Hey there! I'm really sorry for the horribly long wait between chapters. Unfortunately, over the last month or so I've experienced some stressful and sad times, leading to a pretty significant case of burnout, and I got to the point where writing (of any type) was almost painful, and difficult, and therefore all I wrote was quite bad, and I no longer enjoyed it at all.

In order to get my love for writing back, and sort out my mental health, I had to take a little bit of a break from writing both novel and fanfiction, which was really difficult, but I feel so much better now, and I have two chapters for you tonight in way of apology. Again, I explain this to you not as a plea for sympathy but to offer an explanation as to why I did not update as I try to.

I don't know, honestly, if there'll be a Monday update – I hope so, and plan to, but if I can't make it, I will update next Monday instead, and try to get back into a rhythm then.

As ever, please forgive my typos, and I hope that you enjoy these chapters!

Chapter Eighty-One: The Paths of the Dead

Once, when Gimli was a child, his father had taken him into the forges. At so young an age, Gimli had been fascinated by the glowing of a set of chainmail that the armourer was making. So fascinated, in fact, that he had hurried to get a better look, tripping over his own feet and knocking the whole lot into a nearby vat of water. To his horror, the links of the mail had writhed at the sudden change in temperature, hardening into a useless, tangled lump of iron.

That was what Gimli's gut felt like as they rode through the steep, cold valley to reach the Paths of the Dead.

It was not the destination that had his insides so twisted – though he was not exactly looking forward to whatever new hell this might be. No, it was what he had left behind that was tormenting him.

After all that he had done, after everything that had happened, he had left Merry alone. Completely alone. The people of Rohan may be allies, and some among them were dear to Gimli, but Merry had known none of them long enough to even call them friends. Of the conspiracy, and the fellowship, none were left beside him – Merry was completely alone. And he was also about to ride into battle – into a real war with real armies.

And Gimli had left him.

Of course, it had not been without reason. Over the course of their journey, he had come to love Legolas and Aragorn and Boromir as dearly as his kin, and their road was the darker path. That meant that they needed him the most, and he would not turn his back on them. Even if they did not ask him to come.

But leaving Merry behind…

That would weigh on his heart until the day he died, and he knew it.

To see his young cousin looking so brave, so grave, and resolute about riding into battle – that too was something he could never forget. It terrified him, and it made him so, so proud.

Taking a deep breath, Gimli resolved to hold onto that pride, and to commit to his path. His family were scattered, yes, and fractured, but they were folk of Erebor, and they were strong. They would endure.

Yes, they would endure.

The horses began to grow restless, letting out anxious whinnies and pawing at the ground between steps, but the rangers and elves muttered in soft Sindarin, and they held their course. A sense of dread began to arise in Gimli, like a snake curling first around his ankles, and then writhing around his legs, and then his chest, and then his throat. The further they rode into the valley, the colder it became, but it was a strange, otherworldly cold.

It felt as though he was freezing from the inside out.

He shivered, and glanced around at the others. Though at first, Aragorn, Halbarad and Elrond's sons had been almost cheerful, now their faces were carved of stone, with each jaw set in grim fear. It made Gimli feel a little better about his own scowl.

Only Legolas did not seem afraid. He rode with his usual ease, and when he glanced over his shoulder at Gimli, his face was calm as the Mirrormere. Once, it would have angered Gimli, this show of elvish fearlessness, but now it was a comfort. A weak one, but a comfort nonetheless.

If Legolas was not afraid, there was a chance that they would make it out alive.

After an eternity of riding that did not seem nearly long enough, they came to a space where their horses could stand side by side – a place where their horses would ride no further.

They had reached the Door of the Dead.

Though even as he looked into the inky darkness within it, and fear furled out from it like a heavy smoke, Gimli could not help but think the 'Doorway of the Dead' would be a more appropriate name. There was nothing between outside and inside, no barrier of wood or metal or stone to separate them from the realm of the dead – only a gaping gateway with dark runes smeared over its frames.

