Note:
Aragorn and Eowyn head out in search of the Dead Men of the Dimholt.
It's funny that while the last section to an absolute age to write – this one came out in like 15 minutes! Result!
Aragorn and Eowyn left Dunharrow before dawn, their spirits heavy and their mounts unsteady. Above the cragged summits of the White Mountains, the sky was just beginning to pale, although it would be some hours until the sun peaked his crown over the horizon. In silence they rode, Aragorn in the lead, through the narrow, winding gulleys, into the Dimholt, a natural amphitheatre carved into the rocks. They were surrounded on all sides by serrated shards of stone, their peaks jagged as if hewn apart by the hands of mighty giants.
"What kind of army dwells in such a forsaken place?" asked Eowyn, her voice quiet for fear of causing offence to whatever unknown presence made the air feel so close.
"Long ago, the Men of the Mountain swore an oath to the last King of Gondor, to come to his aide, to fight. But when the time came, when Gondor's need was dire, they fled, vanishing into the darkness of the mountain," said Aragorn, pausing as his horse brayed at some unseen nuisance and stroking comfortingly behind the creature's ear. "And so Isildur cursed them, never to rest, until they had fulfilled their pledge."
Eowyn's own horse bristled with each step, pulling against the reins as if hoping to turn back. As a lady of Rohan, Eowyn knew of the wisdom of horses, knew that they understood things that humans were too stubborn or pre-occupied to note. She interpreted her horse's discomfort as a warning, adding to her own unease and testing her resolve to continue. But she couldn't turn back now. All she'd ever wanted in life was the chance to prove herself useful, to prove that she was capable of more than the lowly expectations that people had of her. This was her chance to test her mettle.
A double row of standing stones marked the ancient roadway that led east towards the Dwimorberg, the haunted mountain, and the Paths of the Dead. They meandered along the twisting path for many hours until the sun was at its peak. Even at the height of midday, no heat seemed to reach them, the warmth of the sun stolen away by the ashen fingers of ragged rock. When they at last reached the foothills of the Dwimorberg, they entered a wood of dark fir-trees and the horses grew so unsettled that they had to abandon them and continue on foot. As Eowyn watched her beloved steed hurry back to the safety of camp, she felt a tiny twinge of jealousy.
Beyond the wood of black trees they at last reached the Dark Door of The Dead, its lintel carved with crude symbols of some forgotten language. Aragorn turned to her before they entered, looked at her meaningfully, as if giving her one final chance to turn back. With a haughtiness to rival any elf's, Eowyn walked passed Aragorn, head drawn high, and into the mountain.
The ceiling of the cave was low and Aragorn had to stoop to proceed. A fine mist shrouded the floor and the ancient walls were scarred and pitted, as if desperate hands had clawed upon them in a vain attempt to dig to the surface. Eowyn thought that she could see shapes among the swirling mists at her feet – unfurling banners, clashing swords, a grovelling hand – but she pushed the thought aside as merely a cruel trick of her imagination.
At the end of a twisting walkway, they emerged into a great chamber, wide and domed. In one wall the façade of a great building, a heathen temple or palace perhaps, was carved into the rock face, so large as to appear almost noble.
"Who enters this domain?" rasped a voice, both loud and soft at the same time, seemingly coming from all directions.
"One who will have your allegiance," replied Aragorn, projecting into the darkness with remarkable composure.
"The Dead do not suffer the living to pass," came the voice once more, the sound convalescing before their eyes into a shadowy figure of a sickly hue, tarnished circlet upon his head. He laughed, and the sound echoed off the chamber's walls until it became transfigured into something strangely mournful, almost like a funeral song. As if summoned by the mirthless laughter, more ghostly figures appeared, their forms shifting and blurring as if being constantly tugged between this world and the next.
"The way is shut," continued the crowned figure, "only the dead may travel it."
"I summon you to fulfill your oath," announced Aragorn.
"None but the King of Gondor can command me," replied the apparition, lifting his unearthly weapon and swinging it down with the intention of cleaving Aragorn in two. But Aragorn merely lifted his own sword, easily deflecting the blow to the obvious surprise of the spectral figure.
"That line was broken," he sputtered between formless lips.
"It has been remade," replied Aragorn, holding his sword aloft for all the assembled Dead to see. "Fight for us," he continued, voice booming to fill the cavernous chamber, "and regain your honour. What say you?"
His words were met with only silence. "What say you?!" he repeated, with even more force behind his words.
The laughter rose again from the crowned man, this time joined by the rest of the phantom army. The sound made Eowyn's skin crawl, this joyless mockery of laughter. A lesser man would have been cowed by the cruel, keening sound, but Aragorn merely stood his ground, determined confidence etched in every line of his face.
When the laugher had finally subsided, the sallow figure leaned in close, peered intently into Aragorn's face and announced with a sneer, "we fight!"