yet, clouded and shrouded still in their Shadow are you, and thus do your face and air remain foul. Let us hope you will remain blackened no longer, when once my task is completed.

Talk was scarce along the miles as the group plodded steadily across the expanse of the great Vale, and the dismal mood was further dampened by the blanket of clouds overhead. Soon, they were approaching the uprising of the chilly Morthond river and the stream that fed into it, named Blackroot in the tongues of Men, and with good reason, for its water, even if clear as a mountain spring was wont to be, seemed black against the dark bed of the stream. This stream flowed out of some recess in the Haunted Mountain beyond the ravine and fell over many falls, but its strong gurgle, though it would have seemed pleasant in another time and place, sounded strangled, as if protesting the passage it had to take through hidden places in the accursed mountain that no Man’s eyes had yet seen.

The whole depressing atmosphere was starting to weigh heavily on Gimli. Hardly had they left the sad voice of the Blackroot than they arrived at the mouth of the ravine, a great chasm with its looming cliffs, knife-edged against the sky. Between them lay the rocky path going steeply upwards to the Paths. Pausing only slightly, Aragorn set his jaw and led the company into it, riding slowly, two abreast, and soon they were hemmed in on both sides by walls so high that all seemed grey within as the onset of dusk, though it was full day outside. The horses began to grow a little skittish, snorting nervously as they sensed the impending presence of something not quite of this earth. Fighting their own edginess, their riders murmured soothingly to the beasts, calming them and holding them true to their course. The slow, solid clatter of metal-shod hooves against the broken stones and rocks echoed in the dim confines as the horses labored to bear themselves and their riders in a reluctant ascent.

At the head of the company again went the heir of Isildur, grim-faced and determined. A cold wind blew against his tense face, shreds of mist that he imagined must come from the Paths, and whether it was real or by some trick of his mind, it whispered hauntingly to him the call of the Dead:

  Return, return, O King of Men, where the dead do not die.

Beside him rode Lord Celeborn, whose countenance bespoke no emotion, save a hint of wariness. Behind them came Legolas on his white steed whom he had named Amel, for he was indeed a Strong Gift presented by his friend Aragorn; and by his side was Gimli on the small mare of Rohan that Èomer had given him, their two horses being the only ones besides Aragorn’s that had followed the riders on the ship. Elladan and Hamille came next, their fair faces calm, with only the slightest hint of guardedness. 

Behind them all rode Aragorn’s escort, and one look at their ashen faces showed that the horses were not the only ones of the Company that were spooked, for the men were unnaturally quiet.  They had been understandably nervous even before they came, ever since they had learned of their King’s purpose, but duty bound them and they would not willingly abandon their King. And so they had armed themselves with forced courage and placed their trust in the fortitude of Isildur’s heir.

Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Elladan were little less uneasy. Retracing the ghostly footsteps of a journey past, the four friends were haunted by memories, but none more so than Gimli. The dwarf shuddered as he remembered – against his will – the dreadful hours he spent on the Paths. He recalled, with no small amount of self-deprecation, how the presence of the unseen Dead had sent even one as strong and stoic as he to his knees:

Unseen, the murmur of the Shadows grew and grew, pressing upon him, unnerving him, when all at once, a sudden chill blast blew out all the torches, throwing them into an unrelieved darkness. And then silence fell, complete, dead silence, more dreadful than the murmurs. In the oppressive dark, the presence of the Dead was heavy and stifling, so that he could hardly walk, but he tried to hurry and keep pace with the rest of the Company. Yet, faltering in the dark, without a shred of light for guidance, and too frozen with fear to utter a word, he remained ever hindmost. And thus he felt them thronging behind him. They were the Dead, silent and cold, and all he could hear of them was the shuffle of many shadowed feet. And being often last of the Company, he constantly felt them just at his back, felt the groping horror they exuded, and his fear deepened till he shook and stumbled, and fell with a pained, horrified cry. All thought of dignity fled then as he crawled like a beast on the ground, the fear pressing upon him, cowing him, making him seek desperately an end to it, a means of escape. And when he felt he could endure no longer the terror of the pursuing unseen evil, he was in the next instant prepared to scream and run back in madness to face the Dead and put an end to the torment.

A low cry left the dwarf’s throat as he was assailed by the awful memory of what he considered to be some of the most shameful moments of his life, and he closed his eyes briefly.

The slight sound and movement would have escaped the eyes and ears of Men, but not of the elf Legolas, who had been closest to the dwarf throughout their previous journey and who had witnessed his incapacitating fear. He turned to see the ashen face of the dwarf, moist with a cold sweat, and concern crossed his own.

