CHAPTER 26: REACHING FOR HOPE

Aragorn had never felt such fear.

He did not know what had happened, and he did not know where he was.

Where there had been a rush of swirling darkness sweeping him along in a wild surge, he was thrown suddenly into a still, dense darkness.

But it was a stillness that brought no reprieve, for the deep, stifling black was as pervasive as before. The Shadow crept over every part of him with its cold, icy fingers, choking him. Desperately, he tried to draw in breath, but there was a tightness in his throat. He could not breathe… he was not breathing… yet he did not die.

Fear exploded within him, and he tried to gasp. Whither he turned, it was all the same, and whether he had his eyes shuttered or open, he could no longer tell. He reached out, clawing at everything, anything – but still he found nothing. 

Then there was pain, burning and stinging pain – but no, it was the cold. Was it the cold? He did not know; he no longer knew.

He tried to heave another breath, but one does not breathe in the realm of the Shadow.

He tried to run, yet he went nowhere, for there was nowhere to go.

He plunged helplessly into sheer, utter terror, and into total despair.

Where was everyone? Arwen? Legolas? His brothers? His friends? Where were they?

He called for them – screaming with all the strength he had, calling out to anyone. Over and over and over he cried. But no one was there. No one he could see or sense. No one who could hear him.

No one.

He was alone.

Dreadfully, and frighteningly, alone.

He crumbled then, and something within him – something that was once whole and strong – broke.

And this once brave man now wept, bowing fearful and helpless before the Shadow that held him prisoner.

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Where Aragorn’s spirit now abided, it did not know, for in the Shadow Realm, one knows naught, save that it exists in misery.

Nor could it have known that in the world of the living, his physical form was being borne on a swift and urgent journey to that same prison of stone.

For Legolas and Aragorn, it was a retrace of their earlier flight from the Paths of the Dead, but this return journey went the faster, for – despite having to skirt the larger towns and prying eyes within – they could now travel along the open road much of the way, having no longer any Shadow Host that compelled them to avoid the human settlements they passed.

Yet the absence of the Host meant little to Legolas, and his heart was heavier than it had been on their previous journey. No matter how dark the days and nights had been before, and however cumbersome the ever-present Dead, he and Aragorn had been together, and their mere presence had lent each other strength in the face of any test. Now – as painful as it was for the elf to accept it – Aragorn was lost, just as his own dark dream had foretold, and though the Dead had directed them to return to the Paths, they had not instructed him in the means to bring his friend back.

Yet, even as hope was seeping away, Aragorn’s companions would not let it go. Alone he might have been in the Shadow Realm, but in the world of the living, they never left his side in the carriage, sitting with him in turn and talking to him, even though no word they received in reply. He lay in muteness cold and sad, but they would not let themselves fall into the same chasm of despair, for ever on their minds was the thought that he needed them.

And so on they sped, riders and steeds and carriage, driven by determination and fueled by loyalty to Aragorn. They stopped only for the briefest of breaks as the miles and hours flew by. Aside from the hobbits, the rest of the company were grim and silent with worry, nursing some minute shred of hope that the voice of Merry or Pippin would call to them from the carriage with the news that the King had roused from his dark sleep. But no sound came to assuage their distress, and all that filled their ears were the hard thuds of racing hooves and the sometimes whirring, sometimes jolting rattle of wheels upon stony ground.

Close to the end of the day, they had covered a third of the Lebennin Plains and neared the River Sirith. Having ridden almost ceaselessly since they left the City, the exhausted riders – and two hungry hobbits – stopped for the night and their first hot meal of the day, even if it was meager.

Stroking Amel’s long neck while the horse drank from a stream, Legolas watched Merry and Pippin from a discreet distance and heard their dialog as they set upon their food with relish.

“I didn’t think half-dry bread and bacon could taste this good!’ Merry remarked, licking his lips. “Or it may be that my rumbling stomach knows no better.”

“What? This is horrible, Merry!” Pippin countered glumly. “I mean – the taste is nothing to grumble about – but it’s hardly enough for a second breakfast or elevenses – and this is supposed to pass for dinner!”

