CHAPTER 14: THE SUMMONS

It was a sight they were afterward loth to recall. The road was wide as far as they could judge, but soon they came into a great empty space, and there were no longer walls upon either side.

~J.R.R. Tolkien, in The Return of the King~

Few words were exchanged between the King of Gondor and the three elves as their footsteps took them further into the heart of the mountain where they knew the Twice Forgotten would be waiting for Aragorn. Eleven years ago, their steps had been followed by a throng of beings, gathering unseen in the dark but heard as a murmur of growing eerie whispers and the soft shuffle of shadow feet. This time, there was no such throng behind them, no large host to haunt the passageways. All about was mute, and the tread of the elves was altogether silent. All Aragorn could hear were the echoes of his own cautious strides along the paths of memories.

Yet, he felt the fear no less. It lurked around him like a thick mist, for never shall mortal souls be entirely free of that which the unknown forebodes, and the path laid before Aragorn’s feet was as little illuminated as his knowledge of what he would face.  

When their footsteps eventually led them to the large cavern where he and Legolas had come before, he felt he had entered a tomb, which was not so far from the truth, for it was here that he had last issued his summons to a Gathering of the Dead. Now, another sound began to fill his ears: a steady thumping which baffled him, till he realized it was naught but the beating of his heart against its cage of ribs. He hoped that when he came face to face with the Twice Forgotten, this cage would keep his heart from leaping out. He drew his cloak closer about him, for a chill touched him that did not come entirely from the cold of the cavern.

I come to summon them, he thought glumly, but I wonder if their own summons to me has been the stronger.

Standing beside Aragorn, Legolas looked slowly around the wide cavern, remembering and seeking, acutely aware of the bulge of the Phial held securely in his tunic. He stopped searching when his eyes reached the wall far to their right, hardly visible in the dark to anyone but keen-sighted elves.  

“There he lay, Aragorn,” Legolas whispered. “And there he lies still.”

Slowly, the four companions approached the place Legolas had indicated. Something glittered in the gloom as Aragorn’s torch drew near, and when they were close enough, they saw the gems and gold on the bones of the one whose spirit now resided in one of his own bloodline, a frail old man named Mathuil, many miles away. Just as Legolas had remembered, a broken sword lay beside the sad bony figure, useless against the rock he had hewn at. The broken blade reminded Aragorn about Anduril at his side and how even the Flame of the West was dimmed against the power of a centuries-old curse conceived by a servant of the Dark Lord. As they had been eleven years ago, the man’s finger-bones were frozen in place as he made a final desperate effort to pry open the door before him, but the torches showed that the cracks between the wall of the cavern and the door were so fine that not even light could have penetrated them.

The Door, Aragorn thought, his mouth going dry. Were the Twice Forgotten behind this door?

While they stood looking at the remains of the man, wondering at his tragic end, Lord Celeborn’s eyes wandered to a spot above the Door, and moved in a little closer to focus on something there. The others crowded around him, and when he held up his torch to it, they could vaguely discern what he was so intent on. Etched into the stone were some lines of writing in a language they could not decipher. After a moment, the elf lord started mouthing the words in the barest of whispers, but only after two lines, a sudden cold draught blew where there had been no movement of air, and extinguished the torches as it had before.

Aragorn could not stop his heart from missing a beat, and even Legolas and Hamille, used to the light, wide hallways of Thranduil’s palace caves, felt uneasy in the blackness of the mountain tomb.

“Give me the Glass, Legolas,” Celeborn said with a trace of disquiet in his voice. Suppressing his apprehension, Legolas found the waiting hand of the elf lord in the dark and pressed the Light of the Lady into it. Holding the Phial firmly, Celeborn raised it so that its brilliant light fell on the spot on which his eyes had been trained before. And now the others saw clearly what he had been reading: like the writing on the One Ring of Sauron that had once been revealed only in the heat of a strong fire, there appeared on the rock face several lines of fine script, blood-red runes fiercely burned into the hard stone of the Haunted Mountain.

