CHAPTER 15:  PARTING OF WAYS

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

The statement from the Twice Forgotten, issued through the mouth of Mathuil, resounded in the ears and mind of every man and elf as they stood in dead silence on the hill of Erech, too stunned to respond.

Since Gimli’s first encounter with Fierthwain, the dwarf had not thought it possible to ever approve of anything uttered by a man he considered as insufferable as a toothache, but now the dwarf found himself sharing the villager’s fury when the latter yelled at the one possessing his uncle: “What is the meaning of this? You’re not leaving? How can you not leave?”

“Exactly!” the dwarf joined in, forgetting his fear. “You were retrieved from whatever dank, dark hole you were cooped up in for one reason: so you can go –” he waved his hands in the air “ – wherever it is you’re supposed to go, and stop vexing those who still have flesh on their bones! What sort of treachery is this?”

Mathgor shook his head and held out his hands helplessly as if to ask ‘What is happening?’ but his frantic concern for his father rendered him unable to utter a word.

The pale light of a crescent moon seemed to further blanch the faces of Legolas and Elladan as, of one accord, they brought themselves to Aragorn’s side. The man himself had gone a little ashen, too shocked to alight from his horse.

“Why will you not leave?” he asked incredulously, staring at Mathuil. “Is that not what you wish for?”

“Of course it is!” Mathuil replied in a voice that was clearly not his. “But we cannot yet do so, and you should not need to be told why, heir of Isildur. It was your bloodline that laid the curse! And Hathël made certain it would hold!”

As Aragorn exchanged a bewildered look with Legolas, a restless murmur arose from the Shadow Host gathered beyond the circle of uncomprehending Gondorians.

Mathgor found his voice at last. “Please – explain what you mean,” he pleaded with the One in his father, his eyes filled with distress. “Can you… can you not be freed?”

The old man fixed his son with a stern glare. “Yessss, we can be freed!” he said, and Gimli wondered how a ghost could sound so impatient. “But that will come to pass only when it is completed!”

“When what is completed?”  Fierthwain demanded.

The reply came in a guttural tone injected with bitterness. “The one matter that has ruled our fate: our redemption,” Mathuil said, enunciating each word deliberately. “We need to fulfill our oath!”

Aragorn blinked. “Your oath,” he stated. “Your oath to fight Sauron –”

“Yesss!” came the indignant interruption. “The oath that binds us to this accursed fate; it must be fulfilled!”

A rush of understanding washed over the gathering of Men and Elves at that answer, and a collective sigh of relief rippled through it as they realized that the Dead did not mean to haunt the Vale forever. But now there came a new dilemma, which Aragorn made clear in his next words.

“Nothing would please me more than for you to battle the Dark Lord, which you should have done when it was your time to do so, but he is now no more; he has been gone for eleven years,” he pointed out. “How can you hope to fight him?”

Aaaaeeeaaaiiii! A distressed wail rose suddenly from the moonlit mist where the Dead were gathered, making the men tremble.

“It is not by our choice; it was demanded of us: to fight Sauron and redeem ourselves, or no peace shall we find!” the One in Mathuil insisted. “So said the two kings who condemned us to this state – not once, but twice!” The old man clasped his arms about himself and began to wail, growing despondent and desperate like his unseen kin. “No release, no peace! Aaaaeeeeeiiaiii!”

“I gave you my pardon,” Aragorn argued. “Is it not enough?”

“No tool nor hand shall open Door…” Mathuil said as if beginning a slow chant.

“No tool nor hand shall open Door

Save he to whom the oath we swore

To let thee for betrayal atone

And set thee free before the Stone.”

The lines, reeking of the evil of the Dark Lord and uttered in the voice of the Dead, sent icy chills down the spines of the listeners.

“So spoke Hathël,” Mathuil said sullenly, “binding us to the oath, chaining us to the need to atone for breaking faith.” His eyes, shot with resentment, fixed themselves upon Aragorn. “You see now, Son of Isildur: thus were we cursed… and your forgiveness means nothing till our task is completed.”

“Then we are in a proper fix!” Gimli observed morosely. “There is no longer a Sauron, and therefore no task to complete.” 

“Aaaaaiiiiieiiiiiiaaaaaaaa!” The sudden blood-curdling shriek from Mathuil made the dwarf jump.

