Note: Chapter 23 was meant to take the story to a particular point in the plot, but it grew too long to be a single chapter, so the latter part of what I initially planned has now got to be in 24.

CHAPTER 23: REAWAKENING

The wind whipped through the dark hair of the King of Gondor as he stood facing the mouth of Shelob’s lair, his bruised face grim and determined, even if his legs were still a little unsteady and his body throbbed with pain that had set in once he had lain down and had time to feel. Yet, Aragorn had not rested more than an hour before he had pronounced himself able to confront Shelob, and despite the impassioned protests of his brother and his guards, they had understood his desire to complete his task so that they could all return home.

Thus here he stood, the bandaged fingers of one hand gripping the hilt of the Flame of the West, and the other hand resting on the arm of his elven friend, whose long, golden hair glinted as brightly as the blade of Andứril in the light of early afternoon. A round-eyed hobbit and the striking elf of Imladris were only a step behind, Sam no less tense despite having met Shelob once before. Three resolute, if slightly nervous, guards stood attentively behind their King. They were all as silent and anxious as the Shadow Host that awaited the command of the heir of Isildur.

Unseen by all save the elven eyes of the Firstborn, and their presence dreadful to all but the Prince of the Greenwood, the Dead hovered with the keen and tense anticipation of those who would soon be freed from a lifetime – many lifetimes – of bitter punishment. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to do but the will of the King.

With the aid of the elf prince, Aragorn faced them, sensing rather than seeing where they were. “Find her and bring her out,” he said steadily, with his chin held high. “And when I can bring about her end, I will consider your oath to aid the line of Isildur fulfilled.”

Like a soft breath of wind, the Dead turned swiftly and disappeared into the dark recesses of Torech Ungol to rouse their prey. Then Aragorn and the others stayed on either side of the opening to await Her: She who had once been Sauron’s covert ally, and She whom they wished to bring into the open now as the solution to Aragorn’s dilemma.

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

Many leagues north, in the stronghold of yet another being who had once been the ally of Sauron, a different kind of turmoil was going on. It swirled within the mind of an elf lord, pushing him towards a decision he was loath to make.

Lord Celeborn was tired, and growing more so. Orthanc had not been occupied by such a watchful resident as it had during the long, recent nights, when moths that had wandered into the chamber through the window high above had been attracted not only to the light of a burning stove, but also to the subtle glow of a figure in the dark, head bent studiously over papers, his silver hair shimmering with the glow of starlight that had touched it for thousands of years.

Now the noon sun was already sliding in the sky, and Celeborn had still not eaten. Elladan saw him wearying as he seldom had before, the spirit of the venerable elf lord seeming to sag beneath the weight of frustration. The younger elf peered over the hunched shoulders and found the ancient elf staring at the lines written by Saruman that he had discovered earlier: No ragged left-over shall challenge me and freely undo what I have branded into Stone … I shall see to it.

The ominous declaration disturbed them all greatly, he knew, but when he saw Celeborn pass his hands yet again over fatigued eyes, Elladan made the difficult decision for all of them. He stepped around the chair so that he was face to face with the seated figure. 

“It is time to leave, Daerada,” he said simply, with no hint of a questioning tone. “We can do no more.”

Elladan stood straight, expecting words of calm protest to emerge from the elf lord’s mouth, composing yet another reason to stay a while longer. He was thus surprised to see his grandsire lift his head and nod tiredly at him.

“My heart is torn in two, child,” Celeborn admitted, sighing. “I am still disturbed by these words of Saruman and would learn more about them – yet I feel that Elessar will need us where he is.”

A hopeful smile ghosted across Elladan’s face. “Then we should go where we know he is, Daerada, rather than seek something we cannot find, nor even know exists,” he stated.

Celeborn said nothing in response, but closed his eyes and went still, appearing to descend into deep thought. His grandson could only sigh in silence.

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

Time oft passes slowly for those who wait, and so it did for Aragorn and his company, who sat concealed behind rocks on either side of the front door to Shelob’s home. For hours it seemed they did nothing, though in truth it had not passed even one since the Host vanished into the darkness of the cave to execute the command of the King.

The notion of meeting with a foe around which terrifying tales had been spun made the waiting more grievous for Tobëas and his friends, who found solace in the thought that they would be able to depart from this depressing place when the King’s task was over. Sam, however, made his wait more bearable in true hobbit fashion: by filling the empty minutes with yawns and snatches of sleep, and his empty mouth with snatches of food, “to keep up my strength up, you understand,” he explained, “seein’ as it might be needed.” And the elves smiled, knowing how the brave hobbit was occupying his time to keep from thinking about a dreadful monster that had once almost taken his life.

Aragorn, at Legolas’ bidding, had used the time to rest quietly again, his light moans – uttered in a half-waking state – drawing deep compassion from they who loved him. He had mercifully fallen into light slumber despite the nagging pain that had set into too many parts of his body to be named. But the two elves remained watchful, their sharp eyes ever on the mouth of the lair, and their keen ears alert.

“What are they doing in there?” Sam lamented after yet another gulp of water. “Haven’t those dead fellows found her yet? Is Creepy Legs still around?”

“I believe She is, Sam, and I think they have found her and roused her,” Legolas said, keeping his voice low to avoid waking Aragorn. “You may not have heard it, for it was faint, but there were sounds of a scuffle sounds deep inside a while ago.”