“It is written in the Black Speech of Mordor,” Lord Celeborn stated solemnly, providing a disheartening answer to one of the unvoiced questions of his companions. “I know very little of what it says, having learnt but a trace of the language from Mithrandir when he was still among us, but I believe the first few lines contain the curse that Hathël the Stone-hearted used to imprison his people behind this Door. As for the rest, I cannot yet understand them.”

“So they are indeed behind this door? This is the Holding Gate?” Aragorn asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable at the thought of a stone door being the only barrier between him and a host of desperate, angry souls waiting to be freed. He was surprised at how small his voice suddenly seemed.

“I believe this is the Gate, yes,” Lord Celeborn replied softly.  

As soon as the elf lord had said the words, all four of them felt the hairs on the backs of their necks stand. Aragorn drew in a sharp breath and froze.

“Bridhon nin,” Hamille breathed, and when his prince turned, he tilted his head to either side of them, his bright eyes saying what he did not voice. A quick glance confirmed for Legolas what he had already guessed.

“Estel,” the elf prince whispered, nudging his friend. “They are here.”

Aragorn swallowed. “They?” he asked, forcing himself to turn his head slowly and peer into the dark on both sides of the group. He squinted, but saw nothing. “Man cenich?” he whispered back. “What do you see?”

In answer, Celeborn raised the Phial so that it cast its Light around them. And where there had been nothing but the black of night a moment ago, the light of Eärendil now suddenly blazed in the angry red eyes of the Dead, three pairs on either side of them, just a foot away from Aragorn.

Startled, the man dropped his extinguished torch and staggered backward with a gasp. Then, before he had time to register the presence of the Ones near them, from behind the Door of Rock came a host of piteous wails, loud and intense, penetrating through flesh and bone to their spirits so that they all had to stop their ears.

“Aaaaaaaaaaeeeiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaa!  Elessaaaaar! Elessaaaar!” The name was woven into the keening cries.

Trembling from the sudden shrill onslaught, Aragorn stumbled again, finding the arms of Legolas and Hamille upon his back as they quickly reached out to steady him. Legolas was wracked with anguish for his friend, ever reminded of the Lady’s message to keep Aragorn from harm. He pried off a hand which was clamped tightly over one of the man’s ears, and spoke urgently into the ear.  

“Summon them, Aragorn!” the elf said loudly so that Aragorn could hear him above the cries of the Dead and the pounding of his mortal heart. “Summon them and end the agony for them and for you!”

“Wait!” Lord Celeborn cried unexpectedly, swinging the Phial back to the writing above the Door. “My heart tells me I should find out the meaning of these remaining lines. Perhaps they are nothing, but I wish to commit to them to memory. Hold your summons!”

Reluctantly, but knowing better than to question the instincts of the elf lord, the others waited while he ignored the piercing wails and studied the lines intently, his face a mask of concentration.

Aaaaaaaaaaeeeiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaa!

The shrieks of the Dead grew more desperate, shaking Aragorn to the core. Like a cruel joke, a grim thought flitted across his mind about how the man before the Door must have died from such terror. Sweat broke upon his brow, and he gritted his teeth, willing himself to stop thinking about the six spirits of the Dead about him and resisting the urge to run from the place. Desperately, he called to Celeborn.

“My lord!” he said loudly.

The elf lord did not answer, but continued to read the lines silently.

Aaaaaaaaaaeeeiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaee!

A hiss escaped Aragorn’s lips, for the shrieks of the Dead grew so strong they seemed tangible enough to bind him tightly like cords. He breathed heavily, fighting feelings of anger, helplessness and impatience.

“My lord!” he called again. “Let me summon them now!”

Even with the solace of Legolas’ firm arm around him and the presence of an elf on either side of him, Aragorn felt his terror mounting. Then, just when he thought he could endure no more, Celeborn turned to him with a troubled face and spoke close to his ear.