“Let us fulfill our oath!” cried the old man. “Let us redeem ourselves!”  

The Twice Forgotten continued to bemoan their fate, and so deep was their sorrow that the men of Gondor found pity welling up from within even as their hearts quailed.

“Hush, Gimli,” Legolas advised him. “It’s best not to rile them.”

Elladan shook his head slowly as he watched Aragorn dismount from Rallias in a daze. “They’ve waited this long,” the elf murmured,. “And now…”

“Another nail in their coffin,” Gimli muttered glumly despite Legolas’ counsel. “Not that they had any to begin with, but now…”

“Ai, they move from one horrible fate to another,” Hamille observed from where he stood behind his prince.

“It is as I feared,” Lord Celeborn said, walking up to Aragorn and Legolas.  It was then that everyone noticed how the elf lord had been the only one unfazed by the unexpected turn of events. “I did not think their release would come so easily,” he confessed. “Those verses he intoned… they must have been part of the runes we saw above the Door.”

“The Phial,” Legolas said, remembering what he had in his tunic. “Could it be for this purpose? Could it aid – ”

“Baw, Legolas; no, I do not think so,” the elf lord replied, looking gravely at Aragorn. “The curse laid upon them by the two kings is quite clear: they have to fulfill their oath to gain full pardon and release, Elessar. Somehow, they must prove themselves as adversaries of Sauron, for it was their treachery on his account that led to Isildur’s curse. And, later, their own king made certain redemption did not come easily for them.”

“You led our kin to the ships!” the One in Mathuil interrupted loudly, pointing a trembling finger at Aragorn. “Some of us saw it – they aided you and fulfilled their oath! Do the same for us!”

Aragorn shook his head and ran both hands through his hair. “How? The Dark Lord has been defeated,” he explained. “There are no more such ships, no more such foes. I cannot bring Sauron back!”

Upon hearing his claim, Mathuil suddenly launched himself from the cart with an energy that did not spring from his aged body, and before anyone could check him, he crossed the short distance to slam his bony hands upon Aragorn’s shoulders, nearly displacing the King from where he stood.

“Find a way!” the old man spat into the face of the startled ruler just before an irate Legolas grasped him about the waist and forced him away.

“Mathgor,” said Lord Celeborn, stepping up to the possessed man as well. “Hold on to your father before he hurts himself.”

“Find a way to free us!” Mathuil cried again shrilly as his ashen-faced son and nephew quickly complied with the elf lord’s warning and retrieved him from Legolas’ firm hold. “We must fulfill our oath!”

The old man looked as if he would advance on the King again, but he began rasping as the energy drained from him. He started to writhe as if in silent torment, and in response, the Spirits in the mist and their wails grew agitated as well, shifting eerily in the moonlight and making the Gondorian guards press closer together for courage.

“Fulfill our oath… redeem… our wrongs…” Mathuil forced the words painfully from his throat as he thrashed about restlessly in the cart before he quieted into a rocking motion, whimpering. The wails from the lingering Host gradually diminished as well into an uneasy silence.

Mathgor and Fierthwain stood looking at the old man helplessly, pity and anguish coursing through them. Then the nephew marched boldly up to Aragorn.   

“My lord, we cannot leave him like this; he will die!” he burst out, his eyes flaming. “Can nothing be done?”  

“That is precisely what we are trying to determine, Fierthwain,” Legolas said evenly from beside his friend, matching the incensed man’s glare with a steady one of his own.

“We understand your anxiety,” Aragorn said, sympathizing with the younger man. “But what you can do now is to keep your uncle calm and as comfortable as you can, and let me consider how to resolve this.” 

Fierthwain glowered a moment longer, but when Gimli patted his axe and fixed him with black eyes as hard as the steel blade, the man retreated with an expression dour enough to pickle orcs. The dwarf stared at the man’s back and grunted.

“What do we do now?” he muttered, returning to the problem at hand. “Sauron is gone, no more black ships…”

“If one of his abominable followers were still around, we might have a solution,” Hamille suggested quietly.

“His minions,” Aragorn mused, rubbing his stubbled chin. “That is a thought. After all, the earlier host did not have to confront Sauron himself; it was enough that they aided us in the capture of the Black Fleet that served his needs.”