“Hush, Pip!” Merry cautioned, frowning and looking around to see if anyone had heard his companion’s complaint, unaware that the sharp ears of an elf prince had caught every word. “I’d give an arm for some mushrooms and taters and roast beef and butter – not to mention a pint of ale – myself, but this is no time to be thinking of feasts, not when Strider’s… you know… how he is now!”

“I know, I know,” Pippin lamented. “But at this rate, I’ll be half the hobbit I was before I left the Shire!”

“Sam should have come then – he’s the one who needs to lose some of that pouch around his middle!” Merry quipped. “But no one’s having an easy time, Pip, so be thankful for what you have.”

Legolas could not help being amused at the hobbits’ dismay over what they felt to be meager provisions. He smiled in understanding, for his experience with the Shirefolk had taught him that going without food for many hours, or not having enough, was a sore trial for them. But so had it been for the whole company, he reflected; they had pushed themselves and their beasts beyond normal endurance all day.

Yet it seemed that even such haste was not enough. Legolas heard his name being called and turned around to see Elrohir striding towards him with a worried look. Knowing that the elf had been looking in on Aragorn, Legolas tensed at once, a question on the tip of his tongue.

“Estel is no worse,” Elrohir said before the elf prince could pose the query, “but only for the moment.” The fleeting relief Legolas felt vanished in an instant. “I have wet his lips to keep them from chapping, but without taking in food and water, he is certain to grow weaker – perhaps rapidly – if he does not wake,” the Imladris elf continued bluntly. “I will not cushion my warning, Legolas; we think we have been making good time on this journey, but if we do not increase the pace and find whatever aid we are supposed to find there for him, we may lose him.”

The words hit Legolas like a sledgehammer. “Lose him!” he echoed in alarm, his eyes darting towards the carriage. After a moment’s thought, his legs began taking him briskly towards the vehicle. “That cannot happen, Elrohir,” he said decisively, his blue eyes turning to ice. “If we need to move with even greater speed than we already have, then that is what we will do!”

“What do you have in mind, gwador?” Elrohir asked, keeping up with the prince’s long strides.

Legolas did not respond immediately. Upon reaching the carriage, he walked past the guard standing watch over it, and stepped inside. He sat beside the blanketed figure within and placed a hand on Aragorn’s chest. Then he turned to Elrohir at the door.

“I think this carriage has served its purpose,” he stated tersely. “At first light tomorrow, Aragorn will leave it and ride with us; wheels cannot surpass the swiftness of our horses.”

Elrohir paused a moment. “It is a long way still,” he noted.

“My arms will feel no ache,” Legolas countered with pursed lips, “no matter the distance.”

“We will bear him in turn,” said the other elf as he rested a tender look upon his brother. “I was merely afraid for his comfort – though I am aware that comfort is the least of his worries now.”

“It is,” Legolas agreed, though he drew the blanket gently up to Aragorn’s chin to keep him warm. At the sight of the ashen face, anger replaced the worry on his own. “If the Shadow Host were not yet dead or departed, I would take their lives myself for inflicting this fate upon Aragorn,” he said with passion.

“As would I,” Elrohir said. “What pity I had for them has left no trace in my heart when I see Estel thus.”

“What do we do when we reach the village, Elrohir?” Legolas asked the question he had pushed aside thus far for lack of an answer.

“Seek some clue to a solution on the Paths,” said the other elf. “And if we find none… we wait for Daerada.”

“Is there naught else we can do?” Legolas asked in exasperation. “We do not know when Faramir’s riders will reach Lord Celeborn, or when he will arrive at the village.”  

“I know not how else to proceed, Legolas,” came the frank reply.

“You agree then that he is the Old One the Dead pointed us to?” asked the prince. “My assumption may be in error. Could he have been speaking about Mathuil?”

Elrohir smiled wanly. “If truth be told, I think that the first mention of the Old One in Pelargir was pointing to Mathuil,” he replied. “I was absent then, but based on your and Estel’s accounts of all that took place, the Dead had not yet encountered Daerada in Pelargir.”

Legolas combed through his recollections of the events that took place in the town, and nodded. “That is true,” he concurred.

