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Erin ennor pelia gwathand,
nan annûn rovail môr rimmol.
I vinas gîr. Nan serch erain
manadh anglenna. I echui
I Firn. I lû Gwedwerwaith tôl:
Ne Gond Erech adylithar;
Lastathar romru ath emyn.
Man gerel rom? Man estol hain
E thinnu thind, i 'waith ú-rîn?
I chîl pen amman gwestanner.
O Forven telitha. Baur horth(ol).
Athratha Fen nadh Raid i Firn.
Thus spoke Malbeth the Seer:
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 Oathbreakers:
at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again
and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.
Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them
from the gray 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.
In the brown light of dawn, Aragorn had turned south and come to the yawning black door at the root of the Haunted Mountain, from which the minds of Rohan's folk had recoiled all the years they had lived in its shadow. One by one his gray-cloaked companions passed under the rune-scrawled archway into the mountain, heedless of the gloom and malice that seeped from its stones. Now ageless elves trod the Paths of the Dead, their footfalls barely louder than those of the shades that followed. The slogging hoofbeats of their horses rattled and echoed in the chill, heavy air. A mortal man doggedly led them forward by the wan light of a single torch, and Legolas carried another at the back of the column. Last of all trudged a single, stubborn dwarf.
Gimli almost longed for an elf's heart himself, and he did not doubt he would be addled before their nightmare journey was over. He resigned himself to staring straight ahead, keeping his eyes upon elf-friend and the horse that walked beside him, both glimmering redly in the torchlight like the unsettled dreams he had carried with him since Moria. There was room for horse and elf to walk abreast, yet in the barren stone womb of the Dwimorberg it seemed as if the walls were pressed inwards against the very sides of Gimli's helm. For once, the elves could not complain he was breathing too loudly; the sound was not coming from the dwarf. Whispers swirled around them, rose and fell like wet leaves hissing in a dying fire. There was no scent at all in this forsaken place save a sick dread that worked its way into one's bones. Torchlight flickered fitfully on dull stone or wood or metal; restless eyes slid away from surfaces too quickly to know what they were. The proud horses of the Riddermark were like ghosts themselves, noses rising and falling only a foot or two above the floor, each one moving at a plodding walk. At every shoulder, a tall elf walked steadily, one hand placed against the animal's cheek. The dwarf was the only one among the company whose will was bent solely on the task of keeping his own feet moving.
Keep breathing, that's the key! It's one thing the dead don't do very well, for all that racket they're making.
Legolas walked at the rear of the company with Arod, and kept glancing back. Sometimes he was checking on Gimli, and that was bad enough. The dwarf had a silly notion the elf would start leading him along like their poor horses, dragging him by his beard. Gimli was glad that Legolas had a torch in his other hand. But sometimes the elf seemed simply curious, like a young child finding a dead bird in the snow, probing its frozen outstretched wing with a fingertip. Whenever he looked over his shoulder, there were lights reflected in the elf's shining eyes that were pale and cold, not torchlight.
When the black breath blows and death's shadow grows...
Stop doing that, Gimli muttered under his breath.
Legolas looked past the dwarf's shoulder and told him gently, They are not getting any closer.
Gimli bristled at the kindness in his voice. If I wanted to know that, Master Elf, I could see it for myself easily enough!
The elf tucked a smile away, checking his stride. Walk next to me, Gimli. When we come out the other side, I do not think there will be much time for fellowship for many days to come.
Where will wants not, a way opens...
The other elves kept moving, and did not seem to notice that their torchbearer had dropped behind. Gimli forced his feet to quicken and fell in beside the elf, trudging three steps for his every two. Somewhere at the front of the company, Aragorn was picking up the pace. The dead man's horse that had claimed him did not seem to notice the wraiths or walls anymore than the elves did, and pushed forward eagerly in a place where no animal should be.
No living man am I...
Had Aragorn really come back to them at Helm's Deep, or was he also a ghost? Had Théodred? Was Arwen at the Havens, or was Legolas? Gimli felt dizzy. His thoughts were starting to flicker along with the torches.
Time does not stand still, though the Sun be lost....
He never did take a bath, Gimli grumbled to the elf, clutching his axe more tightly. I am beginning to think you have a point after all.
Help me dip him when we get to Gilrain, Legolas whispered.
Dead faces in the water...
Even Legolas' voice was beginning to pall. Elves were too pale, and the dwarf was sick of whispering. He did not answer. Gimli stared grimly at the firelight glinting off the helm of the elf ahead of them, and imagined the ring of his boots was a hammer at the forge. That was better.
Yet the whispering was getting louder, and the echoes seemed to come from all around them, for the walls had opened out leaving them in a wide shapeless chamber that was more disorienting than the tunnel at their backs. The roof was low, and they could not see what lay around them. There was another abrupt halt. Gimli peered forward, trying to see what was happening up at the front of the column.
Your king hath passed through...
Aragorn had turned off to the left bearing his feeble torch while the elves waited. Its flame was now strangely motionless even when he moved, rising straight and thin as a candle's. At length the light of it fell on a rough-hewn wall, a great stone door, and the figure of a man fallen before the threshold. His mail and helm glittered gold in the torchlight, and white bone winked between gaps in his armor. Aragorn stooped, and the whispering of the dead grew louder. Gimli saw shadows beginning to drift around him, and tried to block out the sight of them by squinting. Shades seemed to be leaning over the man as he crouched down.
I would not take this thing, if I found it lying by the highway...
Aragorn lifted something that flashed white and silver from the side of the dead man: a small horn. Then he straightened and turned, staring unflinchingly back the way they had come.
Let us pass, and then follow! he said in a fierce voice. The murmurs of the dead died away, but the oppressive silence that followed was almost worse than the whispers. I summon you to the Stone of Erech!
The perishing is more likely, and will be a lot easier anyway...
A blast of cold air swept through the chamber, devouring the torches. Neither spark nor heat remained in them. The host began to move forward again; evidently Aragorn did not deem it worth trying to relight them.
Oft hope is born, when all is forlorn...
Breathing. That was the key.