Sudden as a smothered flame

Aragorn looked up at Gimli. He made to speak, only to nearly choke on the coin in his mouth. The man turned his head, coughing, and spat the metal out onto the stone.

'Lie still,' Gimli said, in the tone he had heard others use to soothe startled horses. Aragorn's head rolled back and his eyes were very wide. Though his lips were moving, no sound came out.

'Lie still,' Gimli said, again, and he patted Aragorn's chest, his hands. 'You were...that is, the thing here, ghost or wight, or whatever unnatural being it is…It took you, and I could not find you. I thought you dead.'

Aragorn struggled for a moment, then his voice came, faint as a whisper.

'M-monster...' He coughed, then murmured, 'Gone…?'

'It's still out there, somewhere,' Gimli said. 'I don't know why it hasn't followed yet, but I have to get you out of here.' He scooped up the iron coin carefully from the ground and held it tight in his fist.

'L…' said Aragorn, rolling his head. 'L…' He was trying to say Legolas, Gimli was sure of it.

'He's over there,' said Gimli, gesturing to the throne. 'The boy is here too; I do not know if they are alive. But then, I didn't think you were either. Here, you must take this.' He closed Aragorn's fingers over the hilt of the iron knife, and tucked the second key into the man's jerkin over his heart. Aragorn watched, bemused, but he said nothing.

'Do not let go of the iron,' Gimli ordered, and he stood up and stumbled over to Alfy Tanner. Despite the fog of his exhaustion, even though he desperately wanted to go first to Legolas, Gimli knew the Elf would be furious to think Gimli might neglect a child to do so, a child that there was still some chance of saving, no matter how thin a chance it was. So Gimli went over and he knelt by Alfy Tanner, pushing the coin between the boy's teeth and clamping his mouth shut over it.

There was no reaction. Gimli waited and waited, holding the boy's jaw shut round the coin, but Alfy did not thrash or kick, and he did not wake. Gimli waited a long time. A long time, but there was nothing. The boy was gone. It had been too long—days even before they had found their way into this place—and Gimli was too late. All this, all this suffering and all the terror, was for nothing.

From where he lay, Aragorn had raised his head, trying to see past Gimli to the child. 'Boy...alive?' he rasped his own desperate question.

Gimli just shook his head. He need say no more; Aragorn man slumped back onto the stone, looking defeated. Fighting back his own tears of frustration, Gimli fished the coin from the dead child's mouth. He took one moment with his head bowed over the boy, and then he went to Legolas. The Elf, of course, had not stirred, still curled at the foot of that cold, black throne. It was not difficult to carry him over to where the others lay. Legolas, always lighter than his lanky frame suggested, seemed impossibly light now, almost ephemeral, as if he lacked any real substance at all. Gimli hauled him over to Aragorn's side and laid the Elf flat on his back. Then he went through the same ritual one more time, fumbling the coin free and pushing it onto the Elf's tongue. Then he closed Legolas' mouth around the little disc of iron, and held his jaw shut.

They waited. They waited and waited, but there was nothing. Legolas did not move, and he did not breathe.

'Gi….' said Aragorn.

'Just wait,' said Gimli. 'It worked for you. It was too late for the boy, but it will work for Legolas. Just wait!'

'Gi…' Aragorn said, again. He hauled himself over, barely able to move, and collapsed at Gimli's side. His trembling hands fumbled at Legolas' wrists, his neck.

'He's alive,' Gimi said, firmly. 'I know it. He is. The fool Elf is just being stubborn, that's all. Give him time.'

Aragorn shook his head but didn't try to speak. His hands ceased moving. Then, slowly, he slumped forward, bowing his head over the Elf's form, and his hand came to rest on the still chest over Legolas' heart. He looked broken as Gimli had never seen. Defeated.

It had been too long, too long for both Elf and child. The thing that lured them here had held them too long. They were used up. Empty.

Gimli did not know how much time passed as he knelt there, his mind and thoughts lost in a haze of pain and gut-wrenching grief. But something roused him, some stubborn instinct that burned even now as a spark in his heart. He looked up. The tableau was unchanged—the dead child on the ground, Aragorn slumped across Legolas' body—but now Gimli remembered that the man at least lived still. He and Aragorn both lived, and Gimli had to get them out.

'Aragorn,' he said.

Aragorn shifted, forcing himself up with his arms. He was ashen and trembling. On the ground between him and Gimli, Legolas' face was waxy and ghost white in the torchlight.