“But – again, if I have followed your account correctly – the Dead did see him on the Paths afterward as he puzzled over the runes,” Elrohir noted. “And if those runes contain the key to this whole mysterious fate that has befallen Estel, I believe the second mention of the Old One was meant to indicate Daerada.”

Legolas pondered on Elrohir’s argument. “Two Old Ones then?” he asked. “Mathuil is counted old among the living; and to the Dead… an immortal must be old indeed.”

Elrohir shrugged his slim shoulders. “It would seem so, for who knows how things are perceived in the shadow realm?” he said. “You and I would be old to them as well, I guess. But since we were told to ask the Old One, I cannot think of anyone else holding the key save Daerada. Do not forget, even the Lady charged Sam with bringing you the Lamp, and she sent a warning to the Lord as well. The Phial… Daerada… and perhaps you, Legolas… will play roles in freeing Estel from the curse. I cannot see otherwise.”

Legolas nodded slowly at that reasoning. “Perhaps the Dead had even been aware of Lord Celeborn’s intentions at Erech, when he spoke of seeking the meaning of the runes in Orthanc,” the elf mumbled. “They just held this knowledge from us.”

“Aye,” said Elrohir. “I believe that at the moment of his departure, one condemned soul tried to perform a final act of pity upon the man who had freed them – by pointing us to the Paths and Daerada’s reading of the runes.”

“Would that he had shown his… mercy… earlier,” Legolas said bitterly. “Now we can but hope that Lord Celeborn will come to us – to Aragorn – in time.”

The elves lapsed into a silence that grew bleaker with the descent of night, and if one had looked upon the face of the elf prince then, even in the feeble light of the flickering torch placed just outside the carriage, one would have seen the pain he did not bother to hide, for the thought that they might lose Aragorn was more than his heart could bear.

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In the darkness of that same night, trusted stable grooms in the City of the King brushed down the elvish horses of Lord Celeborn and Elladan, and kitchen staff hurriedly prepared light provisions for three travelers who would be leaving the City before dawn.

The Elf Lord of Lothlorien had reached the Great Gates of Minas Tirith close to sunset that day, having spurred their steeds on after receiving news of Aragorn’s plight from the messengers of Faramir. The company of three had been on their way back to the City when they met the Gondorians along the Great West Road near Calenhad.

“Alas that we did not know of this earlier!” Celeborn had lamented at their meeting. “Or we would have returned to the village Grimwythë straight away through the Pass at Erech, and await them there.”

“We may yet meet them upon the road,” said Gimli now as they finished a welcome but solemn meal with Faramir, Arwen and Eowen. “They cannot be more than half a day away.”

Faramir ran a hand through his hair, reminding them all of the King’s own similar behavior. “Still, there’s naught that can be done till you are all back on the Paths, is there?” he asked.

“Nay,” Elladan answered gravely. He noted how Arwen was listening quietly to every word exchanged, and wished that he could have spared his sister the ordeal. “Nay, we need to bring Estel back there. And then we shall see if… if the runes speak truly.”

Arwen pondered on the clue that had been left in the last two lines of the spell. “But… how exactly will it be done?” she asked her grandsire nervously, her long tapered fingers interlaced tightly to stem their trembling.

The elf lord covered her hands with his strong ones and looked into her wide, worried blue eyes that were meltingly beautiful even glistening with unshed tears. “Let us not speak of that now, child,” he said gently. “Just hold to the knowledge that we will do whatever it takes to bring him back to you and your little ones.”

Before his granddaughter could press him further, Celeborn stood and excused himself as Elladan and Gimli followed his lead. Tonight, the exhausted group would take some much needed rest in the rooms of the Citadel, for they would have to wake even before the sun to take to the road again.

And as she had done every moment since Aragorn was taken from the City and her side, the Queen of Gondor thought about the man who lay in deep, dangerous sleep far away from her.

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Sleep had claimed Legolas for only a few brief hours before the elf roused again. Slowly, he sat up from his prone position and blinked away the remnants of his reverie.

The little camp around him was still and quiet, with only the soft snicker of horses punctuating the night and a lone guard awake and seated at the door of the carriage where his King lay. The hobbits were fast asleep in rolled blankets near the fire, and even Elrohir had given in to his weariness, lying next to them.

