Pre-chapter note:  Ths is a loooong chapter. Coffee may be a good idea.

CHAPTER 24: FULFILLMENT

Shelob was beside herself.

For reasons she did not know, some awful wraith forms that she could see with her own evil eyes had tormented her and driven her from the safety of the hidden depths in her dark home. She had been forced to emerge from her rest, and her precious eyes had been hurt by a glaring light: star beams she had shied from many years ago, and which she thought she would never have to endure again. But they had been there, cold and sharp and piercingly bright. She had cursed the wraith forms for driving her out against her will.

But now, she could not believe her good fortune.

For here, lying helplessly before her and directly in her path, was a fallen being: Man-flesh, no less; an easy prey who could no longer flee.

Shelob had not devoured the sweet flesh of Elves and Men for too long, she who had had to survive on the stinking carcasses of tough orcs and black beasts since the fall of the Dark Towers.

But now, here was one Man that fate was offering to her for the take.

The scent of blood was on him, on his hands and on his face… aaahhh… it drew her on. He would be easier to capture than the little one who had stung her and run away all those years ago.

Oh yes.

No more would she wait, nor would she toy with this newcomer, lest he too tricked her and fled! She would end his struggle, first with her sting and then her jaws – and then she would tear him apart, and fill her gnawing hunger with the sweetness of his fresh meat.

The welcoming thought of the waiting feast turned her movements from a heavy lumbering gait to the swift approach of a predator ready for the kill. In moments, she was before him. Then she raised her head in one smooth lift – and struck.

“Aaarngh!” Aragorn cried out as the pain shot through him.

It was all happening too fast for his mind to follow, but he had managed to evade the deadly sting of Shelob through his abdomen by bare inches, but only by twisting his body violently, jarring his twisted ankle and sending the sharp pain up his leg. 

He could hear a thin screech from Shelob as she withdrew her sting from the hard ground where it had struck, and heard her creak as she raised her head again for a second strike.  Panting, he wrenched Andúril from its sheath with his bandaged hand and held it upward desperately. He gritted his teeth, knowing the gesture was but a vain, pitiful attempt against her next attack.

Elrohir, with the Phial in his hand, turned back towards his brother and the beast. His horror at the danger Aragorn was in froze him for an instant; then he began racing frantically across the yards of tunnel space that separated him from the prone figure.

Aragorn’s cry spurred Legolas into furious action.

More swiftly than either the man or the beast could expect, the elf leapt onto Shelob from behind and ran lightly along her back to reach her head. The sight of Aragorn lying helplessly before the beast, having narrowly escaped her vicious attack, drew forth his own cry of rage, and he plunged his knife into one of the gigantic eyes beneath him. It did minimal damage, he knew, but it was enough to stop a second assault by Shelob. He jumped aside to evade the spurt of sour-smelling liquid from one of the thousand sacs, but that move cost him his footing as Shelob jerked sharply in both pain and shock. The beast bucked with such sudden force that the elf prince found himself being thrown off the massive head, and he landed on his back in front of her.

Now Shelob was filled with even greater rage, for her eye burned from the searing bite of the elven knife. As the elf was rising, she began to turn her attack on him instead: he who dared to defy her, though countless of his kin had, in ages past, fallen to her might! Half-blinded by pain, she thrust her sting straight towards him, aiming only to kill.

And now it was Aragorn who was filled with alarm for his friend as the beast turned on him. “People of the Mountain, I command you to stay her!” he cried out desperately to Shadow forms he could not see, hoping only that they would obey.

No Host did the King’s eyes perceive, but he saw Shelob shrink suddenly in fear, and he knew that the Host was indeed keeping her back. Then Elrohir was standing tall beside Legolas, holding forth the Phial of Galadriel and crying: “Back! Back, foul beast!”

And Shelob, hurt both by elven blade and elven light, retreated once more into the darker recesses of her lair. How long the Host could hold her there, Aragorn did not know, but it was enough time for Legolas to right himself fully and reach him in three long strides.

The elves knelt at Aragorn’s side, and by the light of the Phial, their bright eyes ran across along the length of his form. They could see no new injuries, but Elrohir asked nonetheless: “Are you hurt, Estel?”

“Only my ankle,” Aragorn replied. “Legolas, you –?”

No answer came from the elf prince. Wordlessly, he slipped his arms under his friend and picked him up with a strength that belied his slender form. Standing quickly, he set the man gently on his feet, supporting him so that his weight was off his twisted ankle.

“That, Estel, was a closer call than you were allowed!” he chided the King, though his voice was thick with relief. Turning to Elrohir, he spoke urgently. “Keep going, gwador; you need to get Estel to the entrance,” he said, relinquishing his hold of Aragorn to Elrohir. “Shelob will come back in anger, and I will stall her advance to give you time, but it may not be for long, so hurry!” Then he turned to his friend. “I will meet you at the entrance, Estel; do not look back.”

Aragorn gripped Legolas’ arm and gave him a piercing look. “Keep your word, Elf,” he growled softly. “I’m holding you to it.”

Legolas placed his hand over the King’s bandaged one and held it briefly. “Wherever you are, I will come to you,” he said with a wan smile, and he slipped out of his friend’s grasp to run towards the beast.

Steeling themselves against the urge to turn back and stay with Legolas, Elrohir threw one of Aragorn’s arms over his shoulders and wrapped his own around his brother, half-carrying the man back along the path of their interrupted journey. They raced on as fast as they could with Aragorn’s painful ankle, and they did not look back, driving themselves on determination and need, till Aragorn was sweating and breathing rapidly, and he had to sweep aside his long dark hair that kept falling into his eyes. Yet, the yards seemed to fall away on the return journey, for they could now use the Light without reservation, and Elrohir was more confident, having traversed the path once.

