CHAPTER 25: TIME AND TIDE

It is said that through the ages of Middle-earth, the beasts loved by the Eldar had a bond so close with their handlers that one could almost read the mind of the other, that the Eldar needed but a soft word here, or a gentle touch there, and the beasts would readily do the bidding of the Fair Folk.

It seemed to Gimli that the elvish steeds which bore Lord Celeborn and Elladan Elrondion mile after mile southward through Rohan – and upon one of which the dwarf himself was fortunate enough to be carried – did indeed seem to sense the urgency of the errand, as if they too nursed their elven riders’ faint hopes of stopping the King of Gondor from freeing the Dead and falling victim to a curse of pure malice.

As winged beasts the magnificent horses flew upon the open road that would lead to Minas Tirith, their legs a blur of strong, nimble limbs fueled by sheer will, thudding and racing like the hearts of the Firstborn upon them, and leaving a trail of dust that left more worldly creatures watching and wondering in envy. On and on Celeborn and Elrohir bade their horses run, knowing no hunger or weariness, feeling no cold or heat, only fearing that they would be too late for Aragorn, that they would lose his soul.

Heavy was the burden upon their hearts, but heavier still would have been their sorrow had they known that even now, even as they forewent food and rest for the sake of the Elfstone Elessar, he had already fallen into the abyss of the Shadow Realm. 

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Aragorn sank heavily into a sudden darkness, falling, tumbling into a deep, deep chasm the likes of which he could have never imagined in his most terrible of dreams.

It was a blackness so thick… so cold…and so heavy, it froze him.

It pressed upon him, sucked from him his strength, robbed him of all motion. He lay still, stunned and uncomprehending.

Then the darkness moved.

Like a living river, it began to swirl about him in waves; he could feel it brushing its icy fingers over his face, creeping around his neck, seeping through his fingers and wrapping around his body, engulfing him and leaving no inch of his being untouched. Stronger it grew, and faster and faster it spun with dizzying force, taking him along in a raging, unceasing grip.

Aragorn found himself being rushed somewhere, very swiftly at a blinding speed, so that nothing took shape or form. And as the darkness sucked him in, drowning him, fear was the only thing that surfaced.

Help me, he felt himself saying weakly.

He tried to reach out with limp hands, tried to find an anchor to hold on to, some target to aim for, some place to stop. But he found none. He could hold on to nothing, for there was nothing to grasp.

Faster and faster he was taken into total darkness, into a frightening nothingness. He had never felt so helpless and so lost.

In desperation, he sought a voice. Where were the others? Legolas! he cried into the swirling depths. Legolas! Elrohir! Where are you?

But he received no response; he heard no voice, save his own.

Help me, he called again. Where are you? Help me!

He screamed over and over and over, not knowing if anyone could hear him.

And the darkness continued to embrace him in its  merciless  tide.

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Several hearts were also engulfed in fear and anguish at the entrance of Torech Ungol, once the dreaded home of a now defeated monster. The tense forms of Men and Elves and one hobbit were bathed in the deep, blood-red gloom of a setting sun, their moods growing as sullen and dark as the approach of night.

Tobëas’ recovery from his state of unconsciousness brought little reprieve to the group, for the King did not wake in like fashion. Aragorn’s brother, friends, and guards gathered around his still form, calling frantically to him, but he did not answer. They splashed water on his ashen face, rubbed his limp, bandaged hands, shook his motionless body – all to no avail. Cradled in the arms of his elven friend, the King did not seem one of the living.

“He breathes, and his heart beats,” Elrohir pronounced as he saw the grief-stricken look on Legolas’ face. He does for now, at least, the dark-haired elf added to himself.

Legolas placed a palm on Aragorn’s chest to verify the claim, still stunned by the man’s sudden collapse. Thoughts tumbled over each other in his mind as he strove to understand what had befallen Aragorn, and why he and Elrohir had felt moved to warn the man against releasing the Forgotten Ones.

“Is this… is this some consequence of his granting the Forgotten People their release?” the elf prince asked to no one in particular, feeling choked by both distress and anger. “Some form of… retribution… for releasing them from the curse?”

“Retribution!” one of the guards exclaimed, looking up. “Do you mean… a punishment, my lord?”

“Punishment?” cried Sam in his turn, his mouth as wide as his eyes. He cast a disbelieving look at the prone figure. “Why should Strider be punished for showing a band of traitors some mercy?”

“If it is retribution, it must have been designed by a malicious hand,” Elrohir said gravely. “Predetermined – and unknown to us.”

