Chapter 3

-o0o-

The sky was slow to lighten. The heavy clouds overhead still came in from the east, blocking the first glow of the rising sun and the pink hues of the coming morning that they might have seen otherwise. Imladris, too, lay in a deep westward-facing cleft in the foothills of the mountains, a long valley cut by the Bruinen long ago. Yet despite the equally late mornings back home, there was never this sense of darkness to the Hidden Valley.

Elladan found himself longing for home with sudden fervor. Longing for the light, the song that would fill the air, for the certainty that a place remained in this world that was not tainted by evil. He had gotten close to forgetting that yesterday. With the silence of night slowly passing as he sat watching over his sleeping brothers, he could admit at least that much to himself. No wonder Elrohir had snapped at him, he had been a stubborn, reckless fool.

He allowed himself a small smile, knowing that, were he awake, Elrohir would tell him he always was a fool, that he had merely been particularly challenging the day before. The athelas had done much to lift the clawing feeling of suffocating despair that had doused all their spirits, and Elladan reached out to crumble a few more of the precious dry leaves they had into the pot with still warm water. It was more than a precaution or a desire to smell the fresh draft of a playful spring wind ghosting over meadows in the west; They would need to be able to withstand the lingering evil of this place better today. They would enter into the very heart of the Nazgûls' power, into their stronghold, their domain.

His gaze turned back to the sleeping figure of his twin, still tossing restlessly as he followed a path of dreams that he had not chosen himself. Through their bond Elladan could feel the despair that was dragging at him, stalking him on the shadowy paths that should bring nothing but peace to his younger brother. Once more Elladan wondered whether it was wise to go ahead with their infiltration of Minas Morgul after the ordeals of the last weeks. His side still stung with remembered pain of the Morgul blade the Nazgûl had stabbed him with at the coast of the river Harnen, and Elrohir still very clearly bore the scars of his encounter with the palantir in Minas Tirith.

Aragorn looked little better. For all that he had evaded greater injury so far, the darkness was looking for him specifically. He might yet be the one most at risk this close to the power of Sauron and his followers. And Aragorn, too, slept badly, tossing his head from side to side amid muttered whispers. Elladan had heard his sister's name fall from his lips amid heart rendering sobs and he shuddered at the implication of what Aragorn might be seeing, of what demons he was facing in his dream. Idly, Elladan wondered if they were worse or lesser than the wraiths that he and his brothers would actively be seeking out once daylight returned.

His own dreams had been dark, and he had seen the concern in Elrohir's eyes when his twin had woken him for his part of the watch, but he felt rested and was strangely grateful that it had been only dreams that had haunted him. He had half expected – half dreaded – another onset of visions. Another appearance of the cursed warnings that were invariably too late, too unspecific or too hard to interpret to be of true use.

Refusing to let his thoughts wander down that old trodden path of bitter resentment, he looked instead west, down the length of the vale and towards the lightening sky. Back there Ithilien still fought, beyond it, on the other side of the Anduin, Gondor still flourished and further still, the far lands on the other side of the Misty Mountains were green and peaceful. Evil was stirring there as well, of course. He remembered the reports of increased orc and troll activity that had worried Glorfindel before he and Elrohir had left on their mission to Minas Tirith – but between Imladris and the rangers most of the people in Arnor remained well protected and blissfully unaware of the darkness that broiled here in the southeast of Middle Earth.

A glimmer in the sky caught his attention and Elladan looked up. There, beneath the clouds that rolled westward over the Mountains of Shadow, just above the horizon, was Eärendil; the steady light a firm reminder that hope remained in this world and that his family had a history of prevailing in times of darkness, of holding the torch for others to follow.

"Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima!" Elladan whispered, finding renewed strength in the words and the bright light of the Silmaril that his grandfather sailed across the heavens, a message for all that the Valar were still watching, that hope was eternal.

He followed Vingilot's path along the horizon as the sky turned lighter, a pale gray followed by the first hints of blue, indicating a beautiful spring day in the lands to the west. It was time to awaken his brothers, to set out on their way towards Minas Morgul.

Beneath the clouds that hung so thickly overhead, their own day promised to be dark and miserable. And as if in mockery of his thoughts a light rain began to fall just as he bent to rouse Elrohir. Their day would be dark, miserable and wet.

They ate a rushed breakfast, eager to climb down to the hidden path before the stone would become slick with the falling rain and too wet to traverse safely. With their hoods raised they slunk from stone to stone, staying deep within the shadows cast by the cliff wall at their side. Unlike the day before they saw no birds flying overhead, no swarms of crebain rushing by, as if the birds, too, tried to avoid the rain. But there were orcs.