“Aye, as well as the shrieks of the Dead Ones,” Elrohir added. “They were hardly to be heard, like muffled screams through many layers of cloth… but they were there.”

Legolas gave a nod of concurrence. “Shelob apparently needs some coaxing to leave her home,” he remarked.  

“Oh,” Sam said in a small voice, putting down his water-skin. He coughed lightly and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Can’t say as I heard anything, but she must still be alive then, at any rate. If she’s near to showing her ugly face, you’ll tell us in plenty of time, won’t you?”

“We will, Sam,” Legolas replied, and they settled down again, watching the dark opening like vultures awaiting prey. But as the minutes went by, with no sign of anything emerging from the darkness, even Legolas grew weary of the delay. He cast a concerned look at Aragorn, whose restless slumber did little to ease the lines of pain on his face. “It is taking too long,” the elf said.

Then, as if in response to Legolas’ grievance, a shimmer – perceived only by the eyes of the Firstborn – appeared at the mouth of the tunnel.

“The Host is back!” the elf prince whispered hopefully and stood up, only moments before he frowned. “But they seem agitated.”

“And there is no sign of Shelob,” Elrohir added, training his eyes on the darkness beyond. “Do you think… she refuses to emerge?”

Legolas lowered his head in disappointment. “It appears so,” he agreed.

“What – they couldn’t bring her out?” Sam asked, dejected. “Are you sure? Can’t you ask them or something?”

“They do not speak out that easily, Sam,” Legolas reminded him. “Do you remember what Aragorn narrated to you? The last time they spoke, it was through the mouth of a Man. And we do not wish for anyone here to undergo the same kind of… possession… by Them. What I can sense from them ought to be enough.” After a moment of silent deliberation, the elf prince turned to Elrohir. “I will go in and draw her out,” he stated.

“Whoa, hold that thought!” Sam said, sitting up abruptly. “You – you’re going in there?”

“Aye, Sam,” Legolas replied.

“Do you have to?” the hobbit asked plaintively. 

The elf rested his eyes on Aragorn again and lowered his voice. “He needs to be brought home,” he said. “We can tarry no longer. I must go in.”

“Not alone,” Elrohir argued, preparing to rise.

“Estel will need you,” Legolas stated immediately, gripping the other elf’s arm.

Elrohir looked about to protest, but after casting a look at Aragorn, he conceded and nodded wordlessly. Then Sam rose to his feet.

“It winds every which way in there, and you won’t know the way,” the hobbit said. “If you must go in to give that ugly bag of poison a prod, I’m coming with you.”

“No, Sam, you have done enough by coming here,” Legolas said. “And the Host will guide me –”

“Look, Mister Legolas, I know as well as you and Strider that being in a deep, dark, closed place isn’t exactly your favorite pastime. Don’t think I don’t know about that little wager between you and Gimli, and how you were drug down ‘em glittery caves only ‘coz of the bargain you made with him,” Sam said boldly. “Now, Shelob’s tunnel isn’t going to be any easier; in fact, it’s a hundred times worser: no glitter, no shine! And when you’re in there, you’ll hanker for a friendly voice, take it from one who’s been and back!” 

Exchanging a glance of amusement with Elrohir, Legolas smiled gratefully at Sam. “In that case, I should be honored to have your company, Master Gamgee, if you are certain about going in with me.”

“Yes, and time’s a-wasting,” the hobbit sniffed, giving Sting a pat. “Best we go now.”

“Where?” a husky voice asked, and Elf and Hobbit turned to see a groggy Aragorn looking up at them with dulled eyes. “Go where, Legolas – ?”

Legolas knelt at the man’s side. “To give Shelob a nudge,” he replied, wishing he could remove the shadow of pain from his friend’s face. “It seems the Host can do no more. Sam and I will bring her out as soon as we can, Estel. Wait here with Elrohir, and be ready when we return.”

The objection Aragorn raised was short-lived, and he pursed his lips in defeat. “It will be dark, and She will be angry,” he said resignedly. “Be cautious, both of you.”

“Just be prepared with that shiny sword of yours, Strider,” the hobbit said. “Off we go now!” 

Legolas laid a hand lightly on the King’s shoulder and turned to follow Sam, when a bandaged hand stayed his arm. Grey eyes – filled with fondness even in distress – bored into his clear blue ones.

“Do not give me grief, Elf,” the man said quietly, his voice hoarse with concern. “I ache enough outside.”

Legolas gave him a small smile. “Give me none in return, Ranger,” he rejoined. “You taxed my heart once today; that is all you are allowed. When Shelob arrives, attempt nothing beyond your strength, I beg you.”

With a parting nod to Aragorn and Elrohir, the elf prince and Sam stepped out from behind the rock, signaling to Aragorn’s guards to remain hidden.

“The Heir of Isildur bids you lead me to his foe,” Legolas said to the waiting Host, hoping they would. And it seemed they did indeed know his intentions, for they turned and disappeared once more into the gaping mouth of the tunnel. Then, taking a deep breath, Legolas and Sam followed them and passed into the darkness of their enemy’s lair, leaving an elf and a man to resume their anxious wait.

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

Time seemed to be ticking by too slowly for another elf in a different part of Middle-earth.

Elladan felt he could hold on no longer, groaning inwardly at the continued lack of response from his grandsire. But just as he was preparing to attempt yet another debate, the brilliant blue eyes opened, and the elf lord said: “We shall leave.”