“But not to the Twice Forgotten,” said Legolas bitterly. “Why else would they have asked his forgiveness for what is to come?”

“What use is forgiveness?” Tobëas lamented. “Why could they have not forewarned him? Perhaps we could have found a way to avoid this!”

Grudgingly, Elrohir acknowledged the torment that had been borne by the departed souls for hundreds of years. “They were desperate,” he said unfeelingly.

“They still should have given some sign of warning!” Sam argued.

“Such decency was beyond them,” Legolas agreed with quiet resentment. “Still, there is no longer any need for a resolution as to what should or should not have been done. There is only one solution to seek: Aragorn’s own release from this… doom… that he has fallen into.”

Tobëas did not like the ominous sound of the elf prince’s comment. “What doom do you speak of, my lord?” he asked slowly, not certain that he wished to obtain an answer.

Legolas responded hesitantly, for the very thought pained him. “If I am to trust the visions I have had, Tobëas,” the elf said, almost afraid to voice the possibility, “the King has been fated to… to become one of the Host.”

The men and hobbit gasped in horror, looking upon Aragorn’s unmoving body with renewed alarm. Even Elrohir, who had drawn his own silent assumptions, felt the awful weight of Legolas’ words.

“Nay, he is not one of the Host, for They are gone,” Legolas corrected himself quietly, “but like they were.” He cast suddenly misty eyes upon the silent form of his friend, agonizing over what he believed to be Aragorn’s fate. “My fear is that he… he has been doomed to wander in the cursed Shadow  realm as they once did, to eventually turn into a wraith like they once were… oh Valar, Estel…why could I not stop it?”

The elf prince bowed his head in regret, and Elrohir could find nothing to say in reassurance.

“Can nothing be done then?” Tobëas asked plaintively.

“What about the Lady’s Phial?” asked Sam. “This might be why she told me to bring it to you, not just to guide you –”

“We have tried, Sam, but to no avail,” said Legolas dully, weighted down with disappointment.  “You saw how he does not respond even to its light. There seems no other choice but to bring Estel back to the Paths like the Dead One instructed; there must be some answer to be found there.”

“Can we assume that they spoke the truth?” one of the guards asked.

“There was no reason for further deception on their part; they had already secured their release,” Elrohir said. “But I wish we had some insight into what to expect on the Paths. What are we to find there that can aid Estel?”

“The Old One will know, won’t he?” asked Sam. “The Old One the dead fellow was talking about, who was – what did he say? – ‘wise’ long before we were? Which old man was he talking about?”

“Legolas?” asked Elrohir. “You have been familiar with this whole tale from the beginning. What think you?”

The elf prince did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied the face of the still form in his arms in silence, recalling the night in Pelargir when Gimli had been possessed by the Dead and had mentioned the Old One for the first time:

“Seek us where you once were!” the unearthly voice within the dwarf said. “Return to where we walk without death. Seek the Holding Gate. We wait, we wait…” 

The dwarf began to sway, and his voice started to lose its volume.

“The Holding Gate? Is it in the Mountains? On the Paths?” Aragorn asked desperately. “Speak plainly!”

“The Paths… return to the Gate… read… listen to the Old One…” Gimli replied, his voice falling. He swayed even more vigorously now, making everyone wonder at what was happening.  

“Wait! What Old One?” Aragorn asked, stepping forward.

“Spell… break the spell… Gate… beyond…  he will know… listen to him,” the dwarf continued to say, his voice dropping to almost a murmur. “Return, return to the Paths… we need you…”  

Coming out of his reflection, the elf prince looked up at Elrohir.

“Twice did the Dead refer to the Old One; the first time was in Pelargir,” he said, quickly narrating what he had witnessed. “We felt then that they were referring to Mathuil, for his son Mathgor had come the day after to speak to Aragorn about him. When we arrived at the village, we found that Mathuil had been possessed by one of his forefathers. This dead man who spoke through Mathuil was the one who finally unraveled the mystery to us, revealing to us that there were imprisoned souls behind the Door. He himself had died outside the Holding Gate while trying to free them.”

“So who was the Old One?” asked Sam. “Mathuil? Or the dead fellow who used his body?”

“As I said, we thought then that it was Mathuil,” Legolas replied. “But now…” The elf shook his head, pondering on some thought within his mind. “Now, I do not think it was either of them. I believe the Old One was Lord Celeborn all along.” He looked steadily at Elrohir. “It is true that the Dead One in Mathuil held the answer. But it was Lord Celeborn who reached his thoughts and made them known to us; it was he who made it possible for us to understand that there were prisoners, and that Aragorn had to release them.”