"The way is shut," Elrohir read, "it was made by the dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut."

"Doesn't look very shut to me," Gimli muttered, but his voice was soft as a mouse's whisper, and the air around him swallowed his words.

"We will have to lead the horses from here," said Elrohir, his fingers combing through his own beast's mane. "We will need them on the other side, but I don't think they will ride in of their own accord."

For a moment they lingered, each waiting for someone else to make the first move. Finally, Aragorn broke the silence.

"I do not ask any of you to come with me."

"For the love of gold, laddie, we're all here, and we're not turning back," Gimli muttered, shaking his head and sliding down from the horse. The moment his feet hit the ground, a thrill shuddered up him, stealing his breath. The very stone beneath his feet felt foreboding, and restless, and cruel. He shivered, and turned his eyes to the inky black of the doorway.

It was like staring into the depths of Khazad-dûm, if the depths of Khazad-dûm had been stripped of history and beauty and pride, and imbued with malice.

"I do not fear death," said Aragorn, but his voice was as a whisper, and even as he strode towards the door, Gimli could see the tightness in his shoulders. His horse protested, whickering and stomping its feet, but Aragorn calmed it with a few soft words, and then he stepped forwards, and was swallowed by the dark.

Without hesitation, Elrond's sons stepped in after him, and then Halbarad stepped forward. He paused, and Gimli thought that he looked pale.

"My death lies beyond this door," he murmured, like one in a dream. "Yet I will go, all the same." And with that, he too delved int the dark before them.

Boromir, who looked positively grey with fear, took a tentative step for the door, but his horse shrieked and reared, pulling away with a force that flung Boromir to one side. Even as the man swore, Legolas darted forwards and took the reins, murmuring gentle elvish to the creature. Slowly, the horse returned his hooves to the ground, and snuffled at Legolas' shoulder, his eyes white, and horrified. Carefully, Legolas arranged both the reins of his own horse and of Boromir's in his left hand – his right was still bound to his chest in its splint and sling.

"I will lead your horse," said the elf, nodding at Boromir, who gave a grateful ghost of a half-smile.

"Thank you, my friend," he muttered, letting the reins fall from his fingers. He looked to Gimli, and shook his head. "We are being left behind." Legolas nodded, and Boromir swallowed, pulling back his shoulders and striding into the gloom. Legolas and the two horses were right behind him, and then Gimli was left with the very sudden realisation that he was alone.

"What's this?" he said to himself, his voice falling flat against the cold stone. "An elf goes underground, where a dwarf dared not?"

Gritting his teeth, he fought every instinct in his body, and plunged himself into the abyss. For a moment it was overwhelmingly, suffocatingly dark, and for the first time in his life, Gimli felt that the dark was something to be afraid of. He could not see his hands before his face, or the glint of his axe, or even the darker shapes of shadows, and his breath began to come quickly, sharply. His hands moved out in front of him, and he began to run, but his fingers warned him of a corner, and when he rounded it, he found a flaming torch in his face.

"Kakhuf inbarathrag!" he swore, jumping back before the flames could burn his beard off. "You could have warned me, Legolas!"

The elf grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Do you want the torch or not?"

Gimli pulled a face that would have made his mother roll her eyes halfway out of her skull, and held out his hand.

"Aragorn has the other," said Legolas as he passed the torch on. "The head and tail of the group."

Gimli nodded, and Legolas turned around, nodding his head. The others had been waiting, it seemed, for Gimli to catch up. He rolled his shoulders and steeled himself. They would not have to wait for him again.

Though the torchlight did not spread far, it was more than enough for Gimli to see with – so much so that he thought it would probably have been wiser for Boromir or Halbarad to be the second torch-bearer – the eyes of men were not accustomed to such darkness. Still, they were not complaining, and Gimli felt a little better with fire in hand, so he said nothing.