Breathing a sigh of delight, Elladan loosened his tense shoulders. “I will inform Gimli and prepare the boat and horses,” he said, “and you, Daerada, should eat something along the way.”

The elf turned in the direction of the stairs with the intention of announcing what he knew would be welcome news to the dwarf, when his steps were arrested by the loud cry of the very person he was going to seek.

“My lord, my lord Celeborn!” Gimli hollered, his boots clumping loudly on the stairs as he ran up, followed by two equally excited younger dwarves with reddened cheeks. He ran right up to Celeborn, his rapid breath agitating the hairs of his beard. “My lord! Hooo! Elladan! Ooooh!” he said breathlessly. “Look at this… see… see what’s on here!”  

So saying, Gimli held out the old bony skull Bragor and Dagor had been toying with. Puzzled by the dwarf’s exuberance, Celeborn hesitated a moment before his long, slender fingers reached for the proffered object.

“Wait, wait!” Gimli said, retracting the skull before Celeborn could touch it or utter a word. The dwarf lord looked down at its rounded top with a frown and turned to the figure beside him. “Dagor! Here, more of the stuff – be quick!”

As the surprised elves looked on, Dagor stepped up eagerly and puffed swiftly on his pipe till the finely shredded Longbottom leaf glowed red-hot. Then he knocked the hot embers out of the pipe onto the skull surface and nodded proudly. Gimli spread the burning residue quickly with the stem of the pipe, then brushed it off before extending his arms again towards Celeborn.

“Too small for my miner’s eyes to read without my eyeglass, but – there you go!” Gimli said, hardly able to contain his excitement.

Their curiosity kindled, Celeborn and his grandson bent their heads over the rounded top of the skull. Then, even the eyes of the wizened elf lord, who had witnessed more through the Ages than the three dwarves could ever conceive, shone with astonishment.

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

While awe glistened in the eyes of the Lord of Lothlorien far north, the Light of his Lady’s lamp was guiding the steps of an elf and a hobbit in the depressing gloom of a tunnel. Barely ten steps from the entrance of the lair, Legolas and Sam had found themselves in utter and impenetrable dark, and the elf had quickly brought out the Lamp. Even with the Host leading the way before them, Legolas was glad for the comfort of the starlight, for he was, as the hobbit had said earlier, distinctly ill at ease in a place so cut off from the trees and water and Sun with which a Woodelf bonded so closely. The Light was to him a breath of wind in an airless place. In the eyes of the immortal elf, green, gold, silver and white flecks danced in its gleam, as if the touch of Varda, Queen of Stars herself lived in its beams, breaking the tide of darkness in Torech Ungol as it did the black skies above the World.

Before long, however, the elf very reluctantly returned the Lamp to the safety of his tunic, robbing the tunnel of its reassuring brightness. The loss of the comforting rays drew a startled whimper from the hobbit, for the sudden dark hit them like a thick vapor, absorbing all light, all thought, and all hope. The Shadow Wraiths before them seemed to be blended into the black fog. Even the glow that always came from the elf prince at night was swallowed by the consuming dark.

“I regret subjecting you to the blackness once more, Sam,” Legolas whispered, his fair voice falling dead in the stagnant gloom, and sounding just as heavy. “But the bright light would put fear into Shelob and drive her further in rather than draw her out, would it not?”

Sam frowned in the dark. “You’re right, Legolas,” he agreed miserably. “We have to keep it dark, even if it’s like walking in a tomb. It's just... well, this is a proper rotter! I’m supposed to be showing you the way, but fat lot of good I’m doing you in this tunnel when I can’t see my own hand afore my nose.”

“I am glad for your company nonetheless,” Legolas said kindly, and with much truth. “Since you cannot see your hand, here, take mine, and I will lead you as best as I can, for this deep night strains even elven eyes. The Host goes before us, and I shall follow their lead.”

Sam placed his plump fingers in the slender elven hand whose luminescent outline he could just discern because of its closeness, but he did not move from where he stood. “You know, Legolas, I’m a-thinking…" he began to say, and even  though his features were not visible in the dark, his tone made it clear to the elf that he was struggling with a decision. "I'm thinking that... maybe I shouldn’t be in here after all," he contnued. "I really can’t do you much good ‘cept slow you down with my fumbling and stumbling about in this creepy ink-black spider-hole. And shush, don’t be denying it either. I know you mean to be polite, but real’s real, and in this place… well, I’ll be about as useful as a pancake. Come that hairy eight-legged hunter, and as likely as not, I’ll be squished under her big belly with only my foot sticking out. The last thing you’ll need is worry about a flattened hobbit!”

Legolas could not help the small smile that touched his lips. But neither could he stem the tiny current of trepidation that coursed fleetingly through him at the mention of an eight-legged hunter, for his experiences with the giant spiders in the neighborhood of his forest home had been far from pleasant. Never far from his mind were those memories, and he expected Shelob to be far larger, and far more dangerous.

“I was lucky to escape with my skin the last time, but by no easy means," Sam continued. "You'll have your hands full, Legolas; we can't have you worrying about me. So, it’s best for you that I turn back and maybe get one of those Men to go with you. The entrance isn’t that far off.” 

Legolas took a few moments to consider Sam’s proposal, and decided to accept it, not because he did not appreciate the hobbit’s company, but because he thought Sam would be in far more danger here if Shelob should attack them, which she in all likelihood would.