Shuffling, cursing in their dark speech as they walked through the cold rain along the slim path, the foul beasts were numerous. And they were watchful. Despite their obvious malcontent at being out in this weather, they still paid careful attention to every nook, every cranny of the boulder strewn path. They were hunting for them, him and his brothers. The beasts of the Morgul Vale knew that they were about.

Occasionally, unobserved, he and his brothers found spots where they could glimpse to the bottom of the valley and towards the main road, stretching next to the Morgulduin, leading to the lost city of Gondor that was now home to the Nazgûl. The street was well-traveled. Orcs and dark men from the South were heavy on the road, and unnumbered camps dotted the wasteland beyond the fields of poisonous flowers on either side of the city wall.

He exchanged a look with Elrohir at one of the view spots and found his own thoughts mirrored in his brother's gaze. There were far more soldiers here than they had expected. Many more than even their father had feared.

Had Sauron's might really grown this strong this quickly? Had they squandered in the safety of Imladris, trying to keep the orcs out of Arnor, busy with petty efforts to preserve the watchful peace while Sauron amassed his power unopposed in Mordor?

They had thought themselves secure, had considered Sauron's rout out of Dol Guldur a major victory, when really it seemed to have been little more than a diversion. A play of Sauron to keep their attention in the North, keep it on the growing shadow in Mirkwood, on the orcs in Gundabad. Sauron himself, it now seemed, had been rebuilding Mordor all along, amassing troops, preparing to strike. His Nazgûl had reigned over this valley for over nine hundred years - and they had not been idle.*

Aragorn came to look over the valley as well and his face was grim as he saw the numbers of orcs and Southrons, the number of watch fires and apparent training grounds.

"Gondor must be warned," he said. "War is much closer than Ecthelion realizes."

Elladan nodded. He looked back at their own path, up ahead it disappeared around a sharp bend, before swinging back around to come to a sheer and sudden end at the very wall of the city itself. The dull wall of Minas Morgul rose steep and foreboding from its high, rocky seat upon the black knees of the Ephel Dúath. The entire city and its gruesome tower shone with a sickly green light, a corpse-light that illuminated nothing - a dark warning of the witchery that they would find inside. The topmost level of the tower seemed to turn, to search the valley below as with a sightless gaze, the eyeless head of an undead monstrosity. The gloom over the valley was nothing compared with the unbridled fear that would await them there, the true force of the Nazgûls' weapon unleashed.

Elladan suppressed a shudder at the memory of the Nazgûls' wrath that he had faced twice already, both recently and long ago. As if in response the pain in his side flared, adding to his discomfort, taunting him with his own infirmity, his failure. He tried to ignore its call.

"Let us continue," he said to his brothers instead and led the way once more, until they came around the last twisting boulders and reached the wall of Minas Morgul. The path ended right at the base of the Morgul tower. Its base - a hundred feet across with ease, was made of the same smooth stone as the rest of the city, and the same sickly light seemed to shine from within it.

And there was a problem: the wall was entirely smooth. There was no secret doorway, and no outcroppings, no rifts, marked its surface, nothing that would provide a foot- or handhold. Minas Morgul's wall was as impenetrable as Orthanc.

"I don't understand, there is supposed to be a door here. The plans in Minas Tirith clearly showed it." Aragorn was saying. He ran his fingers over the smooth black surface but stood back quickly, shaking his head. There was no sign of an entrance.

Elladan, too, was lost for suggestions. After walking all this way, evading birds and beasts in the drizzling rain, this was not what he had expected. The path did not make sense. The back of his neck was crawling with unease as he gazed at the blank, black wall. He was uncomfortably aware that every second they spent here, puzzling over this riddle, left them dangerously exposed. Here there was no debris, no boulders, nothing to hide behind; And the orcs were still looking for them.

His mind was racing. Could they climb the walls of the mountains, like Elrohir had done in Minas Tirith? Or could they reach the lower path, the main road and use the front door?

The first option, he could discard quickly. He gazed at the cliff walls beside them, but the city wall eclipsed them easily. Unlike Minas Tirith, Minas Morgul was not nestled into the side of the rock, it rose from the valley's floor, its walls too far away from any outcroppings of the surrounding mountains to be overcome that way.

"The orcs we saw did not come from inside Minas Morgul." Aragorn was crouching at the side of the path, having followed the city wall until it and the path dropped steeply into another cliff, rapidly falling towards the valley floor. He was pointing at a series of ropes and ladders, interspersed with a few wooden stairs propped against crevices and spanning deep drops. "They come up from the valley."