He did not think much of the tunnels – though they seemed sound enough structurally, they looked rough as an orc's backside, and he could see mould on the damp, dark walls. The ceiling jutted down in razor sharp stalactites, and the sides of the passageway were lined with fractured bones. After a few minutes of walking, Aragorn called a warning down the line, but it still made Gimli's stomach churn when it was his turn to see the corpse splayed across their path. Whatever clothing the poor soul had worn had long since decayed, and if he was a man or an elf or even an orc could no longer be told. But there was still flesh clinging to his bones. This corpse was old – but not that old.

Gimli shuddered as he stepped over the body. He doubted it would be the last corpse he would see in this damned place, but he held to hope that it would be the freshest body they found. And that they would not make any fresher corpses, themselves. They travelled in silence, but Gimli had the very strong sensation that he was being watched. And followed. Movements caught the edge of his eye, but every time he turned it was to see an empty passage, leading to a well of darkness behind him.

Whispers ran through the darkness, hissing words that Gimli could not make out, and making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He kept as close to Legolas as possible – though given that the elf was leading two horses, it was not particularly close at all. As if Gimli's thought had called to him, Legolas looked over his shoulder, and as he did the colour drained from his face.

Gimli whipped around. He could see nothing, nothing at all behind him, but the others' quiet questions grew to a clamour around them, and he turned back to the elf.

"What is it?" he demanded, his heart growing faster with fear at the horror in the elf's eyes.

"The dead," said Legolas, "the dead are following."

"They have been summoned," said Elrohir gravely. "Come, we must get to the Stone of Erech – there we have a chance of communicating. They should suffer us to pass that far, at least."

"Should? Chance? Summoned? Well, that's all very comforting," Gimli muttered, liking the fact that two great horse separated him from the others less and less by the second.

"They will not harm you," Aragorn promised, but Gimli was neither convinced, nor comforted.

They picked up the pace, and the horses became more restless, snorting and whickering softly, and when they looked back, Gimli could see the whites of their eyes. Legolas looked back often, too, his eyes always focused on something behind Gimli, something that Gimli could not see. By now, the dwarf's heart was beating so fast that he could feel it, so fast it was like a giant bumblebee buzzing in his chest, its beats so fast they were blurred. Terror had formed a hardened case around it, and with every frantic beat his fear grew deeper and deeper.

And then he felt the air move around him, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the shadow of a blade.

"Legolas!" he yelled, and the elf turned and gave a cry of fear. Gimli dove forward, but even as he cried out, Legolas' hands moved like lightning, and he shot an arrow into the air beside Gimli's head. He heard the arrow splinter against the wall behind him, but Gimli was not waiting to see if it had had any impact on the ghost. He sprang forwards and pushed his way between the two panicking horses. Usually, the idea of squeezing between two stomping, shrieking beasts over twice his size while brandishing a lit torch was an alarming one, but there was no way that Gimli was taking up the rear any more.

"Don't stop!" he roared at the rangers and elves staring dumbstruck at him. "Move!"

Aragorn broke into a run, and they sped through the tunnels as fast as their legs would carry them, until space broke out before them, and they spilled into a wide, open chamber, and the fear in Gimli's heart rose higher than he had known it possible to go. The walls around them were covered in skulls and bones – hundreds, maybe thousands of them, with swords and stalagmites speared through empty eye sockets, and splintered skeletons strewn on the ground beneath their feet. There was a green glow clinging to the rock, setting Gimli's teeth on edge, and in the very centre of the room was a short pillar, bearing a dark, dull stone.

"The Stone of Erech," murmured one of the elven twins. Gimli neither cared which one had spoken, nor what in Durin's name they were talking about. Because now, Gimli could see the dead too.

It was like seeing mist in human form – twisted, decaying human form – with faces half missing from rot, and torn armour that revealed bare ribs below. There were hundreds of them, and they were floating over from all directions, their soulless eyes boring into the travellers, their bodies blurring into each other's as they formed a ring around the travellers. Weapons hung from their sides, rotted and broken, and even these were ghostly – even these, Gimli could see through.