Gimli, are you well, my friend? he had been about to ask, but even before he did, he already knew what ailed the dwarf. Holding back his question, Legolas rode up to where Aragorn would be able to turn and see him with ease.

“Aragorn,” he called, and when the man faced him, the elf again sent him an unspoken message with his eyes and a slight tilt of his head in Gimli’s direction. “Did you not say that you wished your men to remain at the mouth of the ravine?” he asked aloud so that all could hear him.  

“Indeed, I did,” Aragorn answered immediately on cue, “for I recall how grievously the horses feared the Paths, and I can ill afford the time to confront that problem yet again.” Halting the Company with a raised hand and turning Rallias around to face them, he gave the command for his guards to turn back and return the short distance to where the narrow path began its climb.

“I will have no need of an army, for what awaits me cannot be battled by human hands,” he said in response to the half-hearted protest from the men, who, despite their loyalty to the King they served, could not help being relieved that he did not mean for them to walk the Paths with him. “The best service you can render me is to wait for my return at the start of the cliff walls, and there, steady yourselves and your steeds to face the Host who will be at my heels when next we meet.”  

As the men nodded in respect and turned their horses around, Gimli cleared his throat and spoke up at last. “Well, Aragorn, if it’s all the same with you, I’m of a mind to go with the men,” he said, keeping his tone casual. “I can help keep an eye on them for you, you know, in case they get too jittery, not having experienced the journey on the Paths. I could prepare them, so that when they encounter the – er – those Dead fellows, they won’t be jumping out of their livery and boots with shock.”

Aragorn held back a laugh at the image of his brave Gondorian escort rendered nude by fright.

“That would be most helpful, Master Gimli, thank you,” he said tactfully to the dwarf, pleased at the look of relief that flitted across the bearded face. The King cast Legolas a brief glance and found the elf doing the same in his direction. The two friends lowered their faces to hide smiles of satisfaction, for they knew that the dwarf was, without being obvious, choosing not to revisit the Paths he so dreaded, and for good reason.

Legolas now turned to address the brown-haired elf behind him. “Hamille –”

“I will remain with my prince, of course,” Hamille announced quickly, deliberately looking from Aragorn to Gimli, and averting a meeting with Legolas’ eyes. “And he will be with you, lord Elessar. Therefore, I go to the Paths.”

Legolas sighed and shook his head resignedly. Argument with Hamille would be in vain now, much as he would have preferred the elf to keep Gimli company. A hesitant silence fell over the group, during which Gimli prepared to turn back towards the way they had come.

“I will stay with Gimli then,” Elladan declared suddenly. “You would appreciate a companion, I presume, Master Dwarf?”

Caught by surprise at the readiness with which Elladan had elected not to ride on with Aragorn, Gimli nevertheless quickly recovered. “Why, that would be very welcome, my friend!” he replied. “Much obliged.”

Elladan gave him a wan smile, then turned to Aragorn, who seemed as surprised as Gimli had been. “Legolas and Daerada will be with you, Estel,” he said to the man. “As you say, your task is laid out clearly before you now, and I doubt my aid should be needed.”

Still a little puzzled, Aragorn nodded in acknowledgement nevertheless. “My task is clear, and it is demanded of me alone,” he affirmed. “It does lighten my heart that you will be riding back with Gimli, for two are better than one, when we await that which brings no pleasure, only suspense. I thank you, gwador, my brother.”

Elladan then looked towards Legolas and his grandsire, neither of whom demonstrated the least bit of surprise, merely understanding on their brows. There was tenderness in Lord Celeborn’s eyes as he spoke to his grandson. “It is right what you do,” was all he said, a sentiment echoed by the slight nod from the elf prince. Elladan gave them a somewhat rueful smile, and prepared to take his leave.

“Well, be careful where you walk, Aragorn,” Gimli said to the King. Pointing a finger at Legolas, he added: “And bring this elf back in one piece!”

Legolas shook his head and leaned over to give Gimli’s smaller horse a pat on the rear end. “Bear your rider away, Beryn, for he sometimes talks over-much,” he said to the beast, and laughed at the look of chagrin Gimli gifted him in response. “I will see you later, my anxious friend!”

For a short while, the four remaining riders watched the backs of the dwarf and the Imladris elf descending the steep slope. Then once again they set their faces towards the Paths and resumed their uphill journey, wishing with each step that they were heading somewhere else. The heavy steps of their horses, matching the weights on their hearts, soon turned around a bend in the path, and they were lost to sight of anyone who happened to be looking upon them.

