The Strangers in Middle Earth
I own nothing but my OC's
AN: I am so sorry this chapter took so long to get out but uni work did take up a lot of time. The next chapters will be out much sooner as a way of saying sorry, I'm putting out two chapters today, the next chapter will be up in about an hour.
Chapter Twenty
An Ordained Reign
The Paths of the Dead were a grim place, that much Father Harold quickly realised, and he wanted to leave but at the same time he knew that his destiny was leading him along that bleak, horrid road. He had spoken with Aragorn a lot on this journey and, as he had not spoken with him much since arriving in Middle Earth, he had discovered that he liked the man.
'You are sure we can find an army in these hills?' he asked Aragorn.
'There is an army here,' he told him. 'Long ago, the men of these mountains swore an oath that when Gondor was in danger, they would stand with them. When Isildur, my ancestor, called to them for aid, they fled, they had been worshiping Sauron as a god.'
'Blasphemers and traitors,' Harold said venomously. 'But that was thousands of years ago.'
'The crimes they committed did not go unpunished,' Aragorn explained sombrely.
'Both a punishment and a chance for forgiveness,' Legolas went on.
'Isildur cursed them,' Elladan, one of the Elves who had come from the north the with rest of the Grey Company, explained. 'They would never find rest until the heir of he who cursed them came forth to demand they fulfil their oath.'
The three Elves of the company shared a look and as one they began to recite the ancient prophecy made of these spectres.
Over the land there lies a long shadow, westward-reaching wings of darkness. The Tower trembles; to the tomb of kings doom approaches. The Dead awaken, for the hour is come for the Oathbreaker. Who shall call them from the grey twilight, the forgotten people? The heir of him to whom the oath they swore. From the North shall he come. Need shall drive him. He shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.
Harold felt something chill him to his very bones, as if the dead had heard the words and let out a dreadful, chilling cheer that their chance for peace had come. Harold reached for his neck and gripped the silver cross there all the tighter.
'You believe you can summon them to fight?' Harold asked.
'Yes.'
'A horde of spectres, you believe they can be offered redemption by you?'
'I'll offer them peace if they do their duty at last.'
Harold of course doubted this. These men, if they had broken their oath, had damned themselves and no one aside from God could truly offer them redemption. At last they reached a doorway carved into a cliff side and over it were ancient runes which Harold did not know the meaning of.
'The way is shut,' Legolas read them. 'It is made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut.'
Everyone in the company looked at each other with nervousness, but they all turned to Aragorn, and his look of determination allowed new courage to spark to life within their hearts.
'It will be dangerous to ride through the mountain,' he said to them. 'Dismount and lead your horses. Should anyone wish to turn back, their honour will not be slighted.'
Harold and everyone else climbed off their horses, everyone ready for what awaited them in the mountain. Harold silently prayed and held tight his cross with one hand while leading his horse with the other. He reached into his saddle bag and from within drew a number of candles and handed them out to the other members of the company and they lit them, holding the candles in gloved hands, as the company plunged into darkness.
Their candles only granted them slight reprieve from the shadows, small shells of gold in the haunting place beneath the mountain. It was a dreadful place, in every chamber they passed they found piles of skeletons, and discarded mounds of rusted armour and broken weapons were scattered about. Not even vermin were welcome in that place, for no life at all could last there.
'We are being followed,' Legolas announced and Harold's eyes darted around the bleak halls. 'I see figures, soldiers and horses as if they were nought but mist. The dead have been summoned.'
Gripping his cross tight enough that his knuckles turned white, Harold continued into the mountain with the rest of the company. They then entered a wide corridor filled at around knee height with sickly, greenish smoke. As the company went through, the sound of snapping beneath their feet filled their ears, Harold having to swallow down his vomit, knowing what they were walking on. Long ghostly hands of the smoke reached out to them, desperately trying to touch something, but Harold held out his cross whenever an arm reached out for him. Each time he did so, one of the arms backed away from his while he carefully led his horse through the terrible place. Silently he muttered prayers for the dead and protection for the living.
Then the corridor opened into a wide chamber, before them, carved into the rock itself, was a great palace of stone with a long line of steps leading up to the doors. Harold could imagine it long ago, with the caverns lit up with tens of thousands of candles, and it would have been glorious rather than the mournful nightmare it was now. The whole company entered the cavern and stood there for a moment until a voice rung through the stagnant air.
'Who enters my domain?'
On the bottom step leading up to the palace, the green mist manifested and took a new form, that of a man with rotting skin and milky eyes, clad in a tattered red cloak and rusting armour, in his hand an old, notched sword and on his head a battle crown, cracked in places. The spectre of this king looked at the small company with a mixture of annoyance and a regret which was so deeply ingrained in him that it could never go away.
'One who would have you allegiance,' Aragorn answered the King of the Dead.
'The dead, do not suffer the living to pass.'
'You will suffer me.'
The King of the Dead laughed, mocking the company as the mist withdrew away from them, growing and changing until thousands of ghostly warriors stood around them, some knights on skeletal horses wearing once grand suits of armour, now dented and rusted and others dressed like peasant levies in tattered gambesons, all stood about them, waiting for the command.
