Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.
Author's Notes: It's been a while, but I've been brainstorming! Anyway, I LOVE all my reviewers, and this chapter is dedicated to all of you! Yay! You'll see a mention of Bergil being Beregond's brother… yes, I know in the books it's his son! But in wolf law, only the alpha would have pups! So, brothers! Yes. Anyway. Please enjoy…
Chapter Thirteen
~
They stayed with the Gondor pack waiting for the arrival of their original group. Elrond had run faster than he'd estimated; the remainder of his wolves was still a distance away.
So they passed a few days with Denethor and Faramir, doing little or nothing to pass the time. Arwen napped or gazed to the North, Glorfindel spoke long with Faramir of various battle strategies. As for himself, Elrond attempted repeatedly to pull Denethor aside for war talk. And always the Gondor alpha loped away, to hunt, or speak with his son, or simply gaze at the sun as though the fiery orb had captured his very soul.
On a lonely hill, Pippin mourned. He was alone, and desperately missing his beta-friend Merry. There were no pups in the Gondor pack, seeing as Faramir had been the smallest, and he was now a young adult. Lifting his eyes to the sky, Pippin gave a sad little howl.
But Merry was too far away to hear him.
~
Northward, a battle was being fought.
Not a battle of physical strength. Not a battle of Orcs and Nazgul pitted against wolves. No, this was a battle against instincts.
Wolves are fine-tuned animals, so much so that their body reacts almost involuntarily when placed in danger. A wolf will seldom walk directly into death, as his senses warn him strongly against it.
Aragorn, Legolas, Eomer, and Eowyn stood poised at the Paths of the Dead. While they knew they must pass within, their instincts screamed for them to run, turn tail on that horrible place and head for safety. The urge to flee was so powerful that Eomer stood trembling.
Ears swiveling and tail stiff with fear, it was Legolas who first ventured forward. He walked a few slow paces into the Paths…
And vanished from sight.
The Paths of the Dead was actually a valley, the walls on either side stretching impossibly high that even the sharp-eyed Elven wolf could not see their tops. And the Path itself twisted and turned, almost doubling back on itself as it wound its' way through the impossible cragginess of its' borders.
So it was that when Legolas advanced into them, a sudden turn carried him from view. Bolstered by the courage of their companion, and also fearing to be separated, the other three leapt forward as though they had been jolted into motion by a lightning bolt.
They quickly caught up with him; brave as he was, he was still instinctively told to advance with caution, as were they all, and they walked very slowly and tentatively, as though their paws might disturb some ancient ghost.
It was called the Paths of the Dead for good reason. The terrifying walls, full of ledges and crannies, were decorated with the bodies and skeletons of wolves lost. Skulls hung from necks that were connected only by fragments of what had once been flesh. Ribcages formed bizarre framework over rotted forelegs and tailbones.
Eowyn shrunk at once to Aragorn's side, but he saw this as an unwelcome advance and shrugged her off, too distracted by his own gnawing horror to notice her own genuine fear. Shaking, she retreated to the side of her brother, who rested his head on her back for a comforting moment. He recognized the corpse of Bergil, who had been Beregond's brother, searching for new territory, never returning.
Light itself seemed to be swallowed up, leaving the darkness of night at the peak of the day, and an eternal mist seemed enshrouded around the place, settling like a tomb.
Side by side, Aragorn and Legolas moved deeper and deeper into this forbidden place, eyes scanning the walls nervously. The ghosts of Numenors seemed to glare at them from empty black sockets, eyes burning with accusations of foreign deaths.
And then real eyes were watching them.
Legolas saw them only. By the time he barked a warning the mystery had vanished. Lifting his head, Aragorn glanced up and down where Legolas had indicated. He saw nothing.
The little group had hardly turned a corner when they were surrounded.
Dozens, at least a hundred little foxes! Arctic foxes, their large ears erect and scruffy fur bristling threateningly. They littered the shelves and perches carved into the ancient stone walls, their green eyes flashing with fury and menace. Ordinarily they would be harmless, but in these numbers they could be lethal.
These were the Naugrim, long forgotten inhabitants of the tundra, remembered by none and feared by those that ventured into this valley, those that would never return. For the Naugrim could attack in unrelenting quantity, swarming about their prey and killing it almost instantly. Then the feast was dragged into the rocks, and as it rotted the Naugrim consumed it.