'Aragorn,' Gimli said. 'We must go. That thing is still out there. We have to get out.'

Aragorn frowned, and looked towards the two bodies. Even through exhaustion, pain, and crippling muteness, the steel of kings was in his voice when he said, 'Them...also.'

Gimli did not argue. 'Aye,' he said, though truly he did not know how it would even be possible, not with Aragorn as weakened as he was. But they would carry the bodies if they could, for as long as might endure. At least that would delay for a little longer the terrible decision Gimli knew he might face; that saving Aragorn's life, and his own, might mean abandoning Legolas' body in this endless darkness. Gimli pushed the thought aside, ruthlessly.

'Can you stand, Aragorn?' Gimli asked, dashing away his tears and rising to his feet. 'I can take the boy, but if you cannot bear Legolas, I will have to come back-'

'Yes,' said Aragorn, though he looked like he could barely lift his own head, let alone carry another while wading through waist-deep icy water. 'Yes.'

He staggered to his feet, with Gimli's aid, and it was only when he was standing that Aragorn seemed to notice the iron knife still clutched in his hand. He dropped it, wincing, and then touched the key hung about his neck with dazed confusion.

'Iron drives the spirit away,' Gimli said. He picked up the knife and tucked it into Aragorn's belt for him. 'Or at least I believe it does. Hence putting the coin in your mouths. I thought it might get you your words back, or…I don't know.'

Aragorn nodded. The iron had freed the man from the spirit's grasp, that was sure, though it had not freed his voice. But as for the others…Gimli did not know why it had done nothing for them. But he still could not quite give up the need to protect them, as wretched a need as it was. And even if they were as dead as they seemed, he would not leave them as prey for the thing that lurked here in the dark. So he made sure that each had something of iron still, lying the key to Alfy's shirt string beside the iron pin, and tucking the tiny loadstone into Legolas' belt pouch. The coin he left in the Elf's mouth. Perhaps it would protect him still, wherever it was he had gone. Perhaps not.

Now at last they were ready.

Between them they lifted the two bodies up to bear them away. Gimli carried the boy Alfy across his shoulders, and Aragorn bore Legolas in like fashion, clutching the torch in his left hand, grimly. Gimli shoved the hatchet into his own belt and, leaning against each other with every swaying step, they made their retreat from the strange island.

'It will try to hinder us,' Gimli warned, low, as they stepped onwards. 'The spirit. I do not know where it has gone now, but I do not think it will let us leave without a fight. It is too quiet.'

Aragorn nodded. He raised the torch higher, and brittle bones cracked beneath their feet as they walked. Behind them, the black throne was swallowed up by the darkness.

They came to the steps which led down silently into the lake. The pool was still as a black mirror, and the ripples as they stepped into the water were slow and languid. The cold felt even worse than before as they sank into the deep water, a leaching, numbing chill that stole the strength from their limbs and the warmth from their very blood. Clutching their precious burdens tightly, man and dwarf waded on through the icy cold. Every half-dozen steps, Gimli found the body on his shoulders slipping and he had to pause often to haul the boy back up, struggling to keep the child's head from the water. No doubt a useless sentiment, but one he could not abandon. Not until he was utterly sure.

They had made perhaps four-dozen uneven paces from the island when Aragorn stopped suddenly with a gasp. 'Look!' he whispered.

Gimli saw across the black water, far off to the right, a shadow. A barely seen silhouette, standing waist-deep in the water. The simulacrum was there. Silent. Watching.

'...Looks like…' said Aragorn, horrified. 'Like L…'

'I know,' said Gimli, looking doggedly away. 'It has stolen more than just your voices, Aragorn. Do not heed it! And keep an eye on the torch. It likes to put out the light.'

They struggled on. The thing watched them fight on through the dark. The water shallowed incrementally slowly, but each step was no less struggle than the last, a battle against the pressing water and the cold, the weight of their burdens and their heavy, heavy hearts. The phantom which had made itself into an image of Legolas sank slowly beneath the black water until only its eyes were above the surface, then Gimli lost sight of it entirely. If it followed them, they did not see.

The lake was a weary eternity. Gimli felt certain it had not taken this long to traverse before. Had the waters risen since he had made the crossing out to the island? Perhaps the lake had spread whilst he was distracted with the fate of his friends, the cold dark waters rising silently in the darkness, drowning this cursed burial chamber beneath a featureless obsidian sea...But how could it be this vast, this unending?