After they had gone a fair distance, they could hear behind them fresh sounds of Shelob’s fury and the steps of many feet, and they knew that the beast was catching up. Of one accord, they slowed and turned to risk a quick look. There in the distant dark, they could discern the vague form of Legolas, his glow marking him as he stood tall and unmoving in the center of the path that Shelob would have to take to get to them. With his outstretched right hand, the elf prince was pointing his long white knife into the shadows where Shelob waited, the gleam of his blade – like that of his golden hair – growing dull in the gathering dark. 

“Stay, spawn of Ungoliant!” they heard the elven voice cry out firmly. “Not yet can you come for us. Stay!”

Aragorn hated the dangerous game the elf was playing with the malicious beast – staying her and luring her on in turn – so that he and Elrohir could reach the entrance and prepare to face her. Fear for his friend sorely tempted him to halt, but the strong grip of Elrohir kept him on his path and forced him to resume his flight. “Come, Estel!” the elf urged, brooking no debate.

Yielding to his brother’s elven strength and hoping in the wisdom of Legolas’ strategy, the man ceased his struggle and followed Elrohir’s lead with a heavy heart, his mind  ever on what might be happening to the friend he loved. He made himself go on in a half-limp, half-run, ignoring his sore ankle, with the Star of his ancestor guiding him and Elrohir lifting him over the more uneven parts of the ground. But by some grace of the Valar, he did not falter again, though his breaths had become short and painful and his eyes filled with tears of exhaustion. All he could think of was placing one foot in front of the other, till it seemed his lungs would no longer take in air and he was out of his bodily form.

“A little longer, Estel!” Elrohir urged him, sensing the end of his endurance.

No more, Aragorn thought wearily, too tired to lift his head. Valar, no more.

But just as the man felt ready to collapse, Elrohir said to him: “Look, Estel!”

When Aragorn raised his head, he saw what Elrohir did: a pale gleam of light in front, and he half-sobbed in relief, for he knew that at last, they were approaching the mouth of the tunnel.

Encouraged, he moved on. Close now, he urged himself, willing speed to his legs – when suddenly, a grip on his shoulder from behind arrested his run abruptly, and he gave a startled cry.

“No!” he said fiercely, reaching to draw Andúril, but a fair hand clamped on his arm and stayed him.

“It is I, Estel!” said Legolas, appearing before him with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, like a welcome vision of hope.

“Legolas!” the man gasped breathlessly, glad beyond measure.

“It is good to see you!” said Elrohir. He took a quick look behind the elf, but saw no sign of Shelob.

“I have outrun her, but she is not far behind,” Legolas answered the elf’s unasked query evenly, hardly demonstrating any sign of the tiring effort it had taken Aragorn to flee the same distance. “But now I must ask for the Lady’s Lamp once more, my friends. The entrance is close, and the light from it will aid you the rest of the way. Keep going, be prepared, but stay hidden till you see her. We will be there before long.”

“Wait!” said Aragorn. “Why are you going back in?”

“She will be afraid when she senses so many of you out there, and she may try to turn back,” Legolas explained urgently. “The Host and I have to block her retreat and force her to go out.” Thus speaking, the elf took the Glass of Galadriel from Elrohir. “Trust me still,” he said, forestalling Aragorn’s protest. “Go!”

Without another word, the elf ran back into the tunnel, and just in the nick of time, for in the light of the Star-glass Legolas held, Aragorn could now see the huge beast bearing down upon them, fury shining off her many eyes. Legolas stood before her, again using his knife to taunt and threaten her in turn.

“Valar, look after him,” Elrohir said, and pressed his brother on. The exit they were seeking came upon them sooner than they expected. Turning two more gradual bends in the passage, they ran into a wider space and a welcome ray of warm sunshine straight ahead. Their feet pounded along the remainder of the tunnel, and barely were they past the entrance than they heard voices call out: “Aragorn! Sire!”

In an instant, four figures stepped out in front of them, framed by the wide arch of the tunnel mouth. The three Gondorian guards, sharp relief written clearly on their faces at the sight of their King, had their bows drawn, while Sam held Sting.

“Hide! Not yet… wait… for her… to… come out!” Aragorn said in short spurts, coming to a stop before his guards and bending over to catch his breath. The King looked pale and fatigued as he turned around to peer into the darkness of the tunnel with tired eyes.

“Legolas… leading her… out,” he gasped. “Be ready… he says… but keep… out of sight… till…”

A shrill wail emitted from the tunnel then, cutting off Aragorn’s words. It was the voice of the Twice Forgotten, and it startled those standing outside, freezing them to the spot for a moment. Then a dreadful thought struck Aragorn.

“Legolas…” he breathed, and began to limp back into the tunnel, shaking off the hands that gripped him and ignoring his own aching ankle. Wordlessly, Sam ran in front of him.

But they did not have to go far. From out of the dark shadows there came Legolas running as lightly as the wind, the Lady’s Lamp once more hidden in his tunic.

“Aragorn, she comes!” the elf called out at the sight of the King. “Conceal yourself!”

But the warning was in vain, and it was too late to go into hiding, for behind the elf prince, almost filling the gaping mouth of the tunnel, appeared the monstrous eight-legged beast they had come to find. The hideous sight of her overwhelming mass made the hearts of the Gondorian guards skip many beats and their knees weaken. 

Yet, the fear was similar for Shelob, for she could not remember when she had last seen the Sunlight, and now its brightness began to hurt her great eyes. And when she saw all the figures before her as well, confronting her with angry faces, she suddenly grew afraid again, and began to retreat, trying to turn her large mass around to return to the safety of shadows.

“No!” cried Legolas, and before the others could even react, he had run towards Shelob and leapt high to trip lightly across her huge body, descending on the other side once more.

When Shelob turned, the elf was already there, holding the Lamp and thrusting its blazing radiance into her eyes. And there came a wail from the Host, helping Legolas prevent her from running back to the deep holes where it would be nigh impossible to lure her out again.