Rising, Legolas began to walk towards the carriage where his thoughts constantly lay. The distant cry of a whip-o-will in some stray flight above caught his attention, and he stopped in his tracks. He tilted his fair face to the dark skies, feasting his eyes upon the twinkling lights sprinkled across the expanse, mute witnesses to the tales of life writing themselves into the history of the land below them. If they could speak, Legolas thought pensively, what would they say about the dramas unfolding before them? What would they remark about the tales of bravery and mirth, of triumph and tragedy, and of love and betrayal played out by all who lived in the World?  What would they say about what was happening to Aragorn now?

The elf’s eyes combed the sky, seeking one Lamp that never failed to bring him a glimmer of hope in the darkest of times. Finding it, his eyes rested on it, and a prayer left his lips.

“Aragorn needs all the Grace he can be given,” he whispered to the Star of Eärendil, though he was not quite certain to whom he was speaking. “Bring him out of the Shadows… let this not defeat him,” he said with a lump in his throat. “Let this not be his end.”

Then the glowing elf lowered his head and walked noiselessly across the dew-covered grass to stop before the figure guarding the carriage. “Take some rest,” he said kindly to the drowsy man huddled in a blanket. “I will watch him for the rest of the night.”

As the grateful Gondorian left to join his sleeping companions, Legolas stepped quietly into the carriage and lowered himself onto the seat next to Aragorn’s still form, taking care to minimize the noise as if his friend were only in nothing more than a quiet slumber. Carefully, he drew forth the Phial of the Lady from his tunic and let it illuminate the carriage and the prone figure.

At first, he simply gazed upon the pale, lifeless face he loved so well, his heart softening at the sight of the scars the man had procured upon the cruel mountain face in the Dark Land. As stray strands of dark hair fell across the closed eyes in the wavering shadows, the elf swept them back gently, even now unwilling to let any of the kingly features be hidden from his sight. Then, swallowing his fear, he bent his head close to that of Aragorn’s so that he could speak softly into the man’s ear, assuring him that he was not alone.

“I am here again, my friend,” he whispered. “Though you walk in shadow, be of brave heart, for we are all around you.”

Legolas knew that Merry and Pippin had not ceased to talk to Aragorn about daily goings-on, as if they were having an ordinary conversation with him. But he found himself unable to feign such casualness, and did not attempt it. He searched his heart for the right words to say to one in whose company even silence held a shared meaning. And he found none.

For long moments, the prince remained mute. All his speech lay in the grasp of one cold, lifeless hand in his own warm ones, and all that filled his ears were the sounds of the night and his own breathing.

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Hard and cold… all around Aragorn, it was hard and cold.

Misery was his constant companion – the one thing that would not leave him. Everyone else was nowhere to be seen, or heard, or felt.

Long ago, it seemed to him, he had heard the weeping of a fair and beautiful lady, and the frightened voice of a child… Even such sad sounds would have been welcome, but they, too, had gone.

And all about him there was only a dead stillness.

A dead silence.  

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Then, gently breaking the hush in the carriage came a fair sound, stealing subtly into the scene like a quiet sigh.

Clear and silvery was its quality as from the lips of the elven prince came a slow song: a soothing, beauteous melody woven with words from the well-springs of the heart.

How he began, Legolas did not know, but as he looked upon his friend and wondered on what dark paths Aragorn’s soul now walked, the elf found himself singing of the creation of Eä, and the waking of the stars, of the fiery chariot of Anor and the first trail of golden sunbeams it left across skies of blue. His words painted colors that grew bright and did not fade. He sang of winds fresh and waters cool before the World was ever sullied, of new springs birthed from virgin snows to cleanse hurts and griefs, and of purity no foulness could taint.

It was a song of fairness in the midst of despair, born of a Firstborn’s need to believe in Hope and to instill it in one he loved. It spoke of light beyond darkness, for he wanted his friend to remember what all good people hold on to in any age: that in the face of an evil which seems too strong to bear, the Shadow is only a small and passing thing, and there is light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. 

Legolas sang from the depths of his soul, and softly for the ears of but one listener, yet his passion turned the very air in the carriage into supple threads of silky notes that wrapped softly around the still form of the King, and all who slept outside felt a haunting but oddly cleansing melancholy sweep through their dreams.  