'The way is shut,' the King of the Dead repeated the warning outside. 'It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut, now you must die.'
Their king began to advance, and all about them the legion of ghosts began to slowly march forward, weapons ready. Legolas shot an arrow at the King of the Dead, only for it to pass through him while the other members of the company drew their swords. Harold though, he was unarmed, and with horror he came to believe in that moment that he was about to die. Slowly, he knelt down and closed his eyes.
So, it ends here, he thought. Mother, father, Catherine my love, I will see you soon.
'I summon you to fulfil your oath,' Aragorn announced.
'None but the King of Gondor may command me.'
A ringing filled the air as steel clashed against steel and the ghostly shuffling of the dead's marched halted. Harold opened his eyes, a green, transparent spear inches from his face, and he looked to Aragorn who was now holding his sword, blocking the ghostly blade of the King of the Dead. It was impossible, an impossible scene yet it was happening before his eyes.
'That line was broken!' the ghost gasped in shock.
Aragorn grabbed the spectre by the throat, forcing him to his knees. The three Elves were smiling at Aragorn while all else looked at him with awe. Harold stood up, as surprised as everyone else there, watching this exchange.
'It has been remade,' Aragorn shoved the ghost back and held up his sword so all could see it. 'I am Isildur's heir. Fight for us and regain your honour. Gondor is threatened, now fulfil your oath and you will find peace at last! What say you? What say you?'
The silence was deafening as they waited for their decision, all knowing that the fate of Gondor may be decided in the next moment. The King of the Dead, with tired eyes now alight again, looked at his followers, all believing they were doomed to an eternity of suffering. He turned to Aragorn and his face took on a new quality, one it had not seen in thousands of years. Hope.
'We will fight.'
…
The King of the Dead led the company through the rest of the mountain and out of the other side. Harold was relieved to be in the clear air and beneath the open sky again. They emerged on a hillside where the only feature was a large spherical stone. There the King of Dead re-swore his oath to Aragorn, promising to fight and after that they rode across the countryside to Minas Tirith alongside the spectres, never stopping for a moment. They passed through an abandoned town called Calembel but did not stop, they kept riding through the night while Harold looked on at the spectres following Aragorn.
Of course he could barely believe what he was seeing, and could only hardly accept what Aragorn had promised them. Only God could truly grant absolution to sinners, that was just a fact. The strange army galloped on an on, Harold sleeping for brief moments as they rode but was constantly being awoken by the toils of travel, and once by the screams in terror from a passing traveller.
Finally they reached the coast and kept going until they at last reached the city of Pelargir. From his position on the coast near Pelargir, Father Harold sat on his horse and watched as a great fleet of black ships sailed towards the city. The decks of the ships were filled with heavily armed sailors and marines while from the prow of each ship hanged the body of a man dressed in armour with a tree emblem upon each breastplate.
'Scum the lot of those pirates,' cursed Gimli.
Harold looked towards the city and, though his eyes had started to fail him slightly by that time, he could see a lot of men manning the city walls and a lot of movement in their port. If these ghosts failed them, then the men of the city would decide the fate of the day.
'This land is Gondor's!' Aragorn proclaimed to the men of Umbar and held aloft his sword. 'Release the captives you have taken and turn back to the city of the Corsairs.'
The admiral in command of course laughed at him.
'Not a chance! There's a pretty lass we captured in our last raid and I plan on having her tonight!'
As the thugs men laughed and cheered, Harold felt pity leave him, knowing these pirates deserved their fate.
'That does it!' Gimli roared and waved his axe at the enemy. 'Prepare to be boarded!'
'You and whose army?' they mocked him.
'This army,' Aragorn answered and pointed his sword towards the fleet.
After that the ghosts emerged from beneath the waves and swallowed up the Corsairs. The slaughter didn't last long, but in moments, before them were nought but ghost ships. Members of the Grey Company swam out to the ships to man them and deal with any captives on board and men from Pelargir in boats approached nervously eyeing the host of the dead which appeared on dry land again, looking at Aragorn.
'We did as you asked,' the King told Aragorn. 'Release us.'
'Should we do it?' asked Gimli. 'We might need them again.'
'You gave us your word!' the King shouted.
'I hold your oats fulfilled,' Aragorn told them. 'Go and be at peace.'
As the wind blew, the army of the dead faded out of sight, finally finding the rest they had so long dreamed of. Father Harold looked at Aragorn now, differently than before. He had granted peace to those souls. What more evidence did he need that this was no mere man descended from a king, but one whose reign was proclaimed by the Almighty. Harold knelt before Aragorn.
'Your Majesty,' he said to him. 'I pledge you my loyalty.'
'Please rise, Father Harold. We will have time for that later, but for now it is against us.'
'Or maybe Estel is just shy,' joked one of the sons of Elrond.
Aragorn took the remark in stride as he remounted his horse and rode towards the city with the Elven brothers, Legolas, Gimli and Father Harold. The rest of the Grey Company were dealing with the Corsair ships. As they approached the city, a party of riders emerged from the gates, coming towards them. The two parties stopped before each other and the leader from the city spoke first.