Shelob drew back in confusion, and turned around to face the sunlit entrance again. But now… the figures had gone. Seeing only a clear space before her, with no more visible foes, she began to head slowly for the exit. Then she hesitated, but from the rear, Legolas began to prod her with his knife, and she moved forward again.

Of a sudden, where there had been empty space, Aragorn’s guards leapt out.

“Now!” Tobëas called out, and the men released arrows into her eyes. The sharp objects were but pins in comparison to the enormous bulk of her many hundred sacs, but they still stung. She began to emit a thin, shrill shriek, rearing her legs and trying to retreat yet again.

But now Elrohir and Sam ran out to attract her attention, taunting and challenging her. Between the fierce elf and phantoms at her rear and the foes in front, the beast grew befuddled and frenzied. Then, all at once, she saw someone she knew – someone small, who had once brought her agony with his impudence and his sword – and she grew crazed with rage at the painful memory. She released a vicious, vengeful hiss and charged at the smallest of those who were taunting her: the hobbit she had encountered many years ago.

With a whimper at the sudden approach of the gigantic face, Sam retreated in panic. His uncertain backwards steps betrayed him and he fell, and in the twinkling of an eye, Shelob was on top of him, ready to kill.

In those fleeting moments, Sam’s mind revisited the pain and grief Shelob had caused him when he thought his beloved master had died at the end of her sting. Unsheathing his own Sting and gritting his teeth, he yelled: “Come on, scumbag! Sting has not forgotten you!”

Twisting his body beneath the monster, he drove the elven blade into Shelob’s belly as it had done many years ago. The beast went wild at the sudden intrusion, and she shrieked with pain and shrank backward, exposing the grim-faced but shaken hobbit below.

“Get Sam!” Aragorn yelled to Tobëas as he, Elrohir and his other guards held Shelob at bay with their swords.

Her wrath beyond all measure now, overcoming even her pain, Shelob attacked, and with one swift unanticipated move, seized Aragorn with her two front legs and lifted him off the ground. Horrified, the guards picked up their bows to shoot at her, but Elrohir stayed them for fear that they might hit Aragorn in error. Instead, the elf leapt onto one of her legs and began to hack brutally at the joint, trying to make her release the King.

From behind, Legolas had scaled the beast once more, and seeing Aragorn’s predicament from atop Shelob’s head, he shone the sharp rays of the Phial into the injured parts of her eyes, sending a scorching pain through them. Shrieking, the beast dropped Aragorn and tried to turn around to seek shelter in the tunnel again. But the Dead stood in her way on all sides, and they frightened her. Circled by enemies of different kinds, she scampered about blindly, frenzied with fury and raw fear.

Balancing with grace atop the beast, Legolas saw Aragorn’s guards draw their bows below, and he called out to them. “Wait! Stay your weapons!” he said. “She will tire; we need for her to settle!”

Heeding Legolas’ instructions, the company below remained vigilant but held off their attack. From above, the elf prince watched and felt Shelob slow from weariness, waiting for a pause in her distressed movements. As soon as it came, he called crisply to the King below: “Now, Aragorn, now!”

Already poised on the ground, Elrohir immediately hoisted the King up onto one of Shelob’s legs. With his own uninjured leg, Aragorn stretched and reached for Legolas, who – with one swift movement – pulled his friend up. Quickly, the elf led him to the front of the beast so that they stood atop her head. Kept steady by Legolas’ strong arms about him, Aragorn unsheathed Andứril and raised it high with both bandaged hands for the downward strike.

But now that Shelob was helplessly weary, the King – to Legolas’ alarm – stayed his sword. Aragorn held the Flame of the West in a firm grip, and his grey eyes glinted with grim determination – yet his own fatigue-lined face softened as he felt a rush of pity even for such a vicious beast.

Then just as quickly – and from where the thought came, he could not tell – he remembered all the lives she had taken through the ages, and all the Elves and Men she must have devoured with relish and without an ounce of regret.

And the quiet voice of Legolas spoke in his ear, making clear the purpose of his deed. “She has lived too long in darkness and evil, Estel,” the elf said without malice or vengefulness. “End the misery of her futile life, and complete your own task.”

With that final note of conviction written upon his heart, Aragorn took a deep breath and drove Andứril through the head of Shelob with all the strength he could muster. Legolas pulled Aragorn out of the way as the sword was withdrawn and black blood spurted out from the deep, fatal wounds. A terrifying shriek and gurgle emitted from within the beast that startled her foes and seemed to shake the walls of the tunnel entrance. Hardening his heart, Aragorn struck twice more to end her life as quickly as he could.

As Shelob curled in upon herself, and before she could writhe violently in her death throes, Legolas held Aragorn firmly and led him to the edge of her broad back. Then, clasping him close, the elf brought them both off Shelob’s back in one smooth leap, landing with ease on the ground below and setting his friend down gently without even jarring his ankle. They quickly moved some distance from the dying beast before turning back to look at her.

It was an ugly sight to behold: the agonizing demise of a monstrous, ancient creature, born and bred in malice, finally succumbing to death at the hand of he who had also brought about the downfall of the Dark Lord she once aided in her own way. None of the witnesses gathered there – Men, Elves and Hobbit – were untouched. Their hearts were filled with relief, but also pity and horror. And even the Shadow Host, the elves could sense, were silent. 

As the moments passed, Shelob’s jerky movements slowed and grew further apart, till – after one final shudder – the massive form went completely limp, and moved no more.

After long years of hiding and living off death in foul, unnamed places of the Black Land, the spawn of Ungoliant – remnant of an ages-old evil – was finally dead.

Shivering from both pain and weariness, Aragorn closed his eyes and leaned into the strength of his elven friend. “It is done, mellon nin,” he said.