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There came to Aragorn – he knew not from where – the sense of some smiling sorrow, parting the thick cloak of darkness and despair around him with the force of its gentleness.

Strangely, he felt fingers of comfort reach through to touch him, and solace wrapped around him like warm arms.

For a little while – he did not feel alone.  

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Holding onto Aragorn’s hand, Legolas breathed his song patiently into the ears of his pale, still friend. On and on he sang, pouring his hopes into his song, waiting for some slight sign of wakefulness from he who held part of his heart.

But no sign came.

Then, though the elf had fought long and hard against the fear he felt, his voice broke at last with quiet tears of anguish, tears that none would witness but a pair of unseeing eyes now shut against the living world.  

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In the Shadow realm, where nothing but darkness resides, Aragorn felt – for a few moments – a gentle river of tears wash over him, pouring on to him and through him.

Yet the river carried, if only for a precious instant, a comforting warmth that dispelled the cold. 

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Replacing Aragorn’s hand upon the lightly moving chest, Legolas felt the man’s slow heartbeat, and he bent to rest his forehead against his friend’s. “Return to us, Estel; leave me not in cruel grief,” he said brokenly against the cold skin. “But if you cannot find your way back, wait for me. I will seek a path to you.”

For the remainder of the night, Legolas sat with the prone figure inside the vehicle till the first signs of dawn streaked across the eastern sky. Then he left to wake the others, but he continued to sing to the man in spirit even when his voice had ceased.

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Yet the Shadow and the craft of Saruman was too strong, and they took hold of Aragorn again.

The brief consolation he had felt was all too quickly sucked from him by the tides of darkness – and once more, he began to forget even those voices he knew and held dear.

That alone frightened him more than the darkness did: that he could not remember those he loved, or how they looked, or how they sounded. With a wail, he struggled to hold on to the memory of them, grasping at it like some solid thing.

But it slipped away cruelly, and he saw it departing and growing distant, like a ship in the night that sees you not, nor hears your cries for help as you drown… but passes you by and is soon gone.  

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Lost in the Shadow Realm, Aragorn could not know that he was far from forgotten in the world of living.

Bent on getting the King as soon as possible to the Paths, and to add speed to their already hastened efforts, the company did as Legolas had suggested and abandoned the carriage at the camp site when the sun rose. They resumed their journey on swift, rested horses, unencumbered by the slower vehicle. 

Two of Aragorn’s guards placed Merry and Pippin before them, but Legolas and Elrohir bore Aragorn tirelessly in their arms in turn, grateful to their elvish steeds for not letting them fall even without being handled. Again, the leagues flew by with the wind in their hair, and another two more wearying days and nights passed that did little to raise their spirits. But on the fourth morning of their ride they arrived at an object Legolas never thought he would be thankful to see again: the Stone of Erech. Their first sight of the half-buried orb made the hobbits and Aragorn’s escort stare in uneasy awe, and Elrohir – like Elladan had been – was assailed by gloomy memories of the first time he had stopped at the Stone with Aragorn during the Quest.  

“Who would have thought that I would set eyes upon you again,” Elrohir said to the Stone from a distance, as if it were a living thing. “I suppose that in your own manner, you served Estel’s purpose during the War of the Ring, but do not now turn upon the heir of Isildur – and your rightful Master.”

Legolas looked upon the Stone grimly as well. “Here we are, Aragorn,” he said softly to the man in his arms, whose head was resting on his shoulder. “We are close now, mellon nin. We will be there soon.”

The sight of the grim reminder of their task drove the company on to the village that lay beyond, and as the sun shone overhead upon the very mountain Aragorn was to return to, the thatched roofs of Grimwythë loomed into sight. The village looked much as it had when Legolas had first encountered it, and at the elf prince’s bidding, the leader of Aragorn’s escort – who was one of the guards that had accompanied Aragorn on his previous visit – rode ahead with a missive from Faramir for the village Elders.