Elladan chanced a look to follow his brother's directions - and his blood ran cold. "Aragorn," he hissed, "get back!" There was movement on the winding path of rope and wood, another orc patrol was on their way up - they were running out of time.

Elladan looked at the wall again, frantic now. There had to be something here, something they did not see. The path did not make sense without a door, and the old maps had indicated its existence. If the ringwraiths had sealed it, that too should be visible. The ancient smooth stone of the Numenoreans was not wont to be carved again without leaving a mark – not without supreme craftsmanship.

Even as the thought occurred to him, Elrohir called: "Angerthas!" His twin was crouching low, feeling along the bottom edges of the wall. And he had found the mark of the very craftsmen Elladan had considered - dwarven runes. Of course! The dwarves could make doors that were invisible if closed – and impossible to open.

He joined Elrohir who was still examining the lower edge of the wall, taking his dagger to gently peel moss and roots away, wishing his twin would hurry. "What does it say?"

Elrohir looked deep in concentration as he traced the faint carvings with his fingers, in the dark stone they were impossible to see with the naked eye and even if Ithildin had once been used to make them stand out – which he doubted – none of it remained and no starlight reached them under the thick clouds of Mordor.

"A present …" Elrohir read haltingly, "from the folk under the mountains to the Men of the West."

"The Dunedain," Aragorn noted, but Elrohir shook his head.

"Yes, but no. The name is too new, this door, this city, Minas Ithil, it is much older. It was built just after the Akallabeth, when the heritage and defiance of the men of the West was still strong. The men of Nûmenor."

With a sudden rumble, the ground shook and the wall itself split apart. Elrohir had found the secret passphrase.

Apart from the strain of grass and dirt being dislodged after long yen of disuse, there was no other sound to the door opening. No hinges that squeaked, no rattle of metal; The dwarven gateway in the city wall opened as silently as on the day it had first been finished. Elladan shook his head, even after all these years it would never cease to amaze him how easily and expertly the dwarves could bend stone and metal to their will. The Noldorin elves had had a talent for working gems, for infusing stone with life and magic, but this pure, dedicated craftsmanship was another skill entirely.

He threw a careful look around but the path behind them remained empty. No bird flew in the sky and the rope ladders and stairs close to the top of the path were still barren. The orcs were hidden from view, behind an outcropping or edge of stone, but they had not reached the upper level yet. He and his brothers had not been seen.

But there was no telling whether that luck should hold once they set foot inside the Morgul Tower. The door itself might be laced with traps, might harbor ancient defenses against intruders or an alarm of some sort. Elrohir had found the passphrase, but would that allow them to pass into the tower without further hindrance? And what of the Nazgûl? Did they know of the door? It had not been used in a very long time, but that alone did not indicate indifference. The ringwraiths might very well know the door existed, but lacked the passphrase to open it. In that case, they might still have secured it against possible intruders.

He shook his head, these thoughts would do them little good now and time was running through his fingers. The orc patrol was coming. There was only one way open to them, only the door could get them into Minas Morgul unseen. If they wanted to complete their mission and gain the intel their father had sent them for, they could not hesitate now.

Aragorn looked at him. "Do we go in?"

"Yes," he answered at last, drawing his sword as he did so, edging forward towards the door and taking the lead. He would not let his little brothers be first to enter the darkness that awaited behind the hidden door, would not let them be the first to face the terrors that Minas Morgul held.

Darkness swallowed him immediately, broken by a soft shimmer of sickly green. The sound of his steps faded, then echoed in the dark passageway, first silently then loud again, thrown back to him at odd intervals and seemingly coming from impossible directions. He stopped, barely daring to breathe as he waited for Elrohir and Aragorn to join him. They closed the door behind them, cutting off the last of the outside world and of the light of day. Only the eerie green non-light of Minas Morgul surrounded them now, a light of corpses, of decay, of the wraith world.

"Follow me," Elladan commanded and turned to lead the way. Squaring his shoulders to stave off the effect of the lingering evil of this place, of the ghastly light, the barely perceptible whispers. As they moved down the corridor the discordant echoes of their footsteps followed and preceded them, hunting and herding them in the dark corridors of the Morgul Tower. It was impossible to tell if they remained alone or if a full platoon of orcs was at their heels already. He heard Elrohir mutter a silent curse after spinning around only to find the hallway behind them empty, and Elladan too had to fight the urge to look over his shoulders.