The long sigh that passed the parched lips of the heir of Isildur was rivaled only by the wind that fanned his dark hair and cooled his aching body as he sank slowly to his knees in relief.

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While Aragorn and his company were feeling the bittersweet relief of their victory over Shelob, a small group of elves and dwarves gathered around a stove in the Tower of Orthanc, awaiting the fulfillment of their own task.

Lord Celeborn held the jaw of the skull – now a precious item – firmly in his hands as he placed its rounded top as close to the roaring flames as he dared, hoping that the heat from the fire would be enough to reveal the lines they needed to see.

The skull soon took an orange glow that brightened slowly in hue, and the warmth around the elf lord’s fingers grew like the tension surrounding the waiting group. Yet, the craft of Saruman was such that no smell of charring bone assailed their noses despite the intense heat.

When Celeborn felt that the skull had been heated as much as it needed to be, he withdrew it from the fire and studied its dome, while the others watched in suspense. The grim features of the elf soon softened in satisfaction, for there appeared before his keen eyes the glowing red runes he hoped to see.

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

Unknown to Celeborn and his company, a fire was also being lit many leagues south.

Still a little stunned by their battle with Shelob, Aragorn, Sam and the elves had first sat down to rest, too tired and shaken to think of anything else but the huge carcass before them, and even the Shadow Host stood forgotten for a while.

After a brief discussion, during which Elrohir treated and bound Aragorn’s ankle, the company had decided not to let the grotesque carcass rot in abandon and foul the land further. Instead, they would burn it, for Sam had, with great forethought before the journey, brought along a supply of oil and flint.

To their dismay, Aragorn’s men found that their supply of fuel was hardly enough to cover the enormous head, but they proceeded to spread it over as much of Shelob’s body as they could, expecting that the carcass would burn slowly over many hours. Solemnly, they set it aflame and moved a fair distance from it. Covering their noses against the initial acrid smell of Shelob’s fluids and then the odor of her burning flesh, the little company watched the red flames lick the body of Shelob languidly, turning her flesh into dark fumes that rose to the skies, just as the spirits of the Witch King and Sauron had been borne away by the winds of change more than a decade ago.

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Redder and fiercer than the flames on Cirith Ungol were the lines of fine script that reappeared clearly on the skull in Lord Celeborn’s hands as he stood in Orthanc. As stern as the eye of Sauron, the flaming runes began at the front of the head and progressed towards the center.

A tension that Lord Celeborn seldom felt gripped him as he viewed them once more:

 With this Gate I hold thee fast

From this day forth...

“These are what we saw earlier: the lines Mathuil chanted,” the elf lord said. “The start of the spell –”

“But there’s more, isn’t there?” Gimli cried impatiently. “Towards the back of that head – what comes next?”

“Thereafter, the lines are too faint,” Celeborn said, carefully replacing the skull near the edge of the flames. “We need more heat on this side…”

“Gimli, be careful you do not lose your hair!” warned Elladan, placing a restraining hand on the dwarf’s shoulder as the bushy head followed the path of the skull.

“Ooooh, look!” the dwarf cried again, heedless of Elladan’s warning. “Look, there’re new lines now. Look!”  

A hush fell on the group while Celeborn retracted the skull from the fire and examined the other half of its dome.

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

Silence, too, reigned over Aragorn’s company as they watched Shelob’s carcass burn, and nothing was heard above the crackle of the flames, save a sigh that seemed to ripple through the Dead standing some distance away from the fire.

But as the flames rose and licked the air, a loud gasp escaped the lips of the elf prince. Clutching Aragorn’s shoulder, Legolas suddenly went pale, and Elrohir caught him as he stumbled backwards.

Aragorn gripped his friend’s arms and peered anxiously at the ashen face. “What’s wrong, Legolas?” he asked.

No reply came from the elf, who stood stock still and continued to stare at the fire.

“Legolas?” Elrohir prompted, narrowing his eyes first at his friend and then at the flames, wondering what it was that had troubled Legolas so suddenly.

The elf prince seemed to be fighting some rising turmoil within him. Then he shook his head. “N – nothing,” he stammered. “Perhaps… it is the smoke.”

Aragorn and Elrohir exchanged a look that clearly spelt their doubt, for Legolas’ face betrayed his denial, and they waited for him to say more.

But the elf prince descended into silence, trying to suppress the current of cold fear that coursed through him. He did not know what to say to his friends. He did not know how to tell them that he had seen – or thought he had seen – in the rising columns of smoke, an apparition of the faceless form of Aragorn that had appeared in his nightmare.

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

The face of another elf much further north was also turning ashen, arousing the anxiety of his grandson and the three dwarves around him.

Lord Celeborn studied the new runes that appeared on the back half of the skull, mouthing the lines voicelessly, and as he did so, his features turned grave, and his knuckles went white from the pressure he applied on the bony tablet onto which Saruman had written his curse.

“Daerada?” Elladan said worriedly.

“What is it, my lord?” Gimli asked, sharing the elf’s concern.

No…no, Celeborn said in silence, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. Oh Elessar…

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

Aragorn’s features softened in regret as he studied the wan face of his elven friend, unaware of the true cause of the sudden pallor.

“This accursed place has taxed your strength,” the King said. “We’ve been here too long. It’s time to issue my pardon to the Dead and depart. Worry not, mellon nin, we shall soon leave this misery.”

Then the King turned to where the Twice Forgotten had been waiting in silent anticipation.

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

Receiving no response from his grandsire, Elladan removed the skull swiftly from his hands to read the new runes before they could fade again. Now, as the sharp eyes of the younger elf moved rapidly from left to right, and his lips moved voicelessly as his grandsire’s had, he too went deadly pale. He looked up at the elf lord with frightened eyes.

“So this is what he meant?” he breathed. “That is why he said: ‘No ragged left-over shall challenge me and freely undo what I have branded into Stone’ … Oh Valar!”