“You place too little value on yourself, my friend, yet I shall not question your counsel in this matter,” he said. “But neither shall I make one of the guards endure this terrible darkness with me. I shall go in alone.”

Sam shook his head. “Oooh, Strider’s not going to be too happy about that,” he said.

“I will be back before he can say anything, Sam,” came the reply. “Let me guide you back to the entrance at least.”

“No, no need for that; it’s close enough that I can feel my way back slowly,” Sam said, wishing there was a bit of light to see despite what he said. “I wonder, though, if you wouldn’t want someone – ”

“Shh!” Legolas suddenly hissed in caution, gripping Sam’s shoulder and startling him. “Hush!"

Sam moved closer to the elf. “What?” he whispered fearfully in the dark.

"I hear something.”

Sam went cold, his thoughts immediately flying to Shelob. “So soon – ?”

Legolas did not answer, but Sam thought he could hear him draw out – ever so lightly – his long knife. The hobbit swallowed and placed his hand on Sting as well, going as quiet and as still as the elf. He could see nothing in the utter dark, but he would not question Legolas’ keen hearing; if something was approaching them, it was likely to be very large, horrifying and hateful. For the next few moments, Sam hardly dared to breathe for fear he would be heard, and he wished he could do something about the thump-thump of his heart that he was certain would give them away.

They remained unmoving, and Sam was so filled with mute terror that he felt he needed to scream. “Legolas,” he whispered. “Is she coming?” He waited for an answer from an elf he could not see, but none came. He decided to risk another question before he exploded from the tension. “Is it – ”

“Aragorn?” Legolas uttered, and even in the dark, Sam could hear the surprise in the elven voice. “Elbereth! Is that you, Adan?”

The hobbit wondered if he was imagining the light laugh that came in the dark. In the next instant, he wondered no longer, for Legolas had brought out the Phial and shone its light on two tall figures approaching them slowly, and apparently not as lightly as they had hoped. The less-than-steady gait of one suggested that he was in some discomfort.

“Strider!” Sam expressed his own surprise, his eyes going round at the sight of the King and Elrohir. “Jumping juneberries! Why have you come?”

“That has been my question since he began insisting on following you in here,” Elrohir said in exasperation.

“I could not sit idly and do nothing,” Aragorn answered in a tone that made Sam wonder if he was making a justification or an apology. “After all, it is my task.”

“And that has been his argument,” Elrohir added. “There was no want of trying on my part to stop him, Legolas, but you know him well enough.”

Legolas was nonplussed. “But… where are your guards, Aragorn?”

“Outside, flexing their bows,” the King replied easily. “They’re ready, my friend, ready for her – whenever we can bring her out.”

“We?” Legolas asked incredulously, still struggling with the unexpected arrival of Aragorn in a place that he considered too dangerous for someone so recently hurt. The elf was dumbfounded for a moment, running worried eyes over Aragorn’s arms and legs. “Can you even stand steadily, let alone run, you obstinate man?” he asked at last. 

“Better and faster than you think I can, Elf,” came the reply and a lop-sided grin. “I had a good rest.”

“Of course, it slipped my memory,” the elf prince said dryly, “deep was your slumber in between the tossing and turning.” He shot an icy blue glare at the King, beneath which lay his concern. “I do not know what possessed you to come in here after us, Estel, and I do not think it was any of the Twice Forgotten who among us are the only ones capable of possession, so it must have been your own mistaken illusion that you are now fully healed.”

“Exactly,” Elrohir agreed in a long-suffering tone.

“But here I am regardless, and here I will stay,” Aragorn stated flatly, staring the elf prince in the eye till the latter sighed in resignation. 

“I suppose I can no sooner make you turn back than lure Shelob out quietly with lembas,” Legolas lamented, “so there seems no other road to take but the way forward, which we should follow without further delay.” Then he approached Aragorn till his face was inches from the King’s, and spoke softly. “But it will be dark in here, Estel –”

“I know,” Aragorn said.

“ – darker than Moria, and we will be at a disadvantage when we meet Shelob.”

“I know.”

“Thus, stay close to me or Elrohir. But if I ask you to flee – with or without us – I pray you do so, without argument.”

“Well – ”

“You will put as much distance as you can between yourself and Shelob, till you are out of this tunnel.”

“But – ”

“And be warned: if you refuse, I shall not hesitate to pick you up and run out with you draped unceremoniously over my shoulder,” Legolas finished. 

“He is quite capable of doing it, too,” Elrohir added, amused. “Do not test him.”

Aragorn smiled. “I shall not, mellon nin,” he assured Legolas meekly. “I will do as you say, but I will not retract my steps. Whatever we face in this place, it cannot be any harder than waiting outside without knowing the turn of things in here.”

“That remains to be seen, Aragorn,” Legolas said seriously. “Come, we need to move on. The Shadow Host awaits us. But we must first see to Sam.”

“No need for further thought here, Legolas!” Sam declared, turning his eyes upon Aragorn. “Now that you have another one to see to – I think it’s even a right-er choice for me to wait outside. But even with those Dead Fellows leading you, I’d feel better giving you a fair idea what to expect on the way – just so’s your feet know where they’re going, if you know what I mean.”