“Yes, yes!” Tobëas concurred eagerly, for he had been one of the guards outside the door of Mathuil’s cottage and had heard most of what had taken place within. “The elf lord – he was the key then!”

“And I believe he is the key now as well,” Legolas added. “When the Dead referred to the Old One the first time, they were speaking about their own release. But now –” he looked with pity and sorrow upon his unconscious friend, “now they are telling us that Lord Celeborn is also the one who holds the answer to Aragorn’s fate.”  

“Then Daerada must return to the Paths with us,” said Elrohir, getting up. “But first we must get Estel there. We have to leave now.”  

“Not by way of the Stairs, surely, my lords?” Tobëas asked. “We cannot bear the King down that steep descent.”

“Yes, it is too dangerous,” Elrohir agreed. “I would not trust any of us to do it.”

“Sam, there is another way out of here, is there not?” Legolas asked the hobbit. “As I recall, you and Frodo came out at the other end of the tunnel.”

A light seemed to kindle in Sam’s round eyes, and he nodded vigorously as he turned to peer at the dark gaping tunnel mouth. “Why, yes, there is!” he replied. “It isn’t all the way to the other side, because that leads to some cleft – what they call the Pass – and that only goes deeper into the Black Land. But there’s this smaller tunnel before that; it leads to the great orc watch tower – or, leastways, it did when I followed it, followed those filthy orcs really; they were carrying Mister Frodo there, see? Anyhow, the tower’s in ruins now, I guess, and it’s no pleasant walk to get there, but I daresay it’ll be a better road to follow.”

“Can you remember the way?” Legolas asked, anxious to begin the journey.

Sam took a moment to think before he answered. “Did you see those nasty webs when you were in there?” he asked the elves in return. 

“Aye, we did,” Elrohir said.

Sam nodded. “The opening’s just before that,” he said. “If it isn’t blocked up, that is.”

“Then let us proceed,” said Legolas. He slipped his arms beneath Aragorn and stood with ease despite the weight he bore. As the rest of the company gathered their few belongings and prepared to depart, the elf looked sadly upon the bandaged hands and fingers of the King, and the cuts and bruises upon his skin, and most of all at the still, pale face resting against his shoulder. The elf’s heart softened with pity at the recollection of the weeks of emotional and physical turmoil that had drained the man of his strength.

Your sleep is not one of rest from weariness, my friend, he said silently. I beg you to wake soon from whatever strange, dark dream you are in. But if sleep you must, then be at peace, for I will watch over you till you return to us.

As the sky grew dark, the company cast one last look upon the smoldering carcass of Shelob and walked into what had once been her lair. Soon, they were swallowed by the blackness.

Elrohir held the Phial and led the way with Sam, retracing steps they did not think they would have to take again. They moved as quickly as they could and stopped only to rest briefly. It was dark in the tunnel, and they longed for food, drink and sleep, but no one could partake of more than a morsel nor sleep a wink when their beloved King lay lifelessly within sight. Legolas and Elrohir bore Aragorn in their arms in turn, for his tall form could not have been borne with ease by any of the human guards. In elven arms, however, even his deadweight was manageable.

Yet, now that Shelob the Great had passed, the invisible weight of her evil and malice seemed much weaker, and they moved with greater ease than Sam and the elves had earlier. Even Tobëas grew stronger with each yard despite the gloom.

Strangely, however, it was Legolas, Elrohir noticed, who seemed to grow more somber and tortured. Now and again, when the prince bore the King in his arms, Elrohir heard him utter the words “Forgive me, Estel” in Sindarin, and in a broken voice so soft that only Elrohir’s elven ears could discern it.

Wondering at this mood that seemed to have befallen Legolas, Elrohir spoke quietly to the elf prince during a brief break in their journey.

“What ails you, gwador, that you should ask constantly for Estel’s forgiveness?” the Imladris elf queried. At the start from the elf prince, Elrohir knew that Legolas had not anticipated the question. “What is it, Legolas?” the elf prompted. “You have done nothing in error.”

“There you are wrong, Elrohir,” the prince responded, looking ruefully at the prone figure of Aragorn whose head now lay on his brother’s lap. “I was in error, for I… I failed to tell him something that may have made him hold back his pardon.”

And at Elrohir’s urging, Legolas told him of the empty faces he had seen in the fire at the mouth of the tunnel when first they had set Shelob’s carcass aflame. “If I had but told him, Elrohir,” the prince said mournfully, “he might have stayed his pardon, and not be... as he is now.”