Celeborn suddenly straightened himself, and a hard look entered his blue eyes. “We need to reach them,” he said to his grandson.

Elladan returned his gaze. “Can we?” he asked.

“We have to try,” came the firm reply.

Looking from one elf to the other, Gimli was growing both impatient and deeply anxious. “Reach who?” he asked, throwing up his hands. “What’s happening?”

“Later, Gimli,” Elladan answered gently before locking eyes with his grandsire.

Gimli and the other dwarves half-expected the elves to head for the stairs. Instead, to the dwarves’ surprise, the Firstborn extended both their hands to each other. Grasping them, they closed their eyes and bowed their heads, and their faces took on expressions of deep concentration.

Bewildered, the dwarves huddled together and watched in suspenseful silence as the elves began to utter something quietly in their tongue. And even though the elven voices were fair, Gimli’s hairs stood on end as he heard the tall forms whisper in Elvish. But none of their speech could he make sense of, except for two words: Elrohir and Legolas.

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

As if in a stupor, Legolas watched Aragorn turn to the Dead.

The elf prince knew what the King was going to do next: as had been his purpose from the beginning, he would issue words of pardon, the key to the release of the Condemned Ones, now that they had fulfilled their task. They had all anticipated this.

Yet, something troubled the elf. Murmurs as from afar came to him, whispers of solemn warning that were not perceived by his ears, but by his heart, and they filled him with dread.

“Legolas,” he heard someone say softly – and this time, the voice came from close by.

Turning, he saw that it had come from Elrohir, and to his surprise, he noted that the Imladris elf, too, now seemed ill at ease. The dark head was bent in deep thought, and when it lifted, Legolas saw that the grey eyes and fair face of Elrohir were clouded with some grave doubt.

“You feel it too, gwador?” the elf prince asked quietly.

At the other elf’s nod, Legolas sucked in a breath and turned quickly to the King, who was already facing the Dead. The elf prince looked over to where the Shadow forms were waiting in grim silence, and after a moment’s debate, he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Aragorn,” he said hesitantly. “Aragorn… no … not yet.”

At those words, both Aragorn and Sam swung round in surprise, uncertain that they had heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?” the King asked.

“Do not… do not release them yet,” Legolas whispered uncertainly, knowing how hollow his voice sounded.  

The astonishment on Aragorn’s face was plain as he stared at the face of his friend. “Why?” he asked, incredulous.

Legolas glanced at Elrohir, struggling to find a convincing answer and failing. “I – I cannot yet explain it,” he said. “But I bid you wait, Aragorn, please. Do not release them!”

Puzzled, Aragorn looked over at Elrohir, who, to his surprise, looked as disturbed as Legolas.

“The reason lies not on my tongue either, Estel,” the elf said. “I can shed no light on this matter. But… I share his unease. Listen to him.”

Aragorn continued to blink in incomprehension. “For how long?” he asked Legolas.

“No clear answer can I offer you, Estel, not at this moment,” the elf said helplessly, his blue eyes filled with disquiet. “But I beg you to wait!”

At Aragorn’s side, Sam and the three royal guards fidgeted and exchanged bewildered looks.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn,” the hobbit said, scratching his head and looking uncomfortable. “Err… what are do we do with those dead fellows now?”

Feeling lost and immensely confused, the King turned wordlessly from the elves to cast his eyes where he knew the Host was gathered.  He was in a quandary. Now that They had completed their part of the agreement, he had to honor his part of it and release them, but how was he to ignore a warning from two elves he trusted implicitly? Yet, what caution was he to heed, when the elves themselves could not fathom it, nor provide a plausible reason for it?

Aragorn stood still like a figure of stone, and tension fell upon the whole group as he wondered what he should do next.

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

The tension was mounting, too, for the companions in Orthanc.

Lord Celeborn and Elladan were growing more anxious by the moment as they continued to bow their heads. They were no longer speaking, not even in low tones, but had lapsed into mute concentration, which only heightened the anguish for the three dwarves. The trio remained as quiet as church mice, knowing naught save that something serious was taking place.

Gimli, in particular, was growing deeply troubled, for in his heart, he knew it had something to do with his friends far in the south.

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

“Legolas,” Aragorn said, running the bandaged fingers of both hands through his dark hair as he struggled for words. “I know you would not ask this of me were there not a need, but can you not enlighten me: why would you have me wait?”

The elf gazed at his friend uneasily. “My heart bids me do so, Estel,” he replied. “I know that seems too lame an explanation, but… I can give you none fairer.”

“But the Forgotten Ones… if I don’t grant them release, they will not leave me,” Aragorn argued, trying to keep his voice even, “and I cannot carry them around like unwanted baggage!”

“Saes, Aragorn,” the elf pleaded, his blue eyes growing wide with distress. “Perhaps some understanding will come to me… to us… soon. But, please, hold your pardon in the meantime.”   

“That, too, is what I counsel, gwador,” Elrohir added, laying a hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “We do not say this lightly, for we know what your purpose has been from the start. But now our hearts are troubled, and we sense something amiss.”

The clearly displeased whispers of the King’s men reached his ears as he stared at the elves. His mind whirled in a flurry of doubt, but finally, he sighed in resignation. “My mind is no clearer on this matter, Legolas, Elrohir,” he said. “But I would place my life in your hands, and I shall follow your counsel for the moment. Let us hope the pause will not be for long, and that some clearer sign will come to us as to how to proceed.”

At those words, the two elves exhaled in relief, but it was not a sentiment shared by the perplexed Gondorian guards or Sam, who had no other desire than to depart as soon as possible. Yet, Aragorn soon found, any objection the men and hobbit might have voiced would have been but a light note of protest compared to the reaction that came from the agitated Shadow Host.