Gimli and Elladan were indeed doing so, for they had turned to catch a glimpse of the little group before they were swallowed by the strange mists that no Sun could dissipate. A feeling of love for the four companions welled suddenly within dwarf and elf, and both offered a silent prayer for the safekeeping of their friends, despite the confidence with which Aragorn had claimed the straightforwardness of his task. When the four could be seen no longer, Dwarf and Elf urged their horses on again, riding slowly in silence a little distance behind the Gondorian guards.

“Ere the shadows grow too long, they will be walking past the mouth of the Paths,” Elladan remarked quietly after a while, feeling a lump in his throat.

“Mmmph, that Valar-forsaken place,” Gimli pronounced. “Much as I love that Man and that rock-headed elf, I’m not ashamed to say that I’m glad I’m not going in there again.”

“As am I,” Elladan agreed readily.

“A place most foul,” the dwarf declared.

There was a brief pause from Elladan. “Aye, it was,” he said slowly.

And before he could stop himself, Gimli added in a low murmur: “The horror was ever at my heels and upon my back.” He shuddered, and when he was certain that the men riding in front were far away enough not to hear his confession, he finished: “It chilled my blood.”

This time, there was a longer pause from Elladan before he stated: “As it did mine.”

Gimli’s eyes widened and he turned to look at the elf. “You?” he asked, the word coming out in a whistle. “You too?”

“Aye,” Elladan said. “I did feel some dread, as did Elrohir.”

“But – but I thought elves did not fear the Dead!” Gimli spluttered in surprise before he remembered to lower his voice again. “That’s what that elfling claimed! Was he spinning yarn to make me think – ?”

“Nay, my friend, Legolas spoke the truth,” Elladan quickly pointed out. When he saw the confused look on the face of the dwarf, the elf smiled and explained: “Remember, Gimli, my father is half-elven, and though he chose immortality for those of his line, the blood of my mortal predecessors still runs in our veins. I felt not the difference – till we came to confront the horror of the Accursed Dead in their long-hidden dwelling.”

His face grew pensive as the eleven-year-old memory of their approach to the haunted hollow at the root of the mountain unfolded in his mind:

A dread fell on them, even as they passed between the lines of ancient stones and so came to the Dimholt… they came at last deep into the glen; and there stood a sheer wall of rock, and in the wall the Dark Door gaped before them like the mouth of night. Signs and figures were carved above its wide arch too dim to read, and fear flowed from it like a grey vapor. The company halted, and there was not a heart among them that did not quail, unless it were the heart of Legolas of the Elves, for whom the ghosts of Men have no terror.

Elladan smiled grimly at the recollection. “I was held to the course by the strength of Aragorn’s will, and because I knew he needed our companionship on that most desperate of missions,” he explained. “But truly, Gimli, of the Company that rode through the Paths that day, Legolas alone – who is wholly of Elvenkind – felt not the horror of the Dead. That is why it is best for him and Hamille and Lord Celeborn to remain with Estel today, for they alone will not fear the Shadow People at all.”

“By Durin’s beard,” the dwarf said, stroking his own absently. “I must thank you, Elladan, for what I just learnt. It makes me feel less… psshh… you know… less ashamed of my own dread.”

“Ashamed?” the elf echoed, cocking his head enquiringly. “There is no reason to think that of yourself, Master Gimli. Why, you are one of the hardiest, bold-hearted people I have ever met, and – as Master Samwise would say – that is saying a lot, coming from an elf.” He noted the slight straightening of Gimli’s carriage at his sincere praise, and smiled. “But I do not think the reach of courage is infinite. When it comes to confronting the ghosts of Men – and that host, in particular, for they embody much that is of Sauron’s doing – there is every reason to quiver. I merely rue that I cannot be of much aid to my brother today, but I hardly think it is cause for self-reproach.”

Gimli did not reply, but blushed. He had just re-opened a book long kept closed in a haunted corner of his memory, and he wondered if it was possible that Elladan could have been reading the words of shame he had written on those pages.

“We need harbor no disgrace in the dread we felt, my friend,” the elf said as if he had indeed peeked into Gimli’s mind. “Take comfort in the fact that we prevailed despite it, for we did not abandon Aragorn. Quite simply, we are what we are, Gimli, and none hold that against us, certainly not Aragorn.”

This time, Gimli nodded in firm agreement. “Spoken truly, my elven friend – or half-elven, or whatever part of elvenkind you are,” he quipped. “Indeed, there is much to be said for being who you are, for your father, being who he is, was held in high esteem by both Men and elves. He was somehow able to reach both, if you know what I mean.”