Elrohir exhaled a long breath and sat up straighter. “Oh, Legolas, Legolas, you are indeed in error!” he said, placing a hand on the younger elf’s arm.

“Iston, I know!”Legolas said, hanging his head in self-deprecation. “If only I had spoken – ”

“Ai, that is not what I meant!” said Elrohir quickly. “Nay, Legolas, you could not be certain about what you saw, nor could you know the full meaning of it. And even if you had told Estel about it, the outcome would still be the same, for do you not remember that he did heed our warning – till the Dead took his guard? With or without knowledge of what you saw, Estel would still have been compelled to release Them, for they would still have threatened the lives of his men!”

There was no response from Legolas at first, but then the elf sighed slowly.

“Do not let doubt hinder you, gwador,” Elrohir continued. “We carry heavy enough a load on our shoulders, and haste should be our concern.”

At those words, Legolas looked up and pursed his lips. “You speak truly, Elrohir; my attention should be on Estel now, not on the musings of my own mind,” the elf prince said firmly. “We have a long road ahead.” So saying, he pushed all his feelings of guilt to the back of his mind, retrieved Aragorn from his brother’s hold and stood quickly.

The group continued their hurried walk down the tunnel, and eventually, they neared the opening that Shelob had emerged from earlier. Long before they reached it, its stench and reek assailed their noses.  

“There’s a great pit in there – in the darkness beyond,” said Sam. “That’s her home – well, it was her home. I’d bet my last grain of Shire salt that it’s full of dead, rotting things. My nose tells me it’d be a safe wager!”

Despite the nauseating stench, the Gondorian guards halted briefly in fascinated horror at the secret places in the mountain that they never thought they would see, let alone walk through.

“The webs will be just ahead,” Elrohir said, breaking the awed silence and hurrying the group on.

“Yes, they should be,” said Sam, and before they knew it, they had reached the mass of long, thick fibers. Before them loomed the strands the elves and Aragorn had cut through earlier, and they hung like rent curtains of many grey threads. 

Sam took the phial and ran to the right and left of the webs. “There should be a fork in the tunnel here,” he said, but to his dismay, he saw only thick threads stretching from one wall of the tunnel to the other. He stood there scratching his head in puzzlement while the others waited.

“Are you certain the opening is here, Sam?” Elrohir asked a little doubtfully.

“Sure as I’m the son of my old gaffer!” Sam answered edgily. “But what’s gone on – aah, I know!” He slapped his forehead. “The fat filth must have thickened this barrier of strings!”

The hobbit unsheathed Sting and approached the web near the wall of the left. “If we keep hacking at it, we’ll uncover the opening here on the left,” he said hopefully. “Come on, this way!”

Soon Sting and the elven blades of Elrohir and Legolas, the last wielded by one of Aragorn’s guards, were sweeping through the webs again, and they melted like soft butter under the blades. Focusing on the part of the web at the left of the barrier, the group saw that the tough fibres were easily three or four yards thick – creating an effective trap between Shelob’s pit and the tunnel exit beyond, that would lead to the Pass.

But that exit was not where the group wished to go. After only two yards, Sam raised the Phial and gave a shout. “Hello! Here it is! We can leave the rest of the web alone,” he said. “This way leads to the watch tower.”

The others closed around Sam and peered eagerly at what he had trained the Light on. Their spirits rose when they saw what seemed to be an opening in the wall, but their smiles soon turned to frowns at the sight of a great stone blocking it.

“A great stone door!” Tobeas exclaimed in dismay. “How do we get past this?”

Undeterred, Sam pointed excitedly to the top of the stone. “There, up there! See – there’s a gap?” he said. “That’s how those filthy orcs and I got past. And there’s likely to be some latch behind it. This stone was probably only meant to stop Shelob from getting through.”  

Indeed, further scrutiny revealed that the ‘door’ was only about the height of the guards, and the dark space between its top and the roof of the low arch was more than wide enough for one of the elves to climb through.

Without another word, Elrohir handed the Phial to Sam, placed both hands on the top of the stone and smoothly hoisted himself up. In moments, he was past the black gap and on the other side. The others heard some movement behind it as of a great latch being drawn back, then the door swung open and there stood Elrohir. Behind him was another dark tunnel.  

Sam ran a few yards forward and looked around. “Yes, oh yes!” he said in delight. “It looks the same in here at least.”