'I am Corinir, Lord of Pelargir,' he said to them. 'I thank you, whoever you are, for bringing that host to our aid.'
'It was an honour to relieve the city, Lord Corinir. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur.'
At this revelation, most of the party from the city gasped in shock.
'You have proof?' Corinir asked him.
'Only the heir of Isildur could summon the Dead Men of Dunharrow, and here,' he drew his sword and held it aloft, 'before you are the Shards of Narsil, the blade that was once broken made again.'
'Then, welcome to Pelargir, my king,' Corinir bowed.
'I do not have long to enjoy the hospitality of your city, my lord, for a great darkness marches of Minas Tirith. How many men do you have?'
'Three thousand in the city,' he answered. 'Another six thousand are encamped nearby, preparing to aid us, they can be here by the end of the day.'
'I have need of them all. Load your men in the city onto the black ships, we'll use them to get to Minas Tirith.'
'Of course sire. It will take at least two hours.'
'I need it done as quickly as possible. There's no time to lose.'
Upon entering the city, they found themselves amid organised chaos as men who had been expecting to defend their city found themselves boarding the ships of their enemies, ready to travel north to Minas Tirith. Corinir had already sent word to the soldiers near the city that they were to travel to the capital by road. Father Harold, not being a military man, stood at the edge of the dockyards on the steps to the customs house, simply watching the display. In addition to the soldiers were the many people of the city who, now they were safe, emerged from their homes to hand out food and gifts to the men. He saw many young women gifting men flowers or small trinkets, older men saying farewell to their sons, and young children embracing their fathers. It made him think of different times when he was a younger man, before he was priest. Another time, when he was a very different man. Aragorn had asked Harold to join him on the largest ship when it was time to leave, so there was little to do but wait. He did attract a few looks, mostly because word had spread that the Heir of Isildur had emerged and, as one of his companions, he was bound to get attention.
Eventually, he walked down to the docks where the ship he would board was waiting. Aragorn was at the boarding ramp, directing troops onto it. Lord Corinir was with him, helping to deal with the numbers of men they would be transporting.
'Father Harold,' Aragorn said to him. 'If you wish to take rest here I will not be offended.'
'My king, the journey has been long but I will not fail in the eyes of God by leaving you now. In God's name I will follow you.'
…
I swung my sword down again and killed another Orc. Alaric's blade was coated in an ugly mix of red, brown and black blood from the enemies I had slain, and still there was no sign of the battle ending. Everywhere I looked I could just see the men of Rohan fighting for their lives, and as I galloped up to a slight rise in the ground, I looked towards the docks, and the leading three ships had already come close to the shore and ramps had dropped over the sides, men ready to begin pouring out of them and into the battle.
Commanding my horse to charge again, I, Marcus and the rest of our noble company closed in on a group of Orcs being pursued by fifty men of Rohan. We made short work of them. Everywhere I looked, thousands of our riders fought against the armies of Mordor, swirling formations of horses charging through hastily organised lines of Orcs, but everywhere we won a fight, another of our men were pulled from their horses and cut to ribbons.
I looked for the commander of this company of Rohirrim and I was glad to recognise Cerdic leading them, Cenric at his side.
'I'm glad to see you're alright,' Cerdic said to me and then looked at Robert, leading us. 'Lord Robert, I see a company of Orcs forming nearby. Will you aid in me in striking down these brigands?'
'I'd be happy to,' he answered and held up his sword, looking at us. 'For God!'
'For God!'
Our group charged the said company in moments we crushed it but there were still more of the enemy, they were everywhere.
'We can't win this battle by striking down the odd group of Orcs,' Robert told Cerdic and he pointed his sword towards the city where tens of thousands of Orcs still stood, waiting for battle. 'We break to the city!'
'Agreed!' Cerdic shouted. 'To the city men! Forth Eorlingas!'
Many of the other companies we passed as we made our charge joined us and we became a mighty force, thundering again into the lines of Mordor. Mounted bowmen from Rohan amongst our number shot at our foes as they galloped at full speed, once again amazing me at the skill of the men of Rohan. Just before we collided with the armies of Mordor, horns were blown from the city and a ripple started through Mordor's lines. From the gateway, over the heads of the Orcs, I saw many standards emerge and men atop horses charged out and into our foes. We attacked our enemies with all our fury, knowing God was on our side, we fought, we slashed with our swords and skewered with our lances, before our mighty charge the Orcs fell dead, but they still stood against us. Then something changed in the course of battle, and the Orcs began to flee from us.
At last I realised why. The black ships hadn't come with more enemies, but allies from the south of Gondor. Charging forth from the harbour came thousands of men marching under the banner of Aragorn and from the city a great host of riders led by Gandalf and another tall man I did not know yet. The tide turned and the Orcs and men loyal to Sauron fled before us, being driven off of the fields of Pelennor and back to Osgiliath where they kept running as fast as they could.
We had won the battle. The day was ours.