“Aye, Gimli, I do,” Elladan agreed, smiling wistfully at the thought of his adar. “And he would have been the first to tell you of the worth of the Dwarves, and their valor in ages past. You have much to be proud of, Master Dwarf, being one of that race, and being in terror of the Shadow Host does not detract from that honor.”

Smiling, Gimli mused over the elf’s words in silence till they reached the entrance to the ravine and joined the Gondorian guards. And whether it was because they were once more bathed in the light of the Sun – even if it was filtered through a sea of clouds – or because of the reassurance of the son of Lord Elrond, the heart of the Dwarf lord felt suddenly lighter. The Shadow Host would be here before too long, but for now, Gimli felt more able to laugh than he had been for many days.

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

Not long after parting ways with the rest of the company, Aragorn and his three elven companions found themselves at the steepest part of the chasm to which Legolas had referred the previous night, and there they dismounted and led their horses slowly along the remainder of the distance. Anor had slipped from its overhead position when the sound of water that had vanished for a while once again reached their ears.   

“That is the sound of the rill, Aragorn,” Legolas said, recalling the tinkle of water that had run out from the mountain at the high-arched door at this end of the Paths. “We are close to the gateway through which we left before.”

True enough, after about ten more yards of the steep incline, the ground leveled a little, and a further ten yards brought them before a looming darkness. The mists parted, and the companions peered through them to behold the gaping hole in the face of the Haunted Mountain – mutely bidding them enter the loathsome dwelling of the Forsaken Cursed Ones.  

Once again, a cold vapor issued forth like the breath of the Living Dead, swirling about the four companions and their steeds as if to draw them in. The beasts snorted and neighed in fear and made to turn about and flee, but their masters held them and whispered soothing elvish words into their ears to calm them. Rallias and Amel, trained by the elf prince himself, responded quickly, as did the steed of Lord Celeborn, one of the few raised in Lothlorien, but the terror that assailed Hamille’s mount was grievous to witness, for it had been borrowed from the stables of Pelargir where it had never encountered anything more fearsome than the bolts of lightning or thunder that accompanied the storms over the town. This noiseless evil emitting from the Paths of the Dead was infinitely worse, for it assaulted the essence of one’s spirit. A sheen of sweat soon appeared on the hide of the poor beast as it cried out pitifully, and only by the combined efforts of Lord Celeborn and Legolas – who had done the same with Arod eleven years ago – did the animal finally overcome its fright to lapse into an uneasy calm.

“We should leave the horses here, Aragorn,” Legolas suggested as he stroked the beast soothingly, “and remount when we leave.” 

Aragorn nodded without a word and moved to secure Rallias’ reins to a sharp shard of rock, while Lord Celeborn spoke commands to the elvish horses and Hamille kindled the torches they had brought along. Legolas led Hamille’s steed to the rocky shard where Aragorn stood and studied the face of his mortal friend for a moment, noting with some anxiety the shadows under his tired eyes and the lines that had appeared on his pale brow within the last few hours.

“Are you well, mellon nin?” he asked quietly, placing a hand on the man’s arm and holding the grey eyes with an enquiring gaze.  

Brushing a hand through his dark hair, damp from the exertion of the steep uphill climb and cold from the vapor enveloping them, Aragorn gave the elf a grim smile and nodded.

“And are you ready?” came the calm query of Lord Celeborn.

A light flashed in the eyes of the King. “I want this resolved quickly,” he said determinedly, “for Arwen and my children, and the people of the village, and everyone concerned.”

Legolas gave him a small smile. “Let us do it then,” he said. “Ta naa luume.”

“Aye, it is time,” Aragorn murmured in agreement. “Let us enter.”

Within moments, the four companions were standing under the high arches, holding aloft their torches and peering into the waiting darkness beyond. Within the elven hearts of Celeborn and Hamille stirred curiosity and awe despite their discomfort, but upon Aragorn and Legolas fell a gloom that came with revisiting an unwanted but necessary past.

Burying any nervousness he had beneath his stoic exterior, and holding to the strength of his elven friends, Aragorn glanced briefly at Lord Celeborn on his left, whose usual grave countenance did not change, before looking to Legolas on his right. The elf prince’s eyes were bright, a-glitter with some inner light as they had been eleven years ago, and they sent the man an unspoken reassurance: Go forth, my friend; I am with you.

The heir of Isildur turned back to the whispering dark before them. Gripping his torch, he took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold to keep his appointment with the Dead.

Note: Part of the content of the sections in italics is excerpted from The Return of the King.

I’ve been feeling a little depressed at work, and decided to seek the companionship of these beloved characters in this chapter sooner than I planned. Sigh… I wish I could hug each and every one who shares this LOTR life with me. 

Thanks to all who dropped me a line for the last chapter.