“Aye, then we need only find someone who had been his servant!” Elladan said, suddenly a little more hopeful.

“Someone like Sarambaq,” Hamille continued, his face contorted with rage at the painful memory of almost having lost his king and his prince to the mad man. “But the despicable beast is dead and gone.”

“If only he were here,” Legolas remarked, giving a small laugh at the irony of the situation. “Where do we find more of his minions? Men, orcs, anyone… perhaps we could hunt for – ”

“I can’t believe it!” Gimli exclaimed. “First, we risk our necks to dispose of those warg droppings, and now we wish we could find them and bring them back!” He expelled a huge grunt of exasperation that stirred even the hairs of his thick beard. “These tales have more unexpected twists and turns than a snake’s crawl!”

“Or worm tunnels,” Aragorn remarked glumly and exhaled a long sigh. He looked apologetically at Lord Celeborn. “You did ask me to delay the summons, and had I known – ”  

“You did not know,” the elf lord disputed quickly. “None of us did, Elessar. You chose what you saw to be the best route to go on, and we followed open-eyed. If you had not summoned them, we would not be learning this from them now.”

“The lines you read, my lord, would have cast some meaning upon all this,” Aragorn suggested.

“That is likely,” the elf lord agreed. “But that is only a strong guess. I still do not know what tale they tell, and even now, I cannot tell if a delay would have been the better choice.”

“At least they would still be kept safely behind the Door,” Aragorn lamented.

“Only for a little while, Elessar; I only meant for you to forbear the summons for a little while; you would still have had to release them,” Celeborn said, trying to assuage the man’s regret. “But who could know how much longer would be necessary?”

“That was my thought, my lord: I could not hold them without end,” Aragorn explained. “I remembered, too, that not all are behind the Door. How long should I allow them to keep haunting the mountain and the lands about it, so that it is constantly unapproachable and inhospitable? My children and their children to come may not possess the same knowledge or wield the same strength I do now. I would not place the responsibility upon their shoulders. “This has to end now!” Aragorn finished resolutely, incensed by the very thought of Eldarion shouldering the consequences of a disturbing legacy.

“I understand, Elessar,” the ancient elf lord said gently, placing a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “Alas that the power of the Three Rings is gone from Middle-earth, and my own foresight is fast fading without the power that the Firstborn once held,” he continued sadly. “But come – what has been done is done, and it may yet turn out for the better. Let us turn our attention to finding a means of redeeming these Lost Ones.”

“Worm tunnels,” Legolas murmured, taking them all by surprise with what seemed a completely unrelated idea. He suddenly gripped Aragorn’s arm and reminded him: “You said tunnels!”

Several pairs of eyes stared at the elf prince, blinking in wonder. “Worm tunnels?” Elladan repeated, uncomprehending.

“What! Release them into – ppffft! – worm tunnels?” Gimli almost shouted with eyes big enough to rest teacups on. “Hoy, did you go daft back there on those Paths, Elfling? Aragorn, I told you to bring him back in one –”

“Not worm tunnels, Gimli – tunnels!” Legolas corrected him and turned back to Aragorn. “And one tunnel in particular.” As Aragorn continued to furrow his brows in bewilderment, the elf prince added: “Cirith Ungol, Aragorn, the tunnel in Cirith Ungol.”

Light began to dawn in the minds of his listeners as the elf prince pressed his point home:

“Shelob, Estel! If Sam’s account is to be believed, Shelob may still live.”

Taken aback for a moment, Gimli froze. Then he began to nod slowly. “Ai… ai, ai! That’s right, Elfling!” he agreed enthusiastically. “That brave little hobbit gave that eight-legged monster something to think about with Sting, he said, but not enough to kill it!”

“Yes, it slunk away, Sam said, back into its fly-and-orc-infested tunnel – no doubt to nurse its well-deserved wounds,” Elladan recalled, growing hopeful as well.

“Then it may yet be alive, still feasting on unsuspecting birds and whatever foul beasts still roam those Valar-forsaken lands,” Aragorn said. “It could have sustained itself on orc carcasses –”

“Ugh, spare us the privilege of your roving imagination, Man!” Gimli griped. “We can paint our own pictures, thank you kindly.” The dwarf turned to Legolas and smacked him on the back. “Looks like you didn’t lose your brains after all,” he said generously, receiving a thump on his shoulder in return.  