Several times they both nearly succumbed to the waters. Once Gimli turned at the sound of a splash, and saw Aragorn a few paces back struggling, on his knees. He had slipped and now the bleak waters had closed about him almost to his chin. Despite his obvious exhaustion, Aragorn had retained the presence of mind to hold the torch aloft as he had fallen, and it had not gone out, although its flames hissed and spat against the surface of the water. But he could not seem to stand again, for the body of Legolas over his shoulders was half submerged, sodden and limp, a heavy anchor. His arm holding the torch was trembling. Gimli hurried over, forcing his way through the water, and reached down to haul Aragorn back up.

Then something beneath the water that felt horribly like long fingers wrapped also around Gimli's ankle. His legs were swept out from beneath him and he dropped like a stone straight beneath the surface. Gimli drew a startled breath a moment too late and he choked on inky water; the blackness swallowed him whole, the weight of the body on his shoulders dragging him down and down...He struggled, kicking, and found the lake bed beneath his feet just as Aragorn's grip, made strong by desperation, latched onto Gimli's jerkin, hauling him back up, and his face broke the surface once more.

The two back to back, gasping and shaking with cold and exertion, staring blindly around into the dark water for their attacker. But nothing else, seen or unseen, reached out for them through the water, though it was still some long minutes before they could go on again.

They made it. Somehow, at last, they made it to the shoreline. Aragorn staggered onto the firm stone and then all but collapsed in a dripping heap, slumping to the floor with Legolas falling in a limp tangle half across his legs. The torch fell onto the ground but it did not go out. Only once he too was well clear of the waters did Gimli set about lowering Alfy Tanner carefully to the ground. They had made it, this far at least.

But even with that realisation, Gimli found he was, quite suddenly, overwhelmed by despair. Looking across the three sodden forms huddled on the bare rock, misery and hopelessness clawed at him with talons that cut deep and bitter. It was clear Aragorn's strength was spent. Gimli himself was beyond exhausted, and they were yet to find their way out of this tomb. They were no closer to their escape than they had ever been, and Aragorn remained half-ensorcelled still beneath the thing's evil spell. And Legolas… Legolas was…

The last time he had stood on this shoreline, Gimli remembered his thoughts had been of the quest of the Ring. How cruel and strange it was that the Three Hunters had together bested so many terrors and hardships, only to likely perish here in pursuit of one lost child.

Perhaps we should have brought along a hobbit or two, Gimli thought as he looked at the slumped forms of his friends. That would have set us aright. A gasp of horrible, choking laughter welled up in him at the thought of Sam and his iron skillet seeing off evil spirits left and right.

The laughter might have been born of despair rather than poor taste—of course he would wish the terror of this place upon few even amongst his worst enemies, let alone his dearest friends—but to his surprise, just the thought of those indefatigable hobbits whom he loved so well served to lift a little of the gloom over Gimli's heart. And the memory of them put him on to his next course of action. Rest was no good without a bite of something to put you back on your feet afterwards, or so Sam used to say. Good, plain hobbit sense.

So, though wearied to the bone, Gimli got to his own feet again and, drawing the iron hatchet ready in one hand, he hurried a short distance along the shoreline towards where he could make out a cluster of pale and glinting shapes. It was their packs and gear that Gimli had abandoned beside the water before first crossing the lake; he had not then been sure he would ever return for any of it. Gimli snatched up the packs and weapons, and went back to the others, fearful to leave them alone even a moment. But they lay just where he had left them in the circle of flickering torchlight. Aragorn was cradling the child in his lap, and holding Legolas tight to his side; the man seemed barely to have noticed that Gimli had left them even for a moment, though when Gimli pulled on his arm, he looked wearily up. He blinked, slowly.

'Here,' said Gimli. 'Eat.' He put a chunk of bread and some dried venison into Aragorn's hand. The man stared at the sustenance like he could not comprehend what to do with it, but when Gimli nudged him again he at last started to eat. Gimli crouched down beside Legolas' body, and chewed his own mouthful of bread. After the first few bites he already began to feel better: stronger and more clear headed. Gimli son of Gloin was not beaten yet, not while any of them still drew breath. And until he knew for certain that Legolas did not, he would not give in to grief or despair.

With that thought in mind, Gimli leaned over Legolas to examine his friend's body again. There was no indication of injury anywhere that he could see in the weak torchlight, but neither was there any sign of life about the Elf, no breath or pulse of blood beneath the waxy skin, no flicker of eyelid or flutter of fingers. When Gimli touched Legolas' face with his palms, it was cold and so still, and when he peeled back the Elf's lids, the eyes beneath were blank and staring, devoid of all spark and colour. He looked dead. The iron coin might have dramatically roused Aragorn, but for Legolas it had done nothing. The spirit's power was strong.