So intense was their ire that their voices took form and came to the King as from afar, undulating as the rise and fall of turbulent waves. They were but broken snatches of speech, but they conveyed a clear message of deep discontent and dark fury:  We have fulfilled our oath! Keep your promise of release, heir of Isildur, do not betray us!

Their remonstration left Aragorn distraught and torn in two, but Legolas held his shoulder in a vise-like grip, and the King made a stand.

“I bid you wait!” he said through clenched teeth in the direction of the Host, though no form was visible to him. If truth be told, he did not know himself why he said what he did, only that the elf in whom he would entrust the last fragment of his life and all that he held dear, looked frantic at the thought that he might bow to the demand of the Dead Ones.

Legolas and Elrohir understood full well Aragorn’s dilemma, yet – bound by their own convictions – they made no offer to relieve him of it. But the power to shape Aragorn’s ensuing move was soon snatched from them, for, suddenly, Tobëas emitted a piercing scream and fell in a faint.

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

In Orthanc, Lord Celeborn drew in a sharp breath and looked up at his grandson. His features remained as gravely impassive as they had been during his meditative state, but in his clear blue eyes was a turbulent storm.  

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

“Tobëas!” the guard’s friends called frantically. They were on their knees beside the prone figure, trying to rouse him in vain.

“Sire, what’s wrong?” one of the frightened men threw the question at their King who, along with Sam and the elves, had also rushed to the guard’s side.

Before Aragorn could answer, Tobëas’ eyes snapped open abruptly, startling them all.

“Tobëas?” his friends called to him, but all they received in response was a jerky move of the man’s head as he turned to give them a hard stare with cold, dark eyes, making them shrink back involuntarily.

At that, Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a quick knowing glance, and their spirits sank. They understood immediately what was taking place, for they had seen this before, and they knew what would happen next.

“Do not deny us our redemption that has long been robbed from us!” Tobëas said abruptly in a voice that was not his timbre, confirming Aragorn and Legolas’ guess that once more, the Dead had taken hold of a human body. Indeed, their memories told them that here again was he, the very one who had been in the old man, Mathuil.

Sam and Tobëas’ friends rose from their knees faster than they thought possible and stepped away. The men were stunned, for they had never witnessed such a possession; Sam, on his part, was immediately vigilant because he had. Elrohir, though startled, merely looked to his brother and friend for an answer, though he already sensed it, for the elf could see the misty forms of the Shadow Host around them and felt how intensely disturbed they were.

“Strider, it’s happening again, isn’t it, like in Pelargir?” the hobbit asked, looking distinctly fearful. “They’re mad now, aren’t they, because you won’t let them leave?”

“Yes, Sam,” Aragorn muttered through pursed lips. Then he looked at Tobëas and drew a deep breath before speaking to the Dead One in him. “I am not denying you your redemption, old one,” he said evenly, controlling his own trepidation. “I am merely asking you to wait – ”

“No!” Tobëas shouted, sitting up abruptly with unnatural quickness. “We have fulfilled our oath. No more should we wait!” He looked straight at Aragorn now with wild eyes, and a cold rush of air whipped around them as he did.

Aragorn turned to Legolas and Elrohir for some sign as to what to do, his face tight with anxiety. “They have Tobëas; do we still delay?” he asked softly – but it was not soft enough to escape the hearing of the possessed guard. 

“No – more – delays!” Tobëas cried in anger, narrowing his eyes menacingly. “Or you will bear the consequences! Witness it for yourself!” Then with a loud shriek and to his friends’ horror, the man rose swiftly to his feet, and before anyone could stop him, he ran towards the burning carcass of Shelob and leapt straight into the flames.

With a cry of horror, the other two guards rushed after him, but they were no match for the speed and strength of Elrohir and Legolas, who had dashed past them and retrieved the possessed man from the fire before the men could even reach Shelob. Laying him on the ground, they quickly doused the fire that had just begun to catch on his clothes. The man was fortunate that though his hair had been singed, and his face and hands were scorched, he had not yet suffered severe burns. Neither had the fire robbed the sternness from his eyes, or the unearthly strength from his hands.

With a growl, he pushed aside Aragorn and Elrohir as they tried to tend to him, and spoke in the rasping voice of the Dead One. “Grant us our freedom, Isildur’s heir, or we will take others!”

And for the first time that evening, the eyes of several of the Twice Forgotten – as they hovered near the flames of the burning beast – blazed red and fierce as if to reinforce the point.

Aragorn turned to Legolas, his face grim and devoid of hope. “They will grow more potent – even deadly – if I do not grant them release now, Legolas,” he said defeatedly. “I cannot allow them to take the other men, or Sam. I pray I will not regret this, mellon nin, but I have no choice!”

Then, before the elves could change his mind, the King turned back and addressed the One in Tobëas.  “I will release you, but leave this man now!” he commanded.

The response was instant: “When you grant us release, O King, he will be free of my spirit.”

“Estel –” Legolas and Elrohir began helplessly, stepping up to Aragorn.

But the King could no longer be dissuaded. Anxious to be rid of his burden and to put a centuries-old curse to rest, Aragorn ignored the soreness in his ankle to stand firm and straight before the red-eyed Host, his hair blowing almost wildly in the winds of Cirith Ungol. His grey eyes were steely as his lips formed the words the Host had waited unknown years to hear, and they rang out strong and clear in the land that had once been the battle grounds of his ancestors:   

“People of the Mountain, I hold your oath fulfilled! Go now in peace.”

A moment later, a loud murmur was heard that grew in volume, and Sam could not tell if it was the breath of the Host as they gathered for their departure, or the voice of the very earth that groaned in awe of the momentous event.

But the hobbit knew that the Dead did assemble to face Aragorn, for more eyes now became visible close to the fire, blazing and flickering red like those of the Host at the burning of the Corsair ships in the tales told by Legolas and Gimli, and like those witnessed by the elf prince in the bedchamber of the King at Pelargir. It was the first time Sam was seeing them for himself, and he shivered, hoping he would never cross paths with such a sight again.