“Shelob never really served Sauron, but she did indeed aid him, devouring many of his unwanted prisoners, even the orcs that he spawned,” Aragorn reflected. “We’ve never considered hunting her down, thinking her powerless now, and she is well-hidden in the deep recesses of the mountain. But there is no harm in ridding the land of yet another old ally of the Dark Lord. I could lead the Host there, have them seek her out – ”

“Then do it, please, Sire, and quickly, for the sake of my uncle and the village!” Fierthwain demanded, from where he had stood listening for some time. He turned back to the simpering old man and spoke boldly to the One in him, his fear fleeing in the face of his anxiety. “Do you hear that, you filth? You and them over there – you can leave now and redeem yourselves! Leave us alone!”

“Leave,” the old man mumbled. “Yes, we want to leave…fulfill our oath…”

Lord Celeborn studied the old man for a moment. “It is many leagues away, Elessar,” he observed quietly, his eyes returning to Aragorn. “Many leagues to lead an army of the Dead; it will be quite a task.” 

“There seems little choice, my lord,” Aragorn replied in the same low tones. “But it may not be as hard as we might think. They are desperate for release; they will hear my call and follow me whither I lead them.”

“The Shades of Men were obedient to his will before,” Legolas stated. “But for the greater distance to our destination, it should be no different now.” He paused before adding: “At least, that is what we hope.”

“They are desperate,” Elladan agreed, addressing his grandsire. “They will not leave Estel, nor, I believe, seek to harm the only one who can liberate them.”

“Then it is settled,” Aragorn decided. “That will be their task: to free what remains of the Black Land from one more remnant of Sauron’s evil rule. That will be their redemption. And may it be complete then.”

“Aye, let us hope so,” Legolas said. “Our journey will have to be swift, and largely away from the towns and dwelling places, Estel, or your whole realm will be in terror wherever we pass. You will be known as the King of the Dead before e’er they meet you, till the end of your rule.”

Aragorn smiled wryly before releasing a sigh that carried his gloom. “Another tiring journey to redemption,” he said. “And even farther this time.”

“Should we not first stop at the White City, my lord?” Hamille asked. “To call upon the aid of Master Gamgee? It would be much easier to have with us one who has actually gone on that path, and the City is not too far off the route to Cirith Ungol. There will be no long detour to delay us.”

Aragorn narrowed his eyes and thought about Arwen and Eldarion, and the people of the City. “I am loathe to bring the Host anywhere near Minas Tirith,” he said before conceding the wisdom of the elf’s suggestion. “Yet, you speak truly, Hamille, hannon le. That is what we shall do, but only if he agrees to come with us. Should he choose not to repeat the misery of that experience, I shall not fault him.” 

“Send a man ahead, Elessar, to fetch him, if he will come – and also to keep your family informed of the events,” Lord Celeborn suggested, knowing how anxious his granddaughter must be about her husband. “Sam can meet us on the road, can he not?”

“Yes, my lord, that is best,” Aragorn agreed. “The Host will not come within sight of the City walls if I can help it.” The King spared no small thought for his Steward as well, who he feared would be out of his mind with worry by now.  

“Should we not commence our journey now?” asked Elladan, casting a furtive look in the direction where he knew the Shapes of the Dead were hovering beyond the group of Gondorian guards. “Look at them… waiting... but I suppose they have been suspended here for so long that a few hours or a few days longer means little, as long as they are now assured of the release they seek.”

“Well, I can’t see them, and that may be a good thing to be said for mortal eyes,” Gimli admitted.  “Still, they’re not the only ones keen to get going; I am too. I’m hungry enough to eat the rocks off the ground, and would love a good night’s sleep, but the sooner we have these ghastly fellows off our backs, the better, I say!”