“Then let us go on,” said Legolas, swiftly passing through with Aragorn in his arms.

They walked on determinedly, with Sam guiding the way. Up and down several slopes in the tunnel they pushed on, till even their steely resolve seemed inadequate for the depressing gloom. But just as they were beginning to wonder when the tunnel would end, they felt some cool, fresh air blowing in.

“Close now!” Sam said eagerly. He had hardly pronounced those words when they descended a final slope, and the group found themselves before what had been the underground entrance to the watch tower. The great metal gates that had once stood in morose majesty stood no more, but were now thrown down. The group ran through thankfully, and they were out of the tunnel.

Above them was the welcome sight of the open sky, and even though clouds stretched across its expanse like a dark grey cotton blanket, there were rents through which stars were slowly lighting up and peeping. By the feeble light of those Lamps, and the more substantial illumination offered by the Lamp of the Lady Galadriel in her grandson’s hand, the small company studied the scene about them. Where once there had been an intimidating watch tower and many steps leading up to the higher levels, there was only rubble to greet them now: great, big blocks of fallen stone, and smaller pieces littering a wide area of ruin.

Sam looked at the silent wreckage around him with misty eyes. “There’s one place I’d pay gold not to be let in again,” Sam said softly, remembering with sadness his painful search for Frodo in the Tower, when he had agonized over whether his master was dead or alive. “I’m glad to see it in pieces now.”

They allowed themselves only a few moments to look in gladness upon the destroyed monument of evil that, ironically, the fallen king in Legolas’ arms had brought about. Then they picked a careful descent from the mountain through the stone debris, trying to ignore the scattered and broken skeletons of hefty or wiry orcs that had once served there.

They could not move quickly, for when deep night fell, they had only the Light of the Lady – and sometimes the glowing forms of the Elves – to guide them. They guessed their way in the dark, the men and Sam sometimes stumbling, sometimes slipping, but still they picked themselves up and brushed off their hurts to push on again, almost swaying from their lack of sleep. Grimy and exhausted, the group doggedly ignored their weariness and hunger and moved on for hours, going constantly downhill.

Bearing his friend in his arms without rest, Legolas nevertheless would not relinquish the burden he bore to anyone save Elrohir, for he would not allow any further hurt to befall his friend because of a false step.

Finally, just as the eastern sky was lightening by the slightest hues of grey, the keen hearing of the elves detected the welcome voices of two hobbits ahead, and they felt relief rush through them. In silent accord, the elves paused long enough only to tell the others that they would be going ahead, and for those who remained to proceed as best as they could, for they needed to hasten to the horses. Then the elves broke into a near-run without faltering as only elves could do, till they reached the white bridge along which Pippin and Merry and the other two guards had camped.

Elrohir ran ahead to get the elvish horses. With his keen eyes, the elf prince saw the hobbits’ and guards’ looks of initial pleasure at seeing Elrohir turn to frowns, and Legolas knew the Imladris elf must be briefing them on the distressing developments. As the light of dawn grew stronger and they could see Legolas approaching them on the bridge with Aragorn in his arms, they turned to him and began running towards him.

But Elrohir on his elvish horse, with Legolas’ own stallion beside them, reached the friends first, and Legolas wasted no time in handing Aragorn to his brother, who placed the man before him on the horse and encircled him securely with both arms. His faithful elvish steed would see that the riders stayed on only with guidance from Elrohir’s knees, for such was the trust between rider and beast in the world of the Firstborn. 

Waiting for Legolas to speak to and mount his own horse, Elrohir lovingly swept his brother’s hair back from his face, and gave him a tender look. “Ai, Estel… the last time I held you this way was when you were a child in innocent slumber,” he said sadly. “I wish you would wake now and smile at us as you would do then, little one.”

Hearing Elrohir’s words, Legolas felt his own heart descend deeper into grief even as his worry for Aragorn escalated.

I would give anything to have you open your eyes and look upon us again, Estel, he said silently to his friend. Valar be merciful! Whatever holds him in harsh sleep – let it not hold him for long, for he is the greatest of Men, and is loved by so many.

Each nursing his own pain, the two elves turned back immediately and rode towards the guards and hobbits. The riders halted to speak briefly with those on foot, allowing them to see with their own distressed eyes their unconscious King and friend.

“How could anyone do this to Aragorn!” Merry remarked angrily.

Pippin placed a timid hand on the man’s knee. “What’s going to happen to him?” he asked in a small voice. “What are you going to do now?”