“I cannot understand all that is written, Elessar,” he said. “Perhaps you should delay your summons – ”  

“Delay it!” Aragorn cried, his eyes widening in horror even as Legolas and Hamille stared at the elf lord in bewilderment. “My lord, I cannot! The old man cannot last long, and the villagers… their torment… what happened to Gimli… my own nightmares…” He shook his head adamantly. “Nay, I cannot delay. I have to free them now!”

Celeborn pursed his lips grimly, his blue eyes studying Aragorn’s distress as he considered the King’s argument. “Then call them, Elessar,” he said resignedly. “Call them, and let us depart from this accursed place!”

Relief flooded through the other two elves, but even more so through Aragorn, who had borne the responsibility and the greater part of the emotional toll cruelly bestowed by the joint curses of his forefather Isildur and the traitorous Häthel, and was more than ready to shed himself of that weight. The King steeled himself for the summons. Tearing his own hands away from his ears, he swiftly unsheathed Andứril and raised it. But as he drew breath and tried to utter the summons, he felt his tongue cleave dryly to the roof of his mouth, and no speech could he form.

Seeing this, Celeborn pressed the Phial into his hand. Grasping it firmly in one hand, Aragorn held Andứril straight with the other. This time, the wails did not bend him. The strength of his bloodline flowed through him, and the light of Kings shone from his eyes and countenance as he called out in a loud, steady voice: “Come forth, ye Forgotten!”

At first, the wailing persisted. But Aragorn cried again: “Come forth from beyond the Door! Leave your prison of Stone! I summon thee to the Stone of Erech!” One moment, he raised Andứril higher as proof of his heritage; then he struck it on the stone door that the Dead had called the Holding Gate, not to attempt opening it, for he knew it would be futile, but to let the root of the Haunted Mountain reverberate with the sound and feel of steel that had cut the Ring from Sauron’s finger, a sword reforged in the elven stronghold  of Elrond.

As soon as the stone began ringing with the voice of Andứril, the wailing of the Dead stopped as abruptly as it had begun, so that when the echoes of the sword had tapered off, there followed an utter silence that seemed deafening. Then, a sound like a long heavy sigh filled Aragorn’s ears, and his heart trembled despite his courage. But though the light of the Phial shone about them, his mortal eyes saw no change. The elves beside him, however, did.

“They come, Estel,” Legolas whispered, and gently drew his friend away from the Door, though his elven eyes remained on it. “Shapes of men, like before,” he continued, knowing the man could not see them but would wish to know what was taking place. “Like shreds of mist, they issue from some hidden chamber… coming through the very cracks we thought no light nor breath could penetrate.” Aragorn turned and saw the glitter in the bright blue eyes of his elven companion, who began to shake his head slowly. “A small host… but more, more than I thought…Much distress on their faces, Aragorn…” The elf prince sighed. “Yet it lifts… yes, it lifts, for you have summoned them, and they hear your call.”

Legolas then turned his head and looked around them, and in the light of the Phial, Aragorn saw that Lord Celeborn and Hamille were doing the same in silence, for this was their first encounter with the Shadow People of the Mountain.

“They gather, Aragorn,” Legolas said, turning back to the King with the same glitter in his eyes. “They know you, and they will follow you now.”

Aragorn looked into the eyes of his friend, clearly weighing a decision in his mind and making the elf wonder what debate the man was holding with himself. But when Aragorn gripped the Phial more tightly and raised it to his breast, Legolas knew.

“There is no need, Estel,” the elf said softly. “But if you must, then fear them not.”

Now Hamille and Lord Celeborn grew curious, but their unvoiced question was soon answered as Aragorn gritted his teeth, turned to the darkness behind him and slowly raised the Phial high, stretching his arm out so that the brilliance of the Light of Earendil was cast into the deep night of the cavern. The elves knew then that Aragorn wished to see those he had summoned.