“Hold! Please, my lord, wait!” Mathgor begged, stepping up to Aragorn before anyone could take a step. The man, despite his obvious concern over this father, had remained remarkably composed throughout, but now his face was wrung with anguish. “I have listened to your plans to lead the host to the City, which is many days’ ride from here, and, if I have heard correctly, you head for a place in the mountains beyond the City – a place that I know nothing of, save in the dark stories that speak of its evil and devastation.” The man paused to draw breath, but even before he spoke again, Aragorn knew what he was going to say. “Please – what of my father? He cannot – ”

Aragorn held up a hand to stop him, but not unkindly. “I have not overlooked him, Mathgor, and I speak of your father, not the one within,” the King said reassuringly. “This is where his agony ends, at Erech. Be at ease; he will not be going anywhere.”

Distress drained visibly from the face of the villager as he nodded, too filled with nervous anticipation to speak. He stepped aside as Aragorn approached the cart where his father leaned against the wooden restrains. Fierthwain stood over him, lips pursed in barely suppressed contempt of the people who did not seem to be doing enough to help his uncle.

“Old father,” Aragorn said, addressing Mathuil once more by the term he had used in the village. When the old man sat up and gave Aragorn an acidic look with overly bright eyes, Aragorn said firmly: “I will give you a chance to fulfill the oath you first took to do battle against the Dark Lord, and thereby redeem yourselves of your treachery.”

A look of relief crossed the old man’s face.  “At last,” he breathed, making Aragorn wonder fleetingly how ghosts would express joy if they were not residing in a mortal body.

“Now, leave this man and join your kin yonder so that I may lead you,” Aragorn instructed, indicating where the Host had been waiting a little distance away.

But to Mathgor’s horror, the One in Mathuil unexpectedly refused. “No, I will follow you as I am,” he insisted. “I remain where I am.”

For a moment, Aragorn was too surprised to speak. Then he grew angry at the defiance shown.

“What – remain in this frail old body?” he demanded. “Do you mean to rob it of any life it has left? We shall ride many leagues, and climb a great height on the steep face of a mountain before the end, and he will not survive the grueling journey! No! You will leave him and follow me!”

“Heir of Isildur, there is no other way to speak with you as clearly and easily, not when I am but a Shadow!” the Dead One argued, surprising everyone with his vehemence.

The King found the claim ludicrous. “Speak?!” he asked. “What would we have to discuss?” His hands fisted as he fought to restrain his ire. “Do you not wish to fulfill your oath?”

“Of course!” came the earnest reply.

“Will you fight the ally of Sauron as I command?”

“Yes!”

“Your release from this earth – is that not what you seek?”

“Yesssss!”

“And peace – is that not what you will follow me to find?”

“You know it is – ”

“Then I need hear no longer from you,” Aragorn declared, suddenly sickened by the presence of the Host and overwhelmed by the demands of the bizarre events. “You will do as I command, and when you have fulfilled your oath, I will set you free as you wish, and that shall be the end of it!”

A strange light flashed in the eyes of the old man, but it was extinguished as quickly as it had flared, and his face went impassive. “Yes,” he said dully. “Yes, it shall all end then.”

The quiet words stirred some uneasiness in the elves, but none could understand the meaning behind them. Legolas approached the cart himself and addressed the old man directly.

“Old One,” he said, a hint of uneasiness in his otherwise even voice. “Is there more you need to tell us?”

“Nothing more than what I have said,” Mathuil answered tersely. “But I ask that you let me remain in him till our oath is fulfilled, so there are no regrets.” 

Regrets? the elf prince wondered, looking enquiringly at the King.

In the few moments that followed, Aragorn first stared at the old man, then glanced at the grief-stricken, pleading face of his son, who had never uttered a word of blame against the King since the start of his family’s misfortunes. Then he looked into Legolas’ clear blue eyes and thought of the sweet-faced village child whose simple desire to speak with an elf prince was denied because her elders’ fears drove them to blame the hauntings on a race of beautiful beings who endured their insults for his sake. Finally, despite their ignorance, he thought of the villagers themselves, who looked to him as their King. He closed his eyes and made a decision.

“No,” he stated firmly, his arms rigid at his sides. “The only regret I will have is if he dies because I allowed you to stay in his helpless body. Depart from him!”

“Then let me find another –”

“You will take no other,” the King refused in a quietly dangerous voice that even Legolas did not wish to question. “You have done enough harm, and I will not be responsible for yet another life.” He drew a deep breath, and a cold, white fire flashed in his eyes when he issued his final threat: “Leave him now, or I will not issue the summons, or pardon you again, and you and your kin shall never, ever be free. Choose quickly.” 