Legolas looked with pity upon the hobbits, understanding their concern, for they, too, had no small love for the man who had once been their savior from Black Riders. “If we are to follow what the Dead Ones instructed, we have to take Aragorn back to the Paths,” he said.  

“Do you expect to find the solution there?” Merry asked.  

“We cannot yet tell, Merry, but we were asked to read the runes, and that might hold the answer,” said Legolas. “Lord Celeborn was right to suspect something amiss.”

“Pray that he has found an answer and that we will see him soon,” said Elrohir.

“Are you going straight to the Paths then, my lords?” one of the guards asked.

“Nay, we will first stop by the City,” Legolas answered. “The Queen and the Lord Steward must know of this.”

“And perchance Lord Celeborn will have returned,” Elrohir said, though his voice held little hope and even less confidence. 

“I pray this will not be too distressing for the Queen,” said the other guard in genuine concern, “for she is with child, and may be in more delicate health than usual.”

Elrohir paused to consider this. “She will wish to know, and to see the King for herself,” he said after a moment. “And at the least, Lord Faramir must be informed.”

“Then we wish you all speed, my lords, and trust the life of the King to you,” the guard said. “We will ride immediately behind you, if Masters Meriadoc and Peregrin would please –” 

“We’ll wait for the others,” Merry offered. “We know you’ll wish to escort the King.”

“Yes, tarry no more, Legolas! Go on, go on!” said Pippin. “We’ll see you in the City.”

At those words of quick farewell, the elves departed on an urgent ride to the home of Aragorn.

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Approaching the City from the north, but much farther away, were three riders who were also ignoring hunger and weariness to reach their destination as soon as possible.

Seated before Elladan on the elvish horse, Gimli maintained an unusual silence. The wind from their speed chilled him and made his teeth chatter, but his reticent silence was due mainly to his mood: he was too worried about Aragorn for idle talk. Yet, there was a question that weighed heavily on his mind, and he would have long ago asked it had he not been too afraid to do so. At length, however, he did turn slightly to speak to Elladan.

“If Aragorn has released the Dead,” he began hesitantly, “is there… is there hope for him? Is there nothing we can do, Elladan?”  

For the next few moments, the dwarf heard only silence from the elf behind.

“Elladan?” he called again, fearing the worst.

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Outside the windows of a healing room in the Citadel of the King, birds flew quietly on a light breeze beneath an overcast sky, and they twittered softly as if in respect of the somber mood within the stone walls.

Inside, Faramir gripped his hands in an attempt to control himself from losing all sense of calm at the sight of the King lying still and silent before him, devoid of all signs of life save his slow breathing. His Queen’s quiet weeping and soft, plaintive cries to her unresponsive husband only deepened his despair and tore at the hearts of the listeners in the room.

“Estel,” Arwen whispered shakily through her tears, running trembling fingers over the ashen face and closed eyes. “Estel, please wake, my love...” she sobbed. “Can you hear me? I am here with you. Why will you not wake?”

Faramir closed his eyes and hung his head. He was grateful that Eldarion had been wisely kept out of the healing room by Eowyn; he was not certain how anyone could have explained to the young prince why his father would not wake or answer when his son called to him.

The Steward had long ceased to ask Legolas and Elrohir what might have befallen Aragorn, for he knew they had no more answers than those they had already given. “What help is there for him now?” he asked instead.

Legolas, who looked drawn and close to despair himself, shook his head. “We have not been able to rouse him even with the Phial,” he said. “Without knowing the exact nature of the affliction…” The elf’s voice trailed off into a helpless silence.

Elrohir stood from where he had been seated with his arms around his distraught sister, and drew Faramir and Legolas aside. “There is nothing else that can be done now, but to go immediately to the Paths as we have been told – to see what answers may be found there,” he said gravely. Casting a backward look at Arwen and the healers surrounding Aragorn, he continued quietly: “We cannot wait for Daerada to return. Estel… his pulse is slower now than it was earlier.”

“What?!” Legolas gasped, his eyes widening. He turned to go to Aragorn, but Elrohir stopped him.

“Do not alert Arwen to it; she is tormented enough,” he cautioned softly and held Legolas’ arm till the elf prince turned back to face him with a wan face.

“How… how dire –?” Legolas began, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

“He cannot take food or drink as long as he remains thus,” said Elrohir. “We cannot wait, for I fear that worse will come. Send riders to Orthanc, Faramir, to summon Lord Celeborn’s return. But we – Legolas and I – must leave with Aragorn today.”