A large cluster of red eyes came alight and stared back at the King, drawing a small gasp from his throat. As Legolas had said, there were more than he had expected: some sixty or seventy who had been the victims of the cruelty of the Stone-hearted king, and he could see how their eyes – even in spirit form – were filled with anger and agony and pleading.

Aragorn waited no longer and called out once more: “Come, all who will follow me to the Stone of Erech! And let none remain in this Mountain Tomb, for I, Isildur’s heir, release you from it!”  

Without another word, and with the Glass of the Lady lighting the path before him, Aragorn turned and led the little company back along the way they had come, but now a silent host followed them as before, heard only by the shadow-sound of spirit feet. One hour or many that passed, Aragorn did not know as he bent his thought only on placing one foot in front of the other without fleeing from the terror of knowing who it was at the hind of the group. He pressed on, grim and resolute, thankful to the Lady for having sent the Light, and immeasurably grateful for the three elves around him, who separated him from those who might, he imagined, in desperation or malice seize his heart and mind, if not his body.

At last, they heard the welcome tinkle of water as they had eleven years ago, and Aragorn remembered how it had sounded even then: hard and clear as a stone falling into a dream of dark shadow. Then they knew that they had reached once more the mouth of the Paths through which they had entered earlier. Light grew, confirming their guess, and the soft neighing of horses greeted them as they passed under the high, wide arch again, to see with relief the rill that ran beside it. Their horses stood where they had been tethered, but now they grew terrified and tried to free themselves. Quickly, the elves calmed the beasts, speaking soft words of elvish to them and releasing them slowly from where they had been secured.

Soon, the group was descending the steep path between the cliff walls, and they were reminded yet again how deep and narrow the chasm was, so that the sky was dark and in it small stars glinted, though it was not yet sunset of that day. The minds of Aragorn and Legolas returned to their journey more than a decade ago, when they had walked that same road at about the same time of day, and felt like they had been moving through the twilight of some other world.

But they now knew where the road would lead: not to another world, but back to the Morthond Vale and past hamlet and home where dwelt frightened people, then on to the many miles of land that would lead them at last to the Stone. They remounted their horses, ever mindful of those who would follow at their backs no matter how fast they went.

And so they rode, swift as the wind that whipped through the dark hair of the King and the long tresses of the Firstborn. They heard bells ringing in the village of Grimwythë, for the residents already knew who would be passing, and it was the same thereafter in every village they passed. Ithil rose in the night sky as they covered the miles, and her silvery light showed the Shadow Host as a vague mist of shifting shapes. A light drizzle began to fall, but no wind nor rain could disperse the ghostly mist that was ever at the hind of the four riders.

This the villagers saw, and their reactions were the same as those witnessed by Legolas and Aragorn a decade and a year ago:

Lights went out in house and hamlet as they came, and doors were shut, and folk who were afield ran wild like hunted deer. Ever there rose the same cry in the gathering night:  “The King of the Dead! The King of the Dead is come upon us!”

This time, Legolas was certain the people of the Vale were referring to Aragorn, and they fled before his face. And this time, they added to their cry of terror: “Elvish wights are visited upon us!”
 

Ignoring all the cries of fear, set only upon reaching their destination, the four riders crossed the miles on their light-footed mounts, riding like hunters till their horses stumbled with weariness. But as midnight approached, they saw at last, against the dark sky, the flicker of flames from the torches of Gimli and Elladan and the guards of Gondor upon the Hill of Erech. And in their midst, there stood, bathed eerily in moonlight, the rounded top of the Black Stone, awaiting them in grim silence.

Despite the sight of the repulsive orb, they rode the last leg of their journey even more swiftly, for their spirits were buoyed by the thought that Aragorn would at last complete the redemption of the Cursed Ones, and liberate himself and Mathuil and the people of the Vale from the haunting of the Forgotten. In his heart, Aragorn thanked yet again the Lady Galadriel for her gift and aid in this dark hour as they crossed the final miles to the Stone.      