The old man locked eyes with the heir of Isildur one last time before he cast them downward and exhaled in resignation. “So be it,” he said.

The three words were like kindling to the flame of hope in Mathgor and Fierthwain, who released the breaths they had been holding and looked at each other with renewed anticipation. But as the cousins moved as one to either side of the old man, they were checked by the voice of Lord Celeborn, who was approaching them.

“Wait!” the elf lord said. “Old One, I wish to know your thoughts – ”

“You will not touch him again!” Fierthwain cried, gritting his teeth and stepping between the elf lord and his uncle. “Hasn’t he suffered enough? He will be freed now. Don’t meddle – ”

The elf lord’s eyes blazed and he raised his hand to move the man aside, but before anything could be done, a strangled cry came from the figure behind Fierthwain, and the startled man swiveled around to find his uncle collapsed in the arms of his horrified cousin. This time, the elf lord did firmly push Fierthwain out of the way as Mathgor sank to the grass with his father in his arms. Aragorn and the elf lord were at his side in an instant, the King checking the old man for signs of life while Celeborn placed his hand on his brow. Both wore anxious faces. 

After a few moments, the King and the elf lord looked at each other, and their expressions softened. 

“He lives, Mathgor,” Aragorn said simply, receiving a smile of genuine relief from the man and feeling a great weight lifted from his own shoulders. “He lives.”

“I believe he is returned to you,” Celeborn added, getting to his feet. “He may be in a faint for a while – but he is free.”

“Take him home and let him rest as much as he needs,” Aragorn advised the villager. “Let us hope he will be whole again before too long.” 

“Sire, thank you!” Mathgor breathed, his eyes misting over with gratitude. “I thank you for my mother and myself. And for my cousin as well – please… forgive him.”

Aragorn smiled grimly and nodded. He watched the cousins lift the old man gently on to the cart and make him comfortable for the return journey before he turned back wearily to the others and the task awaiting him.

“Now comes the next step,” he noted tiredly. “There is no point in tarrying; it has to be done now.”

Hamille walked up to them with one of Aragorn’s guards. “I have briefed your men on the forthcoming journey, my lord,” the elf said. “You will have enough to bear, so with your permission, I will make the other necessary arrangements for you. You need but specify the route.”

Aragorn gave the elf a warm smile. “You have my permission, Hamille, and my gratitude,” he said.

Then the King spent a few minutes in discussion with the elves, Gimli and the captain of his escort to determine the route to be followed in the next few days.

“Tobëas is our swiftest rider, and he will ride ahead to fetch Mayor Gamgee, my lord,” the captain told Aragorn.

“Very well, but send with him my express orders: that neither the Queen nor Eldarion should come to meet us on the road,” the King instructed. “In fact,” he added after a moment’s consideration, “please request that the Lord Steward remain with them behind the City walls.” He lowered his voice as he explained: “These Forgotten People may not mean any malice, but I want Eldarion kept securely away from them, and I shall depend upon Lord Faramir to see to that.”

After Tobëas had been sent off with the King’s message, the discussion resumed. Aragorn and the remainder of the company would return south along the well-used road on which they had come: through Tarlang’s Neck, and as far as Ethring. But from there, instead of following the road to Lindir and Pelargir as they would have done under different circumstances, they would ride east along the plains of Lebennin, keeping close to the foot of the mountains to stay away from the more densely inhabited areas. Thus would they reach the Crossings at Erui and from there rejoin the road to the White City before pursuing the road to Cirith Ungol.

“Well, we’d best get going then,” Gimli said impatiently, looking around but deliberately avoiding the Shadow Host thronged at the perimeter of the group. “As I said, the sooner – ”

“Wait, Elessar, there is… another matter,” Celeborn interrupted. He looked steadily at Aragorn and Legolas before he stated: “I shall not be riding with you.”

The listeners around him could not have felt more stunned than if rocks had fallen on their heads.

“You will not be with us, hir nin?” Legolas asked, hardly believing what he had heard. “But why?”

“I do not mean to leave your company, young ones,” the elf lord replied. “But I feel uneasy about what the One in Mathuil said before he relinquished his hold on the old man. I wish I had been in time to read his thoughts. It may not have been anything sinister, but aside from that, I still feel troubled by the runes I saw above the Door on the Paths. I wish to decipher their full meaning, and I need to study records that can help me.”