As the hobbit and his companions watched, the red eyes were lowered, and they knew that the Host was now bowing before the heir of Isildur. Aragorn drew in a deep breath and felt a great weight lifted from his being, and indeed, so unburdened did he feel that he seemed to grow light on his feet.

Then the thought flitted through his mind that the completion of this task had an odd effect on him.

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

Many leagues north in the Tower of Orthanc, Lord Celeborn – for one of the rare times in his long life – staggered backward shakily, and Elladan caught his grandsire’s hands to steady him.

Astonished and troubled by what he saw, Gimli confronted them. “What’s going on here, Elladan?” he demanded, his tone growing impatient. “What are you not telling me?”

But Elladan’s attention was focused only on the elf lord before him as both their expressions went dark.

Frustrated at not receiving an answer, the dwarf lord seized the skull from Celeborn’s hands. Growling, he tried to read the lines that had caused the despair he saw slowly coloring the faces of the elves.

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

Great uneasiness had been written on every feature of Legolas’ face when Aragorn pronounced his pardon to the People of the Mountain, and his tension had not been assuaged even when a sigh of satisfaction rippled through the Host and they bowed in deference to the King.

But whatever tension had marked Legolas’ face before now grew tenfold as he watched the Host rise from their position of obeisance and prepare to depart from this earth.

Looking from one end of the Host assembly to the other – with an elven perception sharper than even Elrohir’s eyes possessed – the elf prince went weak, for it seemed that he was finally, finally on the edge of some dreadful understanding, and before him, many pieces of some vague danger began to come together in a chilling picture.

At one end of the gathering of wraiths were the red eyes, all that could be seen of the Host to those without elven vision. But at the other end of the Host, among those spirit forms too far away for their eyes to blaze, a vision formed, a vision that had once assailed Legolas in a nightmare and made his blood run cold. It made him tremble now, for it finally revealed to him what he had not seen before of the Condemned Ones.

What he saw were Men, many shapes of Men; they were the People of the Mountain, prisoners once locked in a shadow realm behind a Door of stone.

And they were all faceless.

They appeared frighteningly clearer to his elven eyes than they had ever been before: where faces should have been, there were only featureless voids, like blank slates wiped clean, robbed of soul and essence and all that had once made them Men.

They looked exactly as Aragorn had in the elf’s dream of horror.

Yet, it was no nightmare that Legolas was in now, and what he saw was terrifyingly real.

A cry left the elf’s throat then, but it was over-ridden by another voice. As the spirit forms began to dissipate in a murmuring mist, the Dead One in Tobëas said unexpectedly in a deeply remorseful tone: “Forgive us, heir of Isildur.”

Like one held captive by a spell, Legolas could only watch and listen as Aragorn went down slowly on one knee before the figure on the ground and responded.  

“I have already granted you forgiveness,” the King said tiredly, his eyes drooping with a strange dizziness and weariness.

The voice of the One grew fainter as well. “Not for the wrongs of the past, O King,” Tobëas said. “Forgive us… for what is to come.”

The strange words threw everyone into mute and baffled astonishment, but Legolas alone began to feel the chill of their possible import.

The elf felt his mouth go dry. “What do you mean?” he managed to croak as he went down on his knees beside Aragorn.

“We had no choice,” the Dead One said.

“What choice do you mean?” Legolas demanded, his voice taking on an edge. “What is it that will come? Speak!”  

Tobëas’ eyes fixed on Aragorn then, and his response hit the listeners like a sledgehammer upon fragile hearts:

“His doom.”

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

In the dimness of Orthanc, the venerable Elf Lord of Lothlorien lifted his head, and his brow, upon which was written the wisdom of ages, was clouded.

“We leave now,” he said crisply to Elladan, who nodded immediately.

“Wait a moment, hold on here!” boomed the voice of Gimli, stepping boldly up to the elves, flanked by Bragor and Dagor. A scowl was on the face of the dwarf lord, and in his large hands sat the skull he had snatched from Celeborn. “You know you have my respect, Lord Celeborn,” he said, “but before we take off again, we need to know what it is that’s spooked you and Elladan. I know it lies in these lines here,” he tapped on the dome of the skull, “but there’s nothing left to read, and you’ve told us nothing!” His voice grew into a slight growl. “Now, if Aragorn and that Wood-elf princeling are in some kind of fix –”

“And it sounds like it,” Dagor interjected.

“ – I’d appreciate learning about it without delay –”

“That means now,” Dagor added boldly, crossing his arms.

“– before we go anywhere!” Gimli finished, looking at Celeborn unflinchingly.

Elladan cast a quick look at his grandsire, wondering if the ancient elf lord would find the dwarves’ demand audacious, but Celeborn merely nodded. At the sight of the three dwarves standing before him, sympathy and understanding swam in the clear eyes of the elf lord.

“That is precisely what I was about to do, Master Gimli,” he said calmly. “I seek not your forgiveness, only your understanding, for not speaking to you earlier; we needed the time to attempt to reach my grandson and Legolas, to send them a warning.”

“A warning?” Gimli echoed.

 Celeborn nodded. “To what extent it availed them, we cannot tell,” he said. “But you shall learn now what I did of Saruman’s spell, as revealed on the skull. The first part of it, we already found out from Mathuil, but it is the second part that is of ultimate concern.”

Then Celeborn, looking weary and a little defeated, began reciting the spell in his deep, rich voice:

“With this Gate I hold thee fast

From this day forth until the Last.

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 elf lord paused then, and looked sadly at Gimli before continuing in a tone that sounded as heavy as his heart: 

But he who wakes thee from the Dead

Shall wander ever in thy stead.

Knowing none beyond the Spell

Forgetting all, in Shadow dwell…”

Gimli let out a small cry at that point, almost dropping the skull in his alarm.