And then there came the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath, and Aragorn stepped forward, thrusting his sword into the air.

"This," he roared, his voice like thunder in the empty space, "Is Anduril! Forged from the shards of Narsil – and I am Aragorn, son of Aragorn – heir of Isildur. I summon you now, and bid you listen! The hour has come for you to fulfil your oath, and at last be free after so many years of grief. Fight for me, and I will hold your oath fulfilled. Fight for me, and I will set you free. What say you?"

A deafening silence crashed into the chamber as his voice died down, and Gimli swallowed. He had never heard so profound a silence – even the horses made no noise.

It was how he imagined a tomb to sound.

He could barely breathe.

And then a ghost stepped forward, the shadow of a crumbling crown on his brow. He reached Aragorn, and his fingers rose to brush against Anduril's blade. His eyes widened, and then turned sharply to Aragorn.

"You will free us?"

"You have my word," said Aragorn, lowering his sword and bowing his head. "As soon as the battle at Minas Tirith is ended and the city was free."

The Ghost King paused, and then his green lips parted to reveal a toothless, see-through smile. "It is done," he said. "We fight."

A great swell rose up as the ghosts of the men of the mountain raised their blades and roared, and every hair on Gimli's body stood on end. It was all he could do not to leap into Legolas' arms lie a frightened maiden, and beside him, the horses' eyes were white with fear. But Aragorn was beaming, and he bowed low. "Thank you," he said sombrely. "Thank you. Come – there is no time to lose."

The ghost king inclined his head, and then began to drift swiftly towards another, nearby tunnel. Aragorn followed, and their group began to move again, and Gimli ensured that he remained tightly in the middle of it.

Though Aragorn seemed much happier, Gimli was far from relieved. These ghosts were oath breakers – what was to say that they were not leading them deeper into the mountain, into an ambush? It all seemed too easy, and Gimli could not trust easy.

Especially when the minutes dragged into hours, and the hours became insurmountable, immeasurable, and the torches had long since burnt out. But as the third set of torches dwindled away into darkness, a light began to glow up ahead – the soft, unmistakable light of outdoors. Never had Gimli longed so fiercely to reach it, to be out of a mountain and beneath the open sky. The horses let out soft snorts of relief, and quickened their pace, and Gimli began to count down the moments until he reached fresh air. He expected the countdown to be broken, to feel a ghostly dagger at his throat before he had any chance of seeing the sun again, but nothing happened.

Instead, they poured out onto the mountainside, where mist hung in the air beneath a grey, laden sky, and drizzle drifted miserably down. All Gimli could see was grey – the grey rock of the mountain leading down to grey ground and the grey bank of a river grey in the reflections of the clouds.

Gimli did not think he had ever seen a more beautiful sight. He let his head fall back, and the light rain fall on his face, and his heart sang as he drew in a deep breath.

"I do not think I ever want to go underground again," murmured Legolas beside him, his eyes closed and his head, like Gimli's, tilted towards the rain and sky.

"I'm as close as I'll ever be to agreeing with you on that," Gimli muttered back, slowly dragging his eyes to the others. They, too, looked glad to be out of the darkness of the Paths of the Dead, and colour was returning to the cheeks of the elves even as shapes began to materialise around them. And despite the exhaustion wrought onto his face, Aragorn was smiling as he mounted his horse, and watched an army of green-hued ghosts appear around them.

"Great," Gimli muttered as Legolas pulled him up. "Back on the horse."

"Take heart, Gimli," said Aragorn, and there was a glint in his eye that Gimli would never forget. "For now we ride to Minas Tirith. Now, we ride to war."

I hope you liked that chapter, and it wasn't too anti-climactic for you! Do let me know what you thought if you can, I love hearing from you – but for now, onto the next chapter!