Even from a distance, Aragorn could feel the fear of his men and their horses, and was glad for what he trusted would have been the reassuring presence of his brother and the Dwarf lord in their midst, for the men stood their ground despite the approach of the Shadow Host. He knew their eyes would see only wisps of some strange mist behind their King, but they would surely sense the unsettling presence of the living Dead as he could.

Drawing up to the Stone, Aragorn’s company was greeted with relief by Gimli and Elladan, and no less by Mathgor, who was seated in the back of his cart holding his father in his arms. Gladness warred with tension in their faces at the sight of the King and the three elves returned safely from the Mountain.

“Well, here you are at last, Elf!” the dwarf said to Legolas, concealing his obvious concern beneath a grumpy tone. “My beard’s grown two finger-lengths waiting for you.”  

Legolas’ lips twitched as he dismounted. “My apologies, Gimli. We were a little preoccupied,” he quipped, trying to lighten the mood in his turn, for he felt his friend’s fear. For the same reason, Lord Celeborn quickly walked over to join his grandson.

Yet, the men and elves were all strangely more hopeful than they had been for days, for the attendance of the Dead – though dreadful – meant that they were close to the finish of Aragorn’s grim task and the end of a dark road for everyone. Legolas, who felt still the burden of the Lady’s charge, was no less keen to see Aragorn freed from the clutches of his awful legacy.

The King felt a sense of relief himself, as one who is close to the end of his labors. Remaining on his horse, Aragorn turned so that the pale light of the moon shone on his kingly countenance and on the Stone of Erech behind him. He looked first at Mathuil on the cart before him, then beyond to where he knew the Shadow People were waiting, and raised a hand for silence. But while the murmurs of his men died down, another voice broke in.

“Here we are gathered at last,” it said with deep emotion, and all eyes fell on Mathuil to see him sitting upright, his eyes suddenly alive with an unearthly energy, while his son and nephew stood by mutely.

Eager to complete his hateful task, Aragorn straightened his bearing atop Rallias. In a loud voice, he asked the same question he had posed eleven years ago:

“Oathbreakers! Why have ye come?”

To the mortal eyes gathered there, no forms were seen where their King’s eyes were trained, but a murmur as from afar could be heard. And from his place on the cart, Mathuil spoke for them all: “To find peace.”

“I am the heir of Isildur in Gondor!” Aragorn announced. “And I grant you pardon from your treachery.” He felt a little sense of satisfaction at being able to make that declaration. “Go now in peace, and trouble not the valley again!”

Then the men and elves who had not been with Aragorn the first time he released the Cursed Ones went tense with anticipation, awaiting the departure of the Dead as Gimli had described it happening by the river after the capture of the Black Fleet:

“There, the host could finally be seen as shadowy figures, and when Aragorn cried: ‘I hold your oath fulfilled!’ and commanded them to leave in peace, they bowed low and turned away; and swiftly the whole grey host drew off and vanished like a mist that is driven back by a sudden wind; and it seemed to me that I awoke from a dream.”

Now, eleven years later, Gimli held his breath again. Finally, he thought. They will leave, and I will wake from another dream.

But to his utter horror, and that of Aragorn and Legolas and all who were gathered as witnesses, the dream – or the nightmare – remained. The ghostly mist lingered and vanished not, and it was no dream nor figment of imagination, for it was as real, if not as solid, as the Black Stone upon which the oath and the curse had been made.

None of the host bowed nor moved, nor was a sigh of welcome release heard. Instead, the heart of every man and elf missed a beat as the One in Mathuil, once again speaking for the whole host of the Dead, glared at Aragorn and said plainly:

“You await our departure, heir of Isildur, but that will not come to pass.”

Note:  Much of the text in italics in this chapter is excerpted from The Return of the King.

My gratitude to the reviewers who kept me company in Chapter 13 when I needed it so much.