“The archives in the Citadel – ” Aragorn offered, disheartened at the thought of the elf lord’s impending absence from this grim task.

“It will hardly contain records written in the speech of Mordor,” the elf lord countered. “I have learnt from my conversations with Mithrandir, however, that there will be records – notes, perhaps – in abundance in the stronghold of Saruman, who was in league with the Dark Lord. They stole from each other’s skill and knowledge to work their evil in many matters, and I should find enough there to help me understand those lines.”

The elf lord looked affectionately at his foster grandson and the child of Thranduil. “I do not abandon you needlessly, my children, nor thoughtlessly,” he said gently. “Where your task in Cirith Ungol is concerned, Elessar… my presence or absence will make no great difference, for it is yours to bend according to your will. But my heart is strongly drawn to those runes, and it speaks yet again that I should examine them. Therefore, let me not neglect them; I must hie away to the Tower of Orthanc at Isengard.”

“Then I shall accompany you, Daerada,” Elladan stated immediately. “But must we not first ride back east? We need to go around the spur of Muindollin before we can get onto the Great West Road to Isengard. And since the City lies there, we would still be with Estel till then at least, even if we do not enter the City itself.”

Though that observation rekindled hope in the face of the King, the elf lord did not seem pleased. “That will brook a delay I do not desire,” he said gravely, lapsing into silence. “I had hoped to follow a shorter, faster route to Orthanc.”   

Elladan gulped nervously before he could stop himself. “Shorter? Faster?” he asked. “You – you are not thinking of going through the Paths – to Dunharrow?”

His grandsire smiled. “Based on all I have heard, that is the shortest way, tithen pen,” the elf lord replied. “But nay, I will not take the Paths again. Even without the Dead, it is an unpleasant place altogether.” Hiding his amusement at the sigh of relief from his grandson, the elf lord continued: “I wonder if there is an alternative route I can take; perhaps Mathgor could help, since he must know this part of the land better than we do.”

“Indeed I can, my lord,” said the man in question as he walked up to the little group. “I could not help overhearing your plans, and I would be pleased to aid you however I can.”

Despite the uncertainty of everything happening around them, it gladdened the hearts of Aragorn and the elves to see the evident change in Mathgor’s demeanor and the lightness in his voice, now that he was free of the anguish he had borne with so much fortitude. They listened readily to the option he proposed.

“There is a pass yonder – ” he pointed towards the north-east “ – that leads over the Ered Nimrais to the Folde and the West Road. It is little used, but accessible in the Spring and Summer. It would greatly reduce the distance you wish to traverse, for you will have no need to travel all the way back to the City to come around again. It is a safe road, and if you would have my company, I will lead you at least to the start of the Pass.”

Celeborn and Elladan looked pleased, but doubt still lingered on the King’s face.

“Yes, I have heard it spoken of, and if you say so, Mathgor, it would be a viable alternative,” Aragorn said. “But… my lord, the Tower is locked, and the key lies in the City where I have kept it securely since the end of the Quest and the demise of the Wizard. You would need to first retrieve it there.”

Gimli, having observed the exchange with some consternation, decided reluctantly to intervene. He walked up to Legolas and cleared his throat.

“Well, Elfling, it looks like we’ll have to go separate ways for a while longer,” he sniffed. Smirking at the elf’s puzzled look, the dwarf turned to Lord Celeborn and made his offer. “I will ride with you to Isengard, my lord, for a lock poses little difficulty to the Miners of Middle-earth, and a trusty axe will make short work of it if one knows where to strike,” he said with pride. “Besides, a fair bit of explosive powder is available at the Glittering Caves nearby, should we need it.”  

In response, the elf lord looked at the dwarf so intently that the stocky figure squirmed and looked away from his gaze as he done once long ago in the Golden Wood where Galadriel had read his heart.

“Great was my Lady’s insight, and her affection well-placed,” Celeborn declared with a fond smile, surprising the dwarf further and deepening his blush. “I accept your generous offer, Master Gimli; it is very welcome.”  