Slowly, the little creatures came slinking down the rocks, their paws seeming to cling to the stony surface. And before anyone could blink, they had lunged. A swarm of them swept over Legolas, and he was down on the floor writhing in an instant, yowling as thousands of tiny teeth ripped into his skin.
An eagle cry split the air overhead.
As abruptly as they had attacked, the Naugrim retreated, crouching in clusters on the floor, not quite hidden and yet still difficult to see in the shadows.
Gandalf flew down from the sky, easily ducking in from the narrow sliver of sky overhead, and landing with a show on Aragorn's back, as he had so often done for the great leader Elrond. The Numenor male was honored deeply by this small gesture.
The spirit of the tundra turned his fiery gaze to the Naugrim, and his mind spoke to them.
-Your aid is needed, lost children of the tundra. Arise and come forth once more, and help us in our most desperate hour as we unite as one to defeat the Great Hunter.-
Two sentences were all he needed. The leader of the Naugrim, known as Gimli, stepped forward and inspected this ragtag pack carefully. Though he had little reason to leave his dark and deep homeground, he felt a call within him that insisted he would be needed. He glanced back to his old father, Gloin, once leader.
The old fox knew at once that there were no questions. Walking forward, a bit stiffly from age, but still proud, he whined an affirmative response. Gimli jumped forward and seconded the motion.
Carefully, the Naugrim crept from their hiding places, blinking with wonder at the wolves before them. Scrambling to his feet, Legolas delicately leaned his weight on three legs, one of them ripped by small teeth. It did not go unnoticed, and Aragorn frowned. Legolas was a prime warrior; if he was wounded, it could mean serious trouble.
Eomer and Eowyn exchanged uncertain glances. She also had seen the face of Bergil, frozen in the mask of death, and her heart was heavy. But she thought of her handsome Aragorn, though he paid her no heed, and she was strengthened. If Aragorn said it was right, it must be so. She advanced to his side. Seeing his sister joining, Eomer saw no reason to hesitate.
Joined together, the four wolves continued onwards towards the exit of the smothering darkness. And as they walked, they could not see, but heard the invisible following of the Naugrim.
Though allies were formed, the Paths of the Dead kept their name, and still the faceless ghosts of the fallen glared at them, pressing on them with unseen darkness.
At last, the end was reached, and the four wolves stepped gratefully into the light and trotted out into the little bowl in the earth, a great stone at its' center. This Stone was like a great black globe, half of it buried in the ground so that only a portion of it stood in sight.
Legolas leaned against this monument, while Eomer and Eowyn stood in its' shade while their eyes adjusted to the brightness of day once more. Meanwhile, Aragorn turned to the Paths of the Dead, and in the powerful voice of some mighty alpha of old, he thundered a command to the Naugrim.
Terrified, they nonetheless could not resist the awesome summon, and obediently they crept into the light they had cowered from for so long. With timid steps they advanced towards the Stone, and there they waited before Aragorn, his ruff raised slightly like a great cape and his head lifted with pride and dignity.
Here, before the Stone, Gandalf soared above, and with the great cry of an eagle announced that here stood the rightful King of the Tundra, chosen by the wise to rule all and be obeyed by every creature that walked on this land.
And it was here that Legolas, awestruck by the vision of power that stood before him in the form of a wolf he had once known, was moved. Bending one foreleg to the ground, he lowered his head in a kneeling bow before the King. Eomer bowed, and Eowyn knelt reverently.
And as if in a slow-moving massive wave, all the Naugrim knelt, leaving a sea of furry brown heads inclined towards Aragorn in respect.
Time seemed to slow on this intense scene, and the wind lightly teased at the fur of those who knelt in awe. Aragorn himself was so moved he could not find strength to step forward, or do anything.
Leaping in the air and arching his back, Eomer sang a loud and triumphant song of victory and the King that had returned. Throwing back her head, Eowyn harmonized, and Legolas soared to the highest note. The three voices sang with joy, and slid effortlessly around the musical scale, telling the world and all who would listen. The Naugrim contributed their yipping barks to the chorus, adding a rhythm all their own.
Long and proud this continued. At last, the setting sun crested atop the Stone, and the reflection cast a halo of light about Aragorn's head, so that all fell on their knees once more.
The King of the Tundra had been revealed.
~ To Be Continued