And before anyone could stop him, the hobbit quickly told the King and the two elves just what he did mean, and what their feet should expect in the tunnel. At the end of his explanation, Sam gave his friends his best wishes, and – at Legolas’ insistence – let Elrohir lead him back to the entrance with the help of the Lady’s Phial.

As the two figures departed and the Light of the Lamp grew dimmer, Aragorn turned to Legolas and whispered: “Where are the Forgotten?”

“Close by, and their patience grows thin,” Legolas replied, turning to study the restless shapes. The elf then directed his own question to Aragorn: “Why did you choose to come, Estel?”

“Why would I not?” the man asked evenly.

“Because we will need speed and strength to face Shelob in here, failing which, we will need the same speed to draw her out to the entrance,” Legolas replied. “But you – by your own confession – ache everywhere.”

Though Aragorn could not conceive of anyone listening in the tunnel, save the Twice Forgotten, he leant forward and whispered into the elf’s ear. “If you can choose to brave this dark tunnel, my friend,” he said in Sindarin, “I can surely choose to ignore my bruises.” 

As if to prove his point, the last beams of the Star-glass followed Elrohir and Sam around the bend in the tunnel just then, throwing Legolas and Aragorn once more into the stifling dark. Legolas felt his breath hitch. Without the comforting touch of the Glass against his body in this airless enclosure, the elf prince fought to even his breathing and suppress the unease that began to well up within him.

The Light will be back soon, he told himself. He began to reach for the tunnel wall, but found Aragorn’s hand, which drew him close.

“Estel –” the elf gasped uncertainly.

“I’m here,” the man said soothingly. “And here I will stay, my friend, as I said I would.”

The elf fell silent, listening to the King’s steady breathing and letting it calm him. “You came in here for me,”he whispered after a while.

“As you came in here for me,” Aragorn replied.

Moments passed in the dark before Legolas spoke again. “I wanted you to face Shelob in the safe light of day,” he said.

“Not by letting you bear the strange Night in this tunnel while I wait,” the man rejoined. “Ask it not of me.”

Warmth flooded the elf’s heart at Aragorn’s words, and he smiled his gratitude, not caring if his friend could see it. No more did the debate proceed, and they waited together in silence, breathing in rhythm and leaning on each other for strength against different hurts, till Elrohir returned. Then Man and Elf watched the welcome glow of Eärendil’s light creep steadily again – like a slow sunrise – into the darkness of Shelob’s tunnel.

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

The attention of Lord Celeborn and Elladan was riveted upon a different sight appearing before them in the Tower of Orthanc.

“Elbereth,” the elf lord breathed as he and his grandson gazed in wonder upon what was emerging on the skull in the elf lord’s hands. Where the hot embers had been poured onto smooth bone-colored nothingness, there were now revealed to them lines of fine flowing script, etched into the top of the skull. And so the Lord of Lothlorien looked upon the craft of Saruman reawakened, just as Frodo had first set eyes on the runes of the Dark Lord appearing on the One Ring more than a decade ago, when Gandalf had passed the Ring through flame to see what only fire could reveal.

Now, here was another solemn declaration made bare: a curse born of malice, a spell wrought by an evil mind, seared into the bone of Man – and lo, here it was, in a language of Men. Only the first few lines were revealed thus far, and they were already fading as the ash cooled, but they were enough to show Celeborn that here at last was what they sought: the companion lines to the runes he had read above the Door of the stone prison on the Paths of the Dead, written in the Common Tongue.

“This is it,” Celeborn whispered. “Elbereth, this has to be it.” His rich voice went soft with awe as his eyes traveled over the lines so far visible:

With this Gate I hold thee fast

From this day forth until the Last

No tool nor hand shall open Door

Save he…

And there the runes had faded.

“These lines were the ones Mathuil cited, and they merely begin the verses above the Door,” said Celeborn. “There must be more.” The elf lord ran his fingers hopefully over the rest of the skull, seeking the remainder of the lines through his touch.

“To know the answer, ‘Man must look above himself’,” Elladan said, shaking his head in awe as he recalled what Saruman had hinted in his notes. “Man’s own head! The crafty scoundrel was pointing to the skull the whole time!”

“The remainder of the lines!” Celeborn said urgently. “We need more heat for them to show.”   

Gimli turned immediately to the brothers. “Hear that, young ‘uns?” he asked. “More heat, Lord Celeborn said. More heat is what we’ll give him!”

Bragor and Dagor looked at each other, their beards almost wagging in their exhilaration.

“More pipeweed!” said Dagor, reaching for his pouch.

“Puff harder!” said his brother, reaching for his own pipe. 

Gimli groaned and rolled his eyes. “No, no, you mushy-brained ninnies!” he cried. “The stove! Stoke the fire!” He pointed a stubby finger towards the glowing embers in the stove. “Now!”

The brothers fairly raced to the stove in response, mumbling what sounded like “could make it clearer…” while Gimli grunted and followed them with his narrowed eyes.

“Those two will whiten my beard before its time,” he muttered to the elves. “But I suppose they’re worth it. Noodle-brained as they are, they made this discovery. By accident it was, but even so, if not for their foolish antics, we’d still be looking everywhere but here.”

“And we would have left without knowing,” Elladan said, “for that was what we were preparing to do. So, rue not their coming here, Gimli. They have proved their worth several times over now.”

“Hmmph,” Gimli agreed fondly, with a hint of pride in his voice. “But mind you don’t fill their heads with praise just yet, or they’ll grow too big for their boots and spin endless yarns when they return to the Caves.”