Legolas’ eyes turned to blue ice. “Then let us delay no further,” he said decisively. “Every hour lost is an hour too long for Aragorn to be in this state.”

“I will arrange for a light and sturdy carriage,” said Faramir, “and an escort.”

“We need only a small one, and swift,” said Elrohir. “Others may follow as they please, but we must forge ahead, for once again, it is the hand of Time – not Men – that will deal the greatest threat to Estel.”

Faramir excused himself to issue instructions to a waiting attendant, and to speak with the City’s Councilors about quelling rumors that might run rife when the silence about the King’s predicament was broken, as it surely would. Then he returned to the elves and found them comforting an overwrought Arwen who was weeping in her brother’s arms.

“You cannot come with us, Sister dearest,” Elrohir said soothingly into her dark hair. “Hold fast to hope, and look after yourself for the sake of the little one. You know we will take care of Estel, and do everything we can to bring him back safe and whole.”

Faramir was in similar agony. He drew Legolas aside to speak quietly with him.

“There is nowhere I’d rather be at this dark moment than at his side, for I have vowed my life to my king since first I came face to face with him in the houses of healing during the Quest,” he told the elf in a voice laced with pain. He drew a deep breath before he could continue. “Yet… my greatest service to him at this point has to be carried out here, in his city, with his queen and son, for – Valar forbid – if… if he should be… if he should be taken from us, my new – and very young – king will have even greater need of my service. Who can tell what threats a City in panic can pose?”

“Your choice is the right one, Faramir,” came another quiet voice filled with suppressed sorrow, and both speakers turned to see Arwen facing them. Her fair face was streaked with tears, and she was leaning on her brother, but upon her countenance composed calm and the undiminished beauty of the Firstborn still reigned. “Daerada’s suspicions suggest the hand of Saruman or some other malice that has dealt this stroke of evil upon Aragorn. If that is so, we do not know what else such a curse entails, or how far down the bloodline it goes,” she said. “And if anything worse should occur… Eldarion will have need of you, and your place will be with him.”

Faramir bent his head in respect, finding nothing to say, but Legolas’ eyes hardened with wilfulness.

“I refuse to believe that Aragorn will be taken from us,” the elf prince said in a low tone. “Only the Valar know how and when he will wake, but he will.”

“And only the Valar know the breadth and depth of my hope,” Arwen said, her eyes shining with fresh tears. She placed a hand softly on the elf prince’s cheek. “I entrust to you one of two I hold dearest, Legolas, for I know that in you and Elrohir, and Daerada when you meet him, Estel will find no better guards or healers, nor a friend more faithful.”

Overcome with emotion, Legolas wrapped his arms around Arwen, holding her gently. “I do not know where the darkness may take him, Arwen,” he whispered brokenly. “But I vow to you: wherever he may go, he shall not be alone. I will find a way to reach him.” At the tearful nod from the elleth, the elf prince kissed her forehead and released her to prepare for another long journey.

Within the hour, the King had been placed in a small carriage in front of the Citadel, where were gathered four of the City’s swiftest riders and horses, and a number of shocked and worried Councilors.

“I will follow with more men, my lords,” one of the Councilors said to Legolas and Elrohir. “Our progress will be slower, but at least aid will not be far behind should you encounter the need for it.”

Merry and Pippin had, after a quick wash and light nourishment, insisted on accompanying Aragorn, while Sam had been persuaded to remain. The weary Mayor of Hobbiton had fallen asleep on his pony and almost fallen off twice during the return journey from Mordor.

“You have already done a great deed in aiding Aragorn complete his task on Cirith Ungol, noble Sam,” Arwen had told him kindly despite her own grief. “I know you must be exhausted, and you should rest here.”  

Sam had reluctantly agreed after Merry and Pippin had pointed out that his company, along with Rosie’s and his children’s, might bring Arwen and Eldarion some comfort.

Thus it was that the small gathering bid the King and his escort a solemn and quiet farewell, sending with them their hopes and prayers. Faramir, Arwen and Eldarion – taking turns to say soft words to Aragorn – were the last to look upon him as he lay in oblivion in the carriage.

Kneeling before his king, the Steward took hold of a cold, pale hand and placed his forehead upon it in reverence. “I have loved you, my liege lord and king, since first you looked upon me in kindness in the houses of healing,” he said in a voice hoarse with emotion. “You called me back from the world of the dying then, and I would go with you now to call you back from the dark… yet I must remain with your Queen and son, as I know you would wish me to.” He raised his eyes and trained them upon the grimly silent countenance lying before him. “Let me thus wait for your safe return, my lord; and return you must, for Gondor without you would be a far lesser kingdom.” So saying, he kissed his king’s hand and stepped out to stand beside an equally sorrowing Eowyn.