'Legolas,' Gimli muttered, cleaning a smudge of dirt off Legolas' face with his sleeve. 'Legolas my friend, you had better not-'

Something grabbed his shoulders and pulled. Gimli flailed, falling back, arms thrown wide...but he did not hit the ground. Instead darkness was wrapped around him, encasing him like thick, dense shroud, ice cold and smothering. It was like sinking back beneath the black waters of the lake; he felt coldness close vice-like around his chest. He struck out with his fists against the invisible bonds and that was when he suddenly realised both hands were empty. He had put down the iron axe to check Legolas. He had put down the axe!

Giml tried to cry out but the sound was ripped from his throat. The thing that held him was incredibly strong, crushing around him, cold and paralyzing, and all was dark dark dark...He struggled, terror lending him last, desperate strength to kick and tear at the bonds, but he couldn't break free, couldn't gain an inch of ground against the thing, he couldn't even see it! He was trying to shout, to call for help, but thick ice slipped into his open mouth and tried to pour down his throat, grasping and thieving and deadening; he choked on it, his heart shuddered, he felt himself weakening…

Abruptly, everything changed. There was a convulsion all around him; the darkness heaved and shifted. Just for a moment that sense of crushing horror weakened, and he saw, as if far away, a flicker of light.

Gimli threw himself forward with renewed strength, tearing at the bonds and clawing his way to the orange glow, the light, the hope that might save him. The fetters around him shook and trembled and then, at last, they began to fall away. Suddenly, he hit the floor, hard and jarring, and there was piercing light and sound all around. He gasped in a heaving breath, but there was no time for shock or pain, for in front of him was Aragorn up on one knee, holding out the iron knife. Behind him were the crumpled bodies of the others, and before him-

A few steps away stood that false mirror image of Legolas. It was facing away from him, towards Aragorn, but even though he could only see its back he knew it for the falsehood it was, for a miasma of dark and nauseating wrongness leeched out from the thing like a stench. It was bending towards Aragorn, issuing a strange hissing sound, and Aragorn shakily made another attempt to slash at it, unsteady and weaving like a drunk. He missed, but the attempt was distraction enough that Gimli had been able to break free. He felt breathless, almost hysterical, and his mind raced, even as he rolled over ready to stand; how had the thing even been able to grasp him at all? He had dropped the hatchet, but he still had the iron in his boots, belt, beard...all of it that had kept him safe until now. He should have been safe. But he had said as much to Aragorn earlier; the spectre was getting stronger. Stronger and stronger, the more of Legolas' life it consumed. It seemed even the iron was less defense than it had been. Would their iron weapons even work against it?

Well. There was only one way to be sure.

The thing now was between Gimli and his friends. His hand closed over the hatchet lying discarded on the stone, and then Gimli surged up on a tide of rage, bringing the axe up and launched himself right at the thing which had caused all of this, had killed Rickon and Holden, and Alfy Tanner, and maybe Legolas too. Might yet kill them all. Fury burned through him, cutting through all exhaustion, all fear. The thing was intent on Aragorn, never even turning around, and with a choked shout, Gimli buried the iron hatchet deep into the thing's back, right across the spine.

The impact was shockingly not what he expected. The blow did not cut into bone and muscle, but neither did it pass straight through the figure as it had before when it was nought but shadow. Instead the blade struck against something but it was not flesh, it was more like trying to cleave wet porridge or cut into a deep drift of snow. The thing had substance. It was getting stronger.

The hatchet in his hand began to hiss and smoke, and Gimli wrenched it free, bringing it back for another blow, when a sound ripped through the still air. It could have been described as eerie or unearthly, but truly neither word did the horror of it justice. It started soft as an unspoken word, and rose in a terrible, rising shriek of fury until it resonated throughout the chamber. A short way off, Aragorn dropped the iron knife and threw his hands over his ears. The shriek grew in volume and pitch; Gimli staggered back without meaning too, his hands coming up to his own ears. Just when he thought his head might burst from the fury of the sound, the chamber went suddenly and utterly silent.

The thing—the spirit—was still there. It stood with its back to Gimli, the back he had struck. Where image of cloth and cloak were sliced open, whisps of darkness were bleeding out. Slowly, the thing began turn, until its stolen face, soulless eyes and ghoulish open mouth were all focussed on Gimli, and never had its imitation seemed to him more false, for now Gimli saw for the first time the full depths of its malice. Terror filled him like cold mist.