“Let us join them,” said Celeborn, anxious to read the remainder of the lines. “Once and for all, let us find out what the verses have to tell, and whether they will lay to rest my fears for Estel – or justify them.”

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

Instead of moving towards a source of illumination like their companions in the north, three figures in the tunnels of Torech Ungol doused theirs, throwing themselves into deep night.

As soon as Elrohir returned with the Lady’s Lamp, Legolas hid it again in his tunic and led the others on in the dark, following the images of the Shadow Host. Depending on the elves for guidance, Aragorn trod cautiously and as lightly as he could, though there were no echoes. All three were glad for each other’s company, for the deeper they went into the tunnel, the more dismal it became.

One hour followed another, till Legolas wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Sam said that this place looks and feels the same, but he neglected to mention that it probably smells as foul, if not more,” he said.

“We can expect no less from a graveyard of rotten and half-devoured prey,” Elrohir said softly, darting keen eyes in every direction before them. Repugnance filled his elven eyes at the dim images of what seemed to be remains that littered the floor of the tunnel: feathers, bones, and other dried, indiscernible material that may have once been meat.

They soon came to the part of the tunnel that Sam had described. Fumbling in the dark with his free hand, Aragorn felt uncertainly along the stone wall. “There’s more than one passage here, as Sam recalled,” he said, “but we are to stay on the main passageway, which should go upward soon.”

“That is the path the Host is taking,” Legolas affirmed.

True to Sam’s recollection, there were several openings to their left and right, but the main path remained straight and sloped upwards before long. They plodded on, not being able to move as quickly as the wraiths that led them. Legolas kept a close eye on Aragorn, wishing his friend did not have to endure the misery of this tunnel or the stress of having to be on constant alert. The King’s weariness was constantly on his mind, and whenever the man strayed from the path, he or Elrohir quickly found him again.

Time and distance lost their meaning, and still the vague images of the Twice Forgotten – visible only to the elves – drew them forward. Hardly exchanging any words, the three companions bore the growing stench of decaying carcasses – evidence that Shelob was still very much alive, and still capable of catching prey. They brushed away unseen and unidentified things that brushed against their heads and their hands, repulsed by their touch.

More so here than in the comforting light of the outside world, the elf could imagine the dreadful power of Shelob, descendant of Ungoliant, and was reminded that She had lived much longer than any of them had, had heard the cries of elves when they walked upon the earth in early days, had nursed her hate of the Firstborn as Sauron did, till it festered – and had in all likelihood feasted with relish upon elven captives the Dark Lord had thrown to her for her amusement and consumption…

Yet, it was her hatred of elves that the prince was counting on when the time came to lure her out.

Deep in those terrible thoughts, he was startled when something moist and as thick as a rope swept across his face. In an instant, he was slashing at it with his knife, breathing quickly.

“Halt, Estel, keep away!” he hissed, and drew out the Lady’s Phial to illuminate this new obstacle. The elf gasped, for the light showed that they had run into a thick barrier. It was soft and yielding, yet strong and impervious, through which air could pass but the star-light could not penetrate; even the rays of Eärendil were swallowed by the coarse greyness.

“Her webs!” Aragorn said, remembering Sam’s earlier recollection about the vast, densely woven web that had stretched across the tunnel when he and Frodo were last here. When the hobbits attempted to cut through them with an ordinary blade, the cords had lashed back at them like plucked bowstrings, and only Sting, elven blade of Beleriand, had been able to sever them.

Now Legolas drew out his long knife that had been forged for him by the elven smiths of his forest home. He began sweeping it through Shelob’s webs, and the bitter white blade that had tasted the blood of hundreds of Mirkwood spiders sheared through the tough strands like a scythe through grass, just as Sting had once done. Elrohir and Aragorn followed his lead with their own elvish blades, on which were engraved fair words in High Elvish. Stroke after stroke they dealt, swallowing their disgust as they worked, and still there were more.

After many strokes, Legolas looked across at Aragorn, noting how the man’s movements had slowed and how the pallor had returned to his face. The elf reached out and stayed the arm of his friend. “You tire, mellon nin, and you suffer many hurts,” he said gently. “Leave this to us, for the trek here has strained you enough, and you will need your strength for a more crucial task.” 

Aragorn nodded silently and halted his movements, his easy compliance evidence of his weariness. “It would not do me harm to rest awhile,” he agreed, sweeping a hand across his eyes before he sheathed his sword and stepped back to let the elves continue the work. He made his way to the wall of the tunnel and leaned against it. Then he slid slowly down to sit next to one of the numerous openings leading to deep places – perhaps one of Shelob’s many haunts – that he dared not even think about. Exhausted, he crossed his arms across his knees and rested his bent head upon them.

Elrohir shared the worry on Legolas’ face as the latter’s eyes followed the movements of his friend. “Your uncertainty is also mine, gwador,” he said to the elf prince in a tone barely above a whisper. “Even Sting could not end the life of the beast, though Sam shoved it into the softness of her underside. The only way for Estel to truly defeat her is to mount her hideous body and drive his sword through her head, and perhaps more than once, for her flesh will be, I imagine, thick as armor. But does he have the strength now?”