The return of the King to the village – and in his state of unconsciousness – roused the residents into a flurry of activity as they hurried to prepare a cottage for him and his company. The surprise of the residents – mingled with some fear – knew no bounds as word of the King’s condition flew from mouth to mouth, and their wonder grew even greater when Elrohir arrived and they were told that he was not his twin Elladan whom they had met before.

But their curiosity rose to new heights when their eyes fell upon the two hobbits, for here it seemed were creatures come to life that they had thought only existed in folk stories and old wives’ tales. Spinner the lore-master whom Legolas had met in Pelargir barely concealed his ecstasy at meeting Merry and Pippin despite the bizarre circumstances that had brought them here, and the children of the village – some of whom were taller than the hobbits – gawked at them in open disbelief and excitement.

“Whew, I don’t know whether to be flattered or bothered by all this attention!” Merry groaned under his breath as he looked out the cottage window at the obvious stares of the villagers – young and old alike. “I feel like a fire-bug on display in a bottle!”

Pippin stole a look at the women bustling about laying out bread and steaming stew on a table for the guests, and shrugged. “Well, if they feed these fire-bugs some much-needed food, I don’t mind!” he retorted good-naturedly. 

The attention of the majority of the villagers, however, was on their King and the strange fate that had left him hovering on the brink of death. Mathgor and his mother were immediately concerned, and offered their assistance, as did the village Elders.

“Will you be taking the King to the Paths right away, my lords?” Mathgor asked the elves after Aragorn had been settled in a room and his guards positioned outside the door.

Elrohir cast Legolas a quick glance before he answered. “Not immediately,” he said. “We will await Lord Celeborn here.”

“And I would wish to go ahead to the Paths and look around,” Legolas added. “We have only the word of the Twice Forgotten that he should be brought back there. Though there seemed no longer any reason for deceit on their part, who knows what dangers might lurk there still?” 

Elrohir nodded. “We will head there shortly,” he said.

“The King will be safe here in the meantime,” Hëmuth the Elder assured the elves. “Come, my lords, some refreshment before you leave would not be amiss. I believe your young friends are eager to partake of our modest spread.” He inclined his head in the direction of the hobbits, who were already hovering near the table. “We’ll see to your horses while you eat.”

The elves spoke briefly to their horses before reentering the cottage, and gratefully accepted food and drink, not giving a second thought to several pairs of eyes that followed their movements with disdain form a distance.

“Who’d have thought we’d see them elves again so soon?” Fierthwain muttered sourly to the men around him as he leaned lazily against a wooden fence and picked his teeth with a straw. “It’s an ill wind that blew them back here, and I’d just as soon it took them away again.”

His companions mumbled their agreement. “Hasn’t that whole rumpus about the Dead ended yet?” a short man with a rotund belly grunted, scratching his chin. “Strange folk, those, to be caught up in such goings-on!”

“Strange – and sly!” a pock-marked man commented. “All secretive-like, hiding in their magic forests. No good can come of mixing with the likes of them!”

“And that’s the consequence upon the King, I wager,” Fierthwain said, his beady eyes narrowing. “I saw him as they were bringing his body in –”

“Body!” his short companion gasped. “Is he dead?”

“Nah!” said another. “But practically cleaning his boots at death’s door, is what I hear.”

“Well, that should be no surprise, him befriending elves and all,” Fierthwain remarked, smirking. “Foolish is what I call it.”

“Hoy, best watch yer words,” his companion hissed in warning. “That’s His Royal Sire yer talking about!”

Fierthwain snorted derisively. “That doesn’t change things a bit,” he scoffed. “He’s still a victim of their dark spells, that’s what he is.”  

“And word has it they’ve been told – by those Dead, no less! – to bring his majesty back to the Paths – the very place where the ghost scum that cursed him lived for years beyond count!” the pock-marked man said mockingly. “A load of crock is what I think! Only elves would lay truth by such pig swill.”

“Or cook it up themselves,” Fierthwain added, raising some snickers. A hard glint entered his eyes as he straightened his posture. “They made a mistake coming back to a place where they’re not welcome. They may have had the King blind – even Mathgor and the others – but they can’t fool me. They’ll find no quarter here, they won’t!” With those words, he turned abruptly and walked away, leading the little group of men away from the sight of the cottage.