As Gimli blushed as he once had at Galadriel’s beaming smile, Legolas grinned and bent down to whisper in his friend’s ear. “So, you work your way into the heart of yet another of the Firstborn,” he teased. “Fittingly do you wear the name of elvellon, Elf Friend!”

Snorting to conceal his pride and satisfaction, the dwarf patted his belt and waved his friend away with an air of feigned nonchalance.

Thus it was settled that Celeborn, Elladan and Gimli would cross the Ered Nimrais through the pass, the mouth of which began not too great a distance from the Hill of Erech. After obtaining the information they needed in Isengard, they would ride back along the Great West Road to rejoin the company in Minas Tirith or Cirith Ungol.

“I know not what I will learn, Elessar,” the elf lord said honestly, “but I hope it will not be dire, and that my concerns are but empty misgivings. I pray that your business in the Black Land is concluded swiftly, that we may meet again in the City.”

Aragorn nodded. “May it be so,” he said.

“We will return as soon as we can,” Lord Celeborn assured the King, and he graced Aragorn and Legolas with a smile. “May no great dangers lie ahead for you, but should you face any, take care of each other, and keep the Lady’s Glass close.”

“Now at last, perhaps we can understand the Lady’s purpose in sending it,” Legolas suggested, trying to maintain cheer in his voice, “for it was in Cirith Ungol that Sam and Frodo were first aided by the star-glass, as they called it.”

“That might be,” Celeborn replied. “Be alert, young ones, the spawn of Ungoliath will probably be very hungry, and her sting may not have lost its potency.” 

After warm farewells had been exchanged between the two groups who would be riding in separate directions, they were at last ready to depart from Erech. As arranged, some of Aragorn’s guards rode on ahead to warn villagers and townsfolk to remain indoors where the King’s little procession might pass.

Gimli gave his elven friend a scowl. “If you or that human come back half-dead, Legolas, I will gladly finish the job myself!” he warned. “So don’t give me the pleasure!”

The elf prince grinned. “Then pray do not impose the same fate upon Lord Celeborn with the tedium of your trade secrets, Gimli,” he rejoined. “The elves of the Golden Wood have no need of detailed instruction in the two hundred and seventeen ways of cutting crystals!” With that taunt, the elf prince patted his friend on the shoulder, receiving a snort in response, and joined Aragorn at the head of his company.

Mathgor gave Hamille the food that had been generously provided by his mother and some of the less intimidated villagers, and received fair parting words from his King. Fierthwain turned the cart around, with his uncle comfortably settled on blankets at the back, for the return trip to the village. Much of the dourness had gone from the taciturn face of Mathuil’s nephew, but while he acknowledged Aragorn and his royal escort with as polite a farewell nod as he could manage, and even spared the dwarf a brief if indifferent look, he blatantly averted his eyes from the Firstborn.

But such behavior was of little concern to Aragorn and the Elves at this moment, for the King’s thoughts were bent only on the immediate need to summon the Dead to complete their final task.

Looking once more the poised, stern ruler upon his steed, he unsheathed Andúril in one smooth motion and raised it high, so that the night air rang with its Voice, and the rays from the sickle in the sky glinted silver on the Flame of the West, drawing reverence towards its kingly wielder rather than the Black Stone behind him. And though none saw it, there glittered, too, a gleam of pride in the eyes of Legolas as he beheld the strength and stature of his friend who refused to be bowed by the burden of his task.

“Oathbreakers of the Mountain, I call thee by the Black Stone!” Aragorn addressed the Dead in a clear, firm voice. “And by the heir of Isildur shall you be released when the time comes. We ride to the Black Land to free it from the ally of the Dark Lord! Follow me and do as I bid so you may redeem yourselves and find peace! Will you do this in fulfillment of your oath?”

Again, as from far away, a vague “yea!” resounded among the Dead. For a moment, it seemed strange to think of Mathguil’s forefather being among them now, but the moment passed, and Aragorn turned his face south. Armored with resolution, he led the company on the start of their ride to redemption for the last of the Lost and Forgotten People.

Note: Gimli’s remark about stories having twists and turns was a shot at myself, made on behalf of readers who feel the same way.  :–)

For those who have never encountered Sarambaq, he’s a character in my first story For the Love of the Lord of the White Tree.  You’re welcome to meet him there.

My thanks to my wonderful reviewers.