“Strength will not be the only lack if we encounter Shelob here, with these webs in the way,” Legolas responded quietly, turning back to the mass of fibers before him. “If she is as monstrous as Sam says, she will fill most of the tunnel space, and we will have precious little room to evade her huge mass or her poisonous sting.” He swept his knife through yet another tangle of thick cords. “If there is clear danger to Estel here, we must revert to the plan I had when first I entered: for Estel to face her at the entrance. Lead him back there, Elrohir. I will distract her for that purpose, and once Estel is safe, I will then lure her out.”

“That will not meet with his approval, you know that,” said Elrohir.

“It will not be easy,” Legolas concurred, “You will need to help him follow that course of action.” He and Elrohir continued to sweep at the webs, envying the Shadow Host whose immaterial forms could pass through the abhorrent mess.

The Host, Legolas thought, abruptly ceasing his movements. Where have They gone? In his fervor at cutting down the web, he had failed to notice that the wraiths had vanished. He began to peer into the deep dark around them. Then suddenly, he stilled the hands of the other elf.

“Hush,” he whispered, turning his head to the left and listening. Elhohir joined him, puzzled.

But soon, the Imladris elf knew what it was that had drawn the attention of the elf prince: Legolas had heard Them and their muffled shrieks. And - he had heard Her. The Host and Shelob – they were both there: beyond the opening to the side of the tunnel where Aragorn was resting.

The elves drew close to the gaping aperture. Their keen ears heard the repeated scrape of hard skin against stone from within, and they knew that the beast was scurrying about once more, agitated by the ghosts of men. They heard the desperate scampering of her feet as she sought to run from spirit forms she could not escape, and sensed her terror at something she could not strike.

But then her attention turned. And Legolas the Woodelf, who had lived most of life in the company of such beasts, knew that she had sensed their presence: his and his companions’. He heard the bubbly hiss that had filled Mirkwood elves with dread thousands of times before, and through his elven senses, he tasted the venom of her hate though no sign of her they saw. His sharp intake of breath alerted Aragorn, who rose to his feet and stood beside his friend.

“She’s near,” the King said in a hollow voice. At the elf’s whispered “yes,” the man gripped the hilt of Andúril.

Legolas quickly concealed the Phial again and reached for Aragorn. “Come back here into the shadows,” he said softly, pressing the man against the wall. Elrohir positioned himself on the other side of his brother.

Legolas grasped Aragorn’s shoulders. “Wait for her to come nearer,” he said, “but saes, do nothing till Elrohir and I have distracted her.” In the dark, Aragorn nodded, and the elf removed himself to the other side of the opening, poised at the edge.

Silently and tensely they waited, hearing the Host and Shelob approach them yard by yard. Aragorn could now hear the ugly hiss of the beast and the creaking of some great jointed legs moving with slow, deliberate purpose, and his nervousness grew despite his efforts to remain undaunted.

Then finally, She was here. They could all smell the reek from her as her great form reached the opening, and they felt her malice bent upon them. So bitter was it that she ignored even the wraith forms that followed her, and so intense that Legolas felt it as a black fume spewing from her. The elf’s breathing quickened as he reached slowly for the Glass of Galadriel at his bosom.

As the beast stepped through the dark opening, Legolas drew out and held aloft the Lamp, and in the presence of this ancient evil, even the light of Eärendil seemed to glimmer dimly like a rising star struggling to cast its light through earthbound mists. But soon it kindled to a silver flame, a small heart of fire, as if Eärendil himself had come to Earth with the Silmaril upon his brow.

Standing closest to Shelob, Legolas beheld the monster at last. And even the elf who had led patrol after patrol against similar beasts that had threatened his forest home was taken aback at the huge, repulsive creature that appeared like a nightmare in the circle of light. He heard Aragorn gasp on the other side of the beast, and understood why: two great clusters of many-windowed eyes, menacing and evil, neared them and held them in frozen awe for terrifying moments.

Shelob turned to her right where she had heard the gasp from Aragorn, and upon seeing two strange figures in her domain, her fury arose. A wet hiss sprayed across the empty yards to fall upon the two startled figures. Disgusted, Aragorn unsheathed Andúril, and before Elrohir could stop him, he stepped forward, holding the sword before him.

“So we meet,” he said firmly.

“Nay, not yet!” Legolas cried in alarm. As Shelob bent her huge jointed limbs in response, preparing to propel her body forward in a charge at the King, the elf leapt in front of the beast, drawing her focus away from Aragorn. He thrust the star-glass in front of the great eyes, just as Elrohir appeared at his side.

“Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima!” the elf prince called out the words that Frodo once had, though he knew not from whither they came and whence they wove themselves upon his tongue.

And as it had once done, the star-light startled the beast. From the recesses of her long memory came the vision she had witnessed years ago: the Light in the hand of a small being, as sharp as the suppressed fear in the wielder. But now, shining in the hand of a tall elf, the Light appeared to be a globe of fire emanating from elven flesh, reflected in the radiant countenance and bright eyes of two of the Firstborn, eyes that burned with revulsion.

Shelob’s charge faltered, her long legs poised but halted by a moment of astonishment and terror at the fierceness of the elven expressions. She scampered backwards beyond the opening from where she had come, increasing the distance between herself and the star-glass, the thousand facets of the great, baleful eyes hurt by the burning brightness.