Arwen stepped into the carriage with her son, fortifying herself against the difficult questions the child would be certain to ask. The prince had finally been permitted to see Aragorn, but had only been told that his father, his hero, was ill and needed to go away to be healed. Eldarion turned to his mother with puzzled eyes when Aragorn would not respond to his son’s repeated calls.

“He is sleeping, darling,” Arwen forced herself to say. “He cannot hear you yet.”

“But he always wakes when I call, Naneth!” Eldarion argued, shaking his father’s arm again.

“Not now,” his mother said evenly, though her heart was breaking. “It is not yet time.”

“Well, when will he wake then?” the prince asked, a note of doubt creeping into his voice. “When will I see him again?”

When the prince’s mother could give him no satisfactory answer, frightening thoughts assailed his young mind. The child looked at his father again and placed a hand on the barely moving chest. “Wake up, Father, please…” he pleaded, swallowing tears that he did not wish others to witness. “I’m – I’m not ready to protect Gondor like you said I should…”

And when the little prince’s quiet tears finally flowed, his mother had to harden her own heart and comfort him with soothing words to allay his fear.

Arwen’s own words to Aragorn were few, for no tongue could fully articulate the depth of her fear and grief over the uncertain fate of the one man who held her heart and life. She ran her fingers lovingly over the high forehead; the soft, closed eyelids; and the aristocratic nose she knew so well. Gently, she touched the regal cheekbones and the sensitive mouth that marked the firm ruler or the smiling husband and father. She hurt from the keenness of the love she felt for Aragorn, and the unshakable strength of the bond she shared with him overrode all need for speech. Everything she wished to say was spoken through the lingering kiss she placed upon his pale lips and the simple plea she whispered into his ear: “Come back to me, Estel. You are my love, my life, my world.”

As she emerged from the carriage, Merry and Pippin bowed silently to her, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, before they went in to sit with Aragorn on the journey to the Paths.

Legolas, who had said very little since leaving the healing rooms, was last of the group to speak with Arwen. As he approached the elleth and took her hands, his blue eyes were rimmed with moisture, but he looked steadily at the fair, pale face of Aragorn’s queen.

“Fare thee well while we are away, Undòmiel,” he said quietly. “We will bring him back.” Or die trying, he thought.

With a final nod to Arwen and Faramir and a warm embrace for the young prince, Legolas mounted the horse Aragorn had gifted to him and joined the small group of riders. Silence reigned over all, and the hearts of those who were leaving were as laden with the weight of care as those who were condemned to wait.

Legolas, Elrohir and their companions, and the unmoving body of the King of Gondor, departed under a clouded sky that covered them in a blanket of gloom.

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The same grey roof hung over the land of Gondor a day and a half’s ride away, where three riders were also racing against Time.

Gimli’s anxiety was deepening, for the elf behind him had not responded to his query.

“Elladan? I asked you if there is nothing we can do for Aragorn?” the dwarf repeated his question loudly, wondering if it had been lost in the rush of the wind against their ears. “Did you hear me, Elf? Say something!”

Elladan spoke then, and his voice held a note of surprise. “I heard you, Gimli,” he said. “But I was wondering why you asked.”

“What do you mean?” the dwarf asked, turning his head as far as he could.

“I thought you already knew.”

“Knew what?”

Elladan’s voice was heavy; yet, his next words lifted Gimli’s spirits higher than they had been since they left Orthanc. “That there is a clue as to what may be done,” he said.

“A clue?” Gimli asked, the sound of the last word coming out like a whistle. “There was a clue?”

“Yes, Gimli,” Elladan answered. “I wondered why you did not know, but then I recalled that it was because you stopped Lord Celeborn before he could tell you the final lines of the spell.”

The dwarf felt his heart arrest for a moment. “What final lines?” he asked in surprise, wishing he could turn around fully. “There were more?”

“Two more,” said the elf. “And therein lies some small hope for Estel – or so we pray.”

The dwarf sputtered. “Well then – out with it! Tell me what they are!” he said eagerly. He fought against the sound of the whipping wind to hear what Elladan had to say.

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

Hope may have kindled in the heart of the Dwarf, but it was a forgotten notion for the one condemned to the Shadow Realm, despite the name he had been given.

It was only one of the things Estel was beginning to lose to the Tide of Darkness.

Note: 

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