His skin was crawling, not just from the discordant sounds of their own footsteps, but also with the strength of the Nazgûls' influence. It was heavy in the air, cloying around them, filling the faintly glowing corridors with a miasma of evil. His side throbbed uncomfortably, as if the wound there drew strength from the closeness of Sauron's vassals.

As they went deeper along the passageway, other corridors branched off at irregular intervals and at varying angles. They all were dark, lit only by the same green sickly light that permeated the stone of all Minas Morgul. It permeated the air like a fog, illuminating nothing but turning the shadows into gaping wounds of terror, places for monsters to hide. He suppressed a shiver as he kept walking, imagining a living breathing creature lurking behind every wall, every corner, a beast that would alert the ringwraiths to their presence.

Sweat stood on his brow and trickled down his back, a consequence of the strain of his tense shoulders, the pain of his healed wound and the relentless attack on his mental defenses. Whispers hid among the echoes of their steps, dreadful promises, visions, threats.

To keep focus, he tried to map their path in his mind, tried to remember how they might retrace their steps to the dwarven door, but he struggled with the task, his thoughts scattered, the corridors impossible to predict.

"Fascinating," Aragorn's voice almost made him jump. It was unnaturally loud in the corridor, cutting through the illusion of sound created by their footsteps' echoes. Elladan turned to find his human brother had stopped and was looking at the walls surrounding them in wonder. He was inspecting their surfaces, studying the intricate designs cut at sharp angles, neither for decorative nor architectural purposes.

"The walls distort and amplify sound," Aragorn was saying, slowly stepping along the wall, running his hand over its surface. "There were stories that Minas Ithil was haunted even before the Nazgûl took control of it, I wonder if this is the source of those rumors."

Elladan hardly trusted his eyes. His littlest brother seemed unbothered by the darkness and ghostly sounds that haunted them, giving instead all his focus to the architecture and craftsmanship of the old tower. After a moment, Elrohir, never one to let an opportunity to learn something new pass him by, joined Aragorn in exploring the wall. He stroked the dimly glowing stone with one hand, following the clear cuts in the wall that created a strange beehive like surface. "Like the facets of a gem," he mumbled, thoughtful. He turned to a large mirror, reaching from floor to ceiling, its surface weirdly translucent and imbued with the same light that filled the entire fortress. "What do you make of this, Estel?" he asked their younger brother. "The edges look no different than a diverging corridor, I wonder…" he leaned close, trying to pierce the milky green surface, to look beyond the mirroring surface. After a moment, Elrohir drew back, shaking his head, "If there is anything beyond I cannot see it, not without breaking the mirror."

"We should continue," Elladan pressed, interrupting his brothers' explorations. The delay was starting to bother him, the continued pressure of the fortress' walls around him seemed suffocating, demanding, seeking. He felt like he could not breathe, could not concentrate, could not remain.

He took a deep breath, fighting against the sudden urge to flee, his side flaring sharply in remembered pain. The Nazgûl were close – very close. He felt his breathing quicken, the dark feeling of foreboding intensifying.

And of course Elrohir noticed, his twin was at his side in an instant, his face betraying his concern. "Elladan…", he began, but Elladan interrupted him, waving off his concern.

"It will pass," he reassured Elrohir, though his voice sounded strained to his own ears. He turned to Aragorn who was also joining them now, still throwing furtive glances at the oddly structured wall. "We should continue," he repeated.

Aragorn nodded, then glanced around them once more, studying the corridors, the designs on the wall. "The largest facets of each structure on the wall seem to run in this direction", he said pointing down a dark passage on their left, "And this corridor looks slightly larger than the others. Perhaps this passage will lead us to the central stairway of the tower."

Elrohir nodded, agreeing with Aragorn's observation and their likely interpretation, before turning back to look at him, Elladan, waiting for him to make the final decision, to lead them on in this dark place of terrors. Elladan had rarely felt so inadequate in his so often self-appointed role as their leader.

The corridor Aragorn had indicated did look slightly wider than the others that were branching off at this junction, but also darker. He could not help the shiver of dread that traveled down his spine, an evil sense of foreboding, a whisper of perils and danger ahead that seemed to sound in his ears alone. He found no sign of hesitation in either of his brothers and forced himself to shrug off the discomfort. Aragorn's guess was the best lead they had.

"This way then."

-o0o-

They kept walking. For minutes, perhaps hours, while their surroundings refused to change, always keeping to the same green non-light. The flow of time was impossible to determine, as was the distance they might have crossed already in this strange, bewildering maze. Surely they had walked farther than the foundations of the tower should allow?