Legolas and Elrohir’s meal was a hurried one, during which they had decided that only the two of them need go to the Paths that day, much to the relief of the hobbits, though they would not express it openly. With or without the presence of the Dead, the Paths still sounded like a wholly unpleasant place to visit.

“But you’ll be all right, won’t you?” Pippin asked Legolas with genuine concern. “I mean, there’re no dead fellows to surprise you or anything, right?”

“I trust not, Pippin,” the elf replied with a small smile. “We should not be back some time tonight, perhaps after midnight; I simply wish to make sure that Aragorn will not come to any harm there.” Turning to Elrohir, the prince said something to him in Sindarin, at which the dark-haired elf shook his head.

“Even without the Dead, I cannot let you go there alone, Legolas,” Elrohir replied in the same musical tongue. “Estel will be safe here for the moment, with his men and the hobbits. I will come with you – and never mind the dread I felt before; it will perhaps be less without the ghosts of the Forgotten.”

Not wishing to spend time in argument, Legolas accepted Elrohir’s offer to accompany him, entrusting the welfare of the King to his guards and the village Elders. The elves paid a quick visit to Aragorn, speaking to him even if they could not know whether he heard them.

“The day will grow long soon, my friend, and the sooner we leave, the sooner we return to you,” Legolas said softly to the unresponsive figure, placing his hand lightly on Aragorn’s shoulder. He paused as he struggled with a thought that had crossed his mind, that even though Aragorn lay here, perhaps there in that mountain was where the fëa of the man was now imprisoned. And with his spiritual essence gone… how much longer would life remain in this body…?

Angrily, Legolas cast that fear aside; he could not let it incapacitate him. “Hold on, Aragorn, as you know you must,” he said firmly. “Wait for me.”

Then the elves went to their faithful steeds. Glumly, Merry and Pippin – along with a large group of villagers – watched the two tall figures ride away from the village towards a mountain with its dark history and even darker secret. Even with the Dead released, the tales of old could not be erased or ignored easily. The hobbits suppressed a shiver they could not help, and as the figures of their friends grew smaller, they followed the villagers back to what cheer they could find in their homes.

Guided by his memory, Legolas swiftly led a nervous but determined Elrohir across the Vale and along the ravine back to the mountain. The elf prince smiled wryly as he realized how the place would continue to be known as the Paths of the Dead even without its ghostly inhabitants.

Unhindered by Men who would have been slower on the ascent up the ravine, it did not take overly long for the light-footed elves and their horses to complete the route that was now familiar to Legolas and Amel. By twilight, they had come through the mists and reached the southern entrance to the Paths. As before, Legolas advised leaving their horses outside while they reentered the dark mountain recess.

Proceeding slowly by the light of a weak torch and Galadriel’s Glass – for which a nervous Elrohir could not stop thanking his grandmother – they followed the Paths back to the main cavern. The passageways did not seem so filled with the aura of death as they had before, Legolas noted, but haunting memories of treachery still hung in the air in this larger space. The elf wondered how long dread would cling to the walls of this unfortunate mountain tomb… then he realized that malice would dwell here as long as the curse still held Aragorn prisoner.

That thought quickened their pace, and they eventually reached the Door where the ancestor of Mathuil and Mathgor lay in mute vigil. While Elrohir stood before the bony figure in silence, recollecting his journey here with Aragorn during the Quest, Legolas walked around the cavern and scrutinized it, looking for both signs of a hidden threat and a possible solution to Aragorn’s predicament.

The elf prince found nothing suspicious that would endanger Aragorn when they brought him here, but neither did he come upon any solution. They would have to wait for the elf lord after all, he decided. Sighing, he returned to where Elrohir was waiting before the Door, and joined the dark-haired elf in silent contemplation before it.

A strange feeling touched the elf prince as he fixed unblinking blue eyes upon the Holding Gate. Holding the Phial in one hand, he reached out with the other and slowly ran his long fingers over the stone surface. A thought pushed at the edges of his mind, begging to be heard.

“Are you here, Aragorn?” he voiced it in the slightest of whispers, even as he wondered if he sounded foolish. “Are you waiting for us beyond this Door?” 