He raised the hatchet again...and the ghost disappeared, as sudden as a smothered flame.

For a moment, they stayed frozen like that.

'Gone?' Aragorn whispered.

'I think so,' Gimli said, cautiously. He peered around into the dark, but saw no sign of movement.

Aragorn slumped back onto the stone beside Alfy and Legolas, gasping as if he had just finished a running race. He opened his eyes again and looked around for Gimli. 'Hurt?' he asked.

'Nay,' Gimli said. At least he did not feel any pain, although his heart ached strangely in his chest. He could not bring himself to lower the hatchet, the sense of that icey black fluid pouring into his throat was all too recent, all too horrible. He turned all around, peering into the black, but there was no sign of the thing that hunted them. The darkness was still and absolute. It seemed they were alone again. 'Nay, I think I am fine. What happened?'

Aragorn said nothing for a moment, and then slowly he raised his head, looking around wearily for the fallen knife. 'Gloinsson vanished,' he said. 'Spirit came...wanted Greenleaf. Tried...drive away with iron.'

It was the most Aragorn had spoken since Gimli had found him on the island. He looked exhausted by the attempt, but nevertheless dragged himself a few feet to where the knife had fallen, and picked up the blade. He hissed as he touched it, and quickly pushed it into his belt. 'Hot,' he explained.

'Did you strike the thing?' Gimli asked.

'No. Iron...proved sufficient...distraction,' Aragorn said. 'Gloinsson reappeared. Still able...form words?'

'I do not think my words are affected,' Gimli said, partly to test the theory, but the speech emerged as easily as he would expect. 'I do not think it was trying to do to me what it did to you. I think it just wanted to kill me.'

'Maybe-' Aragorn said, and then abruptly his words cut off. He snapped his head around and stared down at Legolas.

'What is it?' Gimli said. He hurried over. Aragorn made no reply, but when Gimli reached them, he was leaning over Legolas, his face a mask of exhausted desperation. Gimli crouched at his side, trying to see what had alarmed the man. Legolas looked no different than he had before, limp, pale and unmoving. His cracked lips did not open to emit breath or speech.

'Aragorn, what is it?' Gimli demanded, again.

'Call,' Aragorn said, urgently. He was patting Legolas' face as if he was trying to wake a heavy sleeper. 'Name!'

'Legolas?' Gimli called, a little doubtfully. 'Legolas!'

And with a sound no more formed than a soft sigh, Legolas opened his eyes.

Both Aragorn and Gimli froze, breath held like stones in their mouths. Neither spoke or moved for the moment felt too fragile to disturb. Legolas blinked, lethargically, then, slow as a winter sunrise, his gaze roamed across to settle on their faces. His face bore no expression.

'Legolas! Legolas!' Gimli found himself saying, and beside him, Aragorn was murmuring out his own desperation and joy in fractured syllables. For Legolas was alive. He was awake, and he was breathing, and he was alive! It must have been the blow from the iron hatchet, it was the only explanation. Striking the spirit with iron had weakened its hold far better than had the coin in the mouth, and Legolas had been freed.

Gimli turned to the child as well, but here the news was not so good. No amount of calling or shaking seemed to rouse him, and he still lay as one dead. But then, so had Legolas looked until moments ago, and how he at least was awake. The boy had been in the spirit's grasp a lot longer. Perhaps if Gimli caught up with the monster again and struck it another blow, Alfy too would be freed? It was hope, at least. And Legolas was alive.

But then Aragorn said, 'L…?' and there was enough alarm in the syllable that Gimli swiftly looked back to Legolas. The previous blankness of Elf's face had begun to shift, minutely. A line creased between his brows. His jaw tightened, and his gaze lost all focus; it looked almost as if he was becoming slowly aware of some terrible pain. His head rolled and he clenched his eyes tightly shut. Cracked lips opened in a soundless gasp. His breath came out like smoke, and there was the strangest smell on the air, almost like burnt meat.

As diminished as he was, it was still Aragorn that made the connection first. The man suddenly lurched forward and began clawing at Legolas' mouth before Gimli had even realised what was happening. Legolas gasped weakly and choked as Aragorn shoved his fingers between the Elf's jaws and when he withdrew them, he was holding the iron coin. With horror, they saw that Legolas' mouth and tongue where the coin had laid were blistered and burned, his lips cracked apart, and blood was dripping onto his chin.

tbc