“Wand – wander ever in thy stead?” he repeated, hardly daring to say the words.

“Yes, Gimli,” Celeborn affirmed. “That is the line.”

The dwarf lord felt the fingers of a cold fear creep up his spine. “Wander… oh, Aulë!” he said. “Aragorn – waking them from the Dead – he… he will wander in their place?”

“Aye, Gimli,” Elladan answered somberly, retrieving his grandsire’s cloak and his own from where they had hung them.

Gimli felt weak in the knees. “Do you mean… are you saying… Saruman’s curse…?” he stammered.

“It is tragic that such power could dwell in one with so much malice,” Celeborn lamented in sorrow as he accepted his cloak from Elladan and donned it. “Yes, Gimli, that accursed spell of Saruman… it condemns Elessar to the same fate as the Damned Ones.”

The elf lord’s confirmation could not have distressed Gimli more greatly than if he had pronounced the dwarf’s own doom. Gimli was struck dumb, and a surge of fury at Saruman welled within him, which was quickly replaced by deep anguish for Aragorn.

“Valar have mercy on him, Gimli,” said Elladan as he put on his own cloak, and on his face there was much concern. “When he releases the Dead – if the curse is fulfilled – he will take their place. He will be what they were: a wraith, a dweller in a forgotten world.  And he will be locked in their prison of stone… in the Shadow Realm.” 

This time, the skull did drop from Gimli’s trembling hands on to the stone floor, and the loud clatter made Dagor jump. But it hardly registered on the dwarf lord, for his mind was now focused on an incident from the recent past that had puzzled them: Aragorn’s sudden faint in the village when he tried to pardon the Dead One who had possessed Mathuil, and the Dead One’s refusal to be freed too fast…

Gimli looked at Celeborn and Elladan with eyes full of pained disbelief as the answer became clear to him. “That’s why the dead fellow in Mathuil would not let Aragorn free him in the village, before Aragorn had a chance to enter the Paths. He feared that Aragorn wouldn’t have been able to free the others…”

"Aye, that must have been the reason, Gimli," Celeborn said. "The One in Mathuil was outside the Gate but he mentioned having been cursed with the same fate; perhaps all who tried to help the imprisoned ones were."

"We may never know the whole sordid truth of what happened in the past; we can only guess why the One in Mathuil halted Aragorn from freeing him too soon," said Elladan. "But there is nothing to stop them from seeking his pardon now, and they will want it as soon as they have helped Aragorn defeat Shelob."

“That is why we have to ride South this instant,” Celeborn reminded the group. “By night or day, we must proceed, so I bid all who can, to follow. But there is no shame in refraining, for speed is of the essence, and it will be a hard ride.” Without another word, the elf lord turned towards the stairs, his long cloak billowing behind him.

“I will come, even if I arrive ten days late,” Gimli said, running to retrieve his own cloak. “But if you will have me before you on your steed, Elladan, it’d be all the faster, and I’d be much obliged. Bragor and Dagor can take my mare and leave at leisure.”

“You go on, Elder; we’ll settle things here,” Bragor offered, and his brother nodded.

“In that case, you have our thanks, young masters, and you, Gimli, have your place on my horse,” Elladan said, and strode towards the stairs. “I will prepare the boat.”

“I hope we won’t be too late,” said Gimli, running after him. “Aragorn, he… he mustn’t… he cannot release the Dead at Cirith Ungol!”

At the head of the stairs, Elladan stopped just long enough to cast Gimli a look of little hope, and his voice shook when he said: “We think he may already have.”

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

Below a darkening sky on Cirith Ungol, the mystifying words that had just been uttered by Tobëas still rang in the ears who stood transfixed.

His doom, the Dead One had said.

Aragorn heard them as clearly as anyone, but he was becoming strangely more light-headed, and he felt too removed from himself even to ponder on their significance.

It was Legolas who reacted first, and most feelingly. “What doom?” the elf demanded, his voice brittle with fear for Aragorn.

No answer came to relieve the elf’s torment, for, of the Shadow Host, the Dead One in Tobëas alone remained, and he would only repeat his cryptic plea to the heir of Isildur: “Forgive us… for… what will come. We had no choice.”

“What doom is to come?” Legolas almost screamed at him, his fists gripping the man’s arms tightly. “Tell us more!”

“Listen to the Old One… he will know…” Tobëas said in a weakening voice.

“The Old One?” Elrohir asked sharply. “Whom do you mean? Mathuil?”

“Nay,” Tobëas answered, looking blankly at the frightened faces around him. “He… who was here before you… who grew wise long before you,” he said. Then, with a great effort, he cast sorrowed eyes upon Aragorn, before fixing them on the taut face of Legolas, and he rasped out his last words on this earth:

“Return to the Paths… return to the Gate… waste no time… the curse above the Door… no delay… back to the Paths…”

With that final counsel, Tobëas slumped on the ground in a faint, and no amount of shaking would rouse him. But a ghostly sigh was heard, and the Forgotten One – last of the cursed People of the Mountain – left his human host and departed from the circles of this World.

In those same moments, Aragorn felt a chill like an icy river surge through every fiber of his being, and the world spun around him at a blinding speed. He turned pleading but unseeing grey eyes to where he knew Legolas was beside him and tried to reach for the elf with hands that had gone lifeless.

“Legolas…” he mouthed, an instant before his eyes rolled back, the blood drained from his face, and he went limp.

Then he sank slowly into the arms of his horrified friend, and remained there as still as death.

Note: 

I've huffed and puffed and cheated on my work schedule  : –)   to bring you the conclusion of Aragorn’s task and the fulfillment of two oaths, as well as my own resolution to post this within 3 weeks of Chapter 23. Again, please excuse errors because of the hurried pace of writing, and do alert me to them.

As always, thank you to the reviewers who 'fuelled’ me.