As soon as the question left his lips, Legolas felt a deep sadness and heaviness of heart. Cold was the stone of the Holding Gate, but beneath his fingers, it seemed to have a presence, and beyond it – an ebbing life.

A chill ran through the elf then, and he gasped, for at that moment, he knew – or felt he knew – that Aragorn was indeed here; the friend he loved was trapped in the prison of stone that Saruman and Häthel had so cruelly created and used.

Without thinking, his fingers began to claw at the seamless outline of the Holding Gate, seeking to unlock it – repeating the futile act of Mathuil’s skeletal ancestor lying at his feet.

“He is here!” the elf prince said in a half-sob as he pounded angrily on the stone, bruising his knuckles. In that painful moment, Legolas understood how desperately the dead man must have tried to release his kin, for the tormented elf felt he would tear the Gate down with his bare hands if he could. “Oh, Valar, his spirit is here, Elrohir, waiting for us – and we have to free him!”

An astonished Elrohir joined him at first, seeking any crack or opening they could pry, but even as he did so, he knew there would be none. Forcing down his own dejection, he gripped Legolas’ arm with one hand to halt the prince’s vain efforts, while placing the other comforting hand on his companion’s shoulder.

“That is enough, Legolas; come away,” he said in a sympathetic tone that reflected his own distress. “I sense it too, but what you do cannot open the Door. Come away!”

With a hiss, Legolas struck the Door a final time with his fist, scraping more skin off his knuckles, before he allowed Elrohir to distance him from the unyielding stone. As he hung his head in frustration, Elrohir kept a consoling arm about him.

“Sidh, Legolas, hurt yourself no further,” the dark-haired elf said soothingly. “Peace, gwador. Without knowledge of how to proceed from here, we would do best by waiting for Daerada…and pray that he does hold the key.”

Trembling with rage and a deep sense of helplessness, Legolas forced himself to acknowledge the wisdom of Elrohir’s counsel and swallow his grief. He ran a bleeding hand over his closed eyes and exhaled deeply. “Iston,” he said hoarsely. “I know… I know.”

When the elf prince had quieted, Elrohir sighed and hung his head. “Ai, Estel!” he lamented, feeling tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. “May the Valar have mercy and show us what needs to be done!” 

The two elves stood in silent anguish before the Holding Gate a while longer, thinking about Aragorn who was in all likelihood alone and forlorn in a hostile darkness, and feeling deeply reluctant to leave him.

Raising the Phial higher, Legolas looked up at where he knew the runes would be written, and pleaded in his heart for the answer to lie there and to be revealed to them by Lord Celeborn. Then he blinked away the moisture from his long lashes and closed his eyes as he placed a hand on the Door again.

Estel, he called voicelessly. Estel… if you are behind this Gate, hear me…

The elf paused and clenched his teeth in resolve. I will not forsake you, most loved of friends. I have promised that wherever you are, I will find my way to you.

He opened his eyes and gave the Door a last look. Wait for me, I will come, he vowed.  

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In the prison of stone where Aragorn existed in a meaningless dark, a glimmer of some forgotten thing – some welcome thing – flared in him, and for a fleeting instant, he felt… remembered. And into his endless pool of deep misery, there fell a drop of something clear and light.

Was it hope?

He could not tell, for all too soon, it, too, had gone; it deserted him and passed from him like the fading footsteps of someone he had once known.

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Legolas tore himself away from the Holding Gate, and with Elrohir quickly retraced their steps to the exit of the Paths. They had tarried overly long, night had long fallen, and they were keen to return to Aragorn’s physical form and plan their next step.

As they neared the mouth of the Paths, a sudden sense of unease came upon them. But ascribing it to the gloom that had surrounded them on the Paths, and being eager to start on their return journey, they quelled their disquiet and walked out – to be greeted by a rude shock.

Gone were their horses where they had been left to await their riders.

Instead, the elves found waiting for them Fierthwain and seven other men with arrows pointed with unwavering menace straight at their hearts.

Note:  

I continue to battle the challenge of finding time to write these chapters.

But know that this story and LOTR is where my heart lies, and I will post again as soon as I can if you will overlook the lack of refinement in the writing and point out typos to me.  

As usual, hugs to all who sent in support.