The dim green light was barely enough to see by and Elrohir had to strain his eyes not to lose sight of Elladan walking at the front of their little group. He kept close behind Estel, trying to assure himself that he was close enough to act if something should befall them, if the taunting echoes and distorted sounds should turn into a true indication of another presence close-by.

He wished that they could light a torch, to cast a brighter light on the dark and foreboding walls, to light the gloom that seemed to seep from the fortress straight into his heart. He knew that the oppressive darkness, the cloying sense of dread was nothing more than the effect of the Nazgûls' presence, their nearness enough to quail the heart and quench all hope - but that knowledge helped him little. He felt their presence like a constant hum, an unrelenting pressure on his mental barriers, testing his defenses, looking for cracks. He could almost again hear the high pitched shriek, the whispered hiss of teasing of the Nazgûl that had tormented him through the palantir of Minas Tirith.

He shivered.

He had thought its effect lessened, vanished with the effect of the athelas, with the passing of time and the banishment of the Nazgûl on the shores of Harnen, but the presence of the ringwraiths in this tower brought the encounter back with sharp clarity. His struggles, his defeat, his betrayal of Estel.

He clamped down on those memories ere they could rise to the front once more and drag him back into the abyss of despair. Estel was alive and well - and capable of protecting himself against the forces of the dark, if they should uncover his secret. And Elrohir would be by his side if that happened.

He kept his eyes on his youngest brother's back in front of him, reassuringly solid. Estel was walking close to the walls again, glancing at the tunnels, his brow creased in concentration as he probably compared the tunnels they were walking through with what he remembered from Minas Tirith.

Estel looked less affected by the lingering shadow, the feeling of oppressive claustrophobia he himself was feeling. He could see Elladan favor his side where he had been hit with the Morgul blade, could feel his twin's turmoil and a sliver of the pain he was stubbornly trying to hide. But Estel showed no outward sign of the shadow of darkness. He was silent, yes, but then they had to be on this mission. Perhaps keeping himself busy with the layout of the tower distracted him from what was lurking inside it.

Elrohir wished he could do the same, could think of anything else than the Nazgûl's oppressive presence. His skin seemed to crawl with the sense of being watched, the hair at the back of his neck stood upright with every shallow draft that passed as his unruly imagination conjured the ringwraiths themselves, hovering behind him, uncloaked, invisible, hissing his name. The unbroken gloom of the corridor pressed on his spirit, smothering his fëa and sapping his strength in the same way the deep places of the world had always done to him.

He thought he could hear whispers in the strange echoes of their footsteps, harsh sounds followed by utter silence, yet every time he turned only the empty corridor stared back at him – fading into the gloom after a mere few feet. He was reminded suddenly of the enchantments that protected Imladris, the way that unwary wanderers would be led astray, their feet walking aimlessly in circles, never reaching the Hidden Valley if their father so chose. What if the Nazgûl had ensnared them the same way? Were they walking in circles? Were they being watched?

His thoughts raced and the sudden rush of blood in his ears as his pulse quickened drowned out even the soft whispers he imagined to hear. They needed to break free, needed to get out. This place was cursed, and they were helpless, powerless to escape the trap that was just waiting to spring.

When it did, it still caught Elrohir by surprise.

Without a sound the corridor in front of Estel suddenly disappeared. From one heartbeat to the next it was simply gone. Instead of the dull, green corridor, the path in front of Estel ended in a milky white mirror, its surface speckled with black where the silver had peeled off. It shone with the same sickly light that illuminated this entire place.

And Elladan was gone.

-o0o-

tbc...

A:N/ What have our intrepid heroes gotten themselves into now? (and yes, before you say it, I know the answer is Minas Morgul :D) But what lurks in the dark? I'll take guesses - or any other form of messages and feedback. I love hearing from you and knowing that someone is out there actually reading this story. Thank you to everyone who takes the time to leave a word of encouragement.

*About Minas Morgul's army, Elrond's reasons for sending his sons to investigate it and the occupation of Minas Ithil see this part of Gandalf's accounts:
'But we were too late, as Elrond foresaw. Sauron also had watched us, and had long prepared against our stroke, governing Mordor from afar through Minas Morgul, where his Nine servants dwelt (since TA2002, 978 years before the events in this story), until all was ready. Then he gave way before us, but only feigned to flee, and soon after came to the Dark Tower and openly declared himself (in TA 2961).'
The Fellowship of the Ring, LoTR Book 2, Ch 2, The Council of Elrond