Yet her charge did not remain arrested for long. Far back in the deeps of the world’s history, She had known the Firstborn. And though she hated the star-light, stronger still was the hatred for elves that lies in all the allies of Morgoth since the First Age of the World. That hate now surfaced and began to simmer. Anger gathered and seethed once more in her belly and she prepared to mobilize her legs. As her despise grew, a pale light flickered in her own monstrous eyes, kindled by some deep pit of hideous delight at the thought of devouring sweet elven flesh.

Legolas and Elrohir sensed her recovery, and reached the same thought: they had to lead her out into the open, and her hatred of elves was what they needed to make her pursue them to the entrance of the tunnel. But they had first to see to Aragorn’s safety.

Swiftly, Legolas thrust the Lamp into Elrohir’s hands. “Make for the entrance, gwador, and please, see that Estel does not linger,” he said urgently, walking quickly to where Aragorn stood.

“Legolas –” Elrohir began.

“Go, go!” the elf prince pressed him. He then faced Aragorn. “Now comes the time to flee, Estel, as you promised, and do not look back!” he instructed, turning the man forcefully in the direction of the entrance.

Aragorn was aghast. “No!” he protested.

“Aragorn, please!” Legolas pleaded. “I will stall her to give you time. Go now!”

“No!” Aragorn insisted, shaking off Elrohir’s grip on his arm. “Without the Light – ”

“I can still see!” the elf insisted, growing alarmed at the delay. “Go! Trust me, please!” Legolas’ hair swung in a golden arc as the elf whipped his head around to peer into the depths of the tunnel again. Then his steely blue eyes faced Aragorn. “Run fast, and do not falter!”

The elf prince sprinted back to the opening where Shelob would be reemerging soon and stood in front of it like a sentinel of stone.

Biting back his own protest, Elrohir led Aragorn back down the tunnel at a run, gripping his protesting brother’s arm like a vise. The elf held the Light high before him in one hand and supported the tired man with the other. Behind them, Man and Elf could hear Shelob’s legs and body move again.

Then a cry of fury halted them and they turned, and their eyes widened with alarm at what they saw.

Perhaps it was the Lady’s Light that had goaded her, or the prospect of crushing two victims instead of one; or perhaps the painful efforts of one of the fleeing forms were clear to her thousand eyes, marking him as easy prey – whatever reason had guided her decision, Shelob had, when she reappeared, chosen to ignore Legolas and pursue the fleeing man and elf instead. Her legs lumbered down the tunnel toward them, moving with surprising agility. Anger gave speed to her form, and she was fast gaining on them.

“Run!” Aragorn heard Legolas’ urgent cry, and he and Elrohir did not hesitate. They turned and resumed their flight that had suddenly turned desperate. Elrohir held forth his grandmother’s Lamp like a beacon of salvation, for it was the only source of illumination for them. Indeed there was nothing else, save the hand of his brother, that could lead Aragorn along the dark, uneven ground of this deadly foe’s lair.

Along this rough surface Aragorn now sped at a frantic pace, his feet doing their best to evade bumps and depressions that threatened to trip him in the dense darkness. Again and again, Elrohir supported him, righted him, and led him in turn; and ever, there was the sound of Shelob in furious pursuit, her legs sweeping against stone. Beyond that, there was the voice of Legolas urging them on, himself still unable to pass the huge beast in the narrow tunnel. 

Aragorn’s head began to spin as he ran, hurting from his earlier wounds, his tongue seeming to cleave to the parched roof of his mouth. He felt his weariness now, and wondered if at any moment, his legs would falter and fail him, and he would fall and lie helplessly in the path of his determined pursuer.

Then, as if his dismal thought had chosen to take form – that moment came. Stumbling into an abrupt depression in the ground, his foot caught roughly and threw him forward. So fast and hard did he topple that he fell against his brother, knocking into him too forcefully for even the quick elf to avoid crashing to the ground himself. A small cry left Aragorn's lips as he felt his ankle twist - but louder still was the gasp of dismay from Elrohir as he watched the Lady's Glass fly out of his hand and trace an arc of silver in the thick dark before landing with a sickening series of clinks on the path several yards away.

By elven hands in enchanted Lothlorien had the Glass been wrought so that it did not break even against the stone of Torech Ungol, but a distant comfort it seemed to Aragorn now. He and his brother lay sprawled in the path of their pursuer, stunned and, for the moment, helpless. He felt Elrohir raise himself after a moment, heard him as he raced away to retrieve the Lamp, and – as Shelob drew ever nearer – heard the elf’s voice desperately urging him to rise; he heard the frantic cries of his friend from behind; he could even sense the anguish of the Shadow Host in the darkness beyond.

But above all that, he heard the approach of Shelob and her evil hiss and her quickened pace. He imagined her many-faceted eyes beholding a thousand images of him: a creature fallen and vulnerable. He sensed her wicked glee as she headed straight for his prone form, delighting at the pitiful gesture he made: his arm raised feebly in defense, a vain attempt against her powerful jaws and hideous sting, even as the elves tried feverishly to come to his aid.

Too slow were his own movements, too weak his attempt at further flight, till his heart was the only part of him racing, its beats like the strikes of a hammer in his ears.

Then, once again, he smelt a foul reek, felt the moistness of a hiss, and sensed a merciless malice close by. And the heir of Isildur knew without a doubt that Shelob, the beast he had come to challenge, was almost upon him.

Note: Some of the descriptions of Shelob and her lair are taken from The Return of the King.

Please excuse errors, as it’s been a struggle for me to find time to even get to this point in the story. Thank you to all who kept me going.