Help From another World

by Scribe of Worlds

Gandalf's plea from Isengard Tower reaches farther than he could ever imagine. Even to four demigods relaxing in a park after the Battle of Manhattan. Naturally, they respond. The Fellowship of the Ring is formed. A grand adventure from the dark of Moria to the beauty of Lorien. Dark paths, epic battles, annoying demigods. Middle Earth will never know what hit it.

20. Dark Paths

Hey Everybody! Wassup?

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Anyone?

Wow...looks like I took so long between chapters that no one's left...

I'm so sorry guys, really, for taking such a long time. My IGCSE's are at the end of this month, so I've been revising like hell. In fact, this will be the last post for quite a long while. So, yeah, I've written a really long one this time, and this chapter is PACKED with feels, haha.

Another announcement is that I need a new beta for this story. Alone on the Water has lately been feeling inundated with stuff, so yeah, I need someone else. Preferably someone with good knowledge of both Percy Jackson and Lord of the Rings lore and good grammar. I need someone who is not afraid to yell at me when I need it and to give constructive criticism. So if anyone's interested just shoot me a pm, okay?

So yeah, enjoy this chapter, and please remember to review! (The previous chapter gained very little reviews, is something wrong?)

On with the tale! 1, 2, 3, GERONIMOOOOO!

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Dark Paths

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Boromir

The night was dark, and to Theoden's eyes the riders seem to spring from the night itself. Boromir and Aragorn rushed to his side, trying to make out the rather large company that had reached their encampment. "Halt! Who passes in Rohan?" He challenged them

"Rohan you say?" A voice responded. "That is a glad word indeed, for we have travelled many leagues to reach this land."

"What is your business here?" Eomer stepped up to his king's side. "Identify yourself, my lords."

"We seek the one Aragorn, son of Arathorn." One horseman alighted, striding forward and throwing back his hood, his face clearly visible in the dim torchlight. "We were told to find him here."

"And you have found him!" Aragorn exclaimed, leaping down and running forth giddily. "Halbarad, my friend! Of all joys this is the least expected!"

Boromir stared in surprise. Another Northern Ranger! Long had he heard of the mysterious guardians of the borders, but so far he had only met Aragorn. They were all tall men, and quite strong too, considering all the blood of the Numenoreans flowing in their veins.

The two men embraced. "The Lady of the Golden Wood passed your word to us, so we have come to join your worthy cause." Halbarad laughed. "We bring with us thirty of our kindred armed and ready for war, and three guests."

Boromir made a mental note to thank the Lady the next time he saw her.

"Your help is most welcomed, Halbarad." Aragorn thanked him. "But who are these guests you speak of…" His words trailed off uncertainly, but were immediately replaced by a hearty laugh when he saw who the three other hooded figures were. He allowed himself a moment of joy as he threw his arms around Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond and his best friends in Rivendell, but grew serious when he turned to the third guest, recognizing him before the hood was even removed. "Lord Elrond."

"We must speak in private." Elrond began in a serious tone.

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The three elves and the remainder of the Fellowship were squeezed into the tent. Four elves (Including Legolas) two men, three youths, one dwarf and one hobbit. Needless to say, the small space was more than a bit cramped, but it was sufficient.

Elladan peered up at the dark, foreboding mountain beside them, before sliding himself inside through a narrow slit between two other bodies. "You certainly pick the strangest places to sleep, Aragorn."

"Aye." Elrohir laughed. "One would think he has already foreseen what is to come."

Aragorn's jaw clenched. "What is to come? What tidings do you bring?"

Elrond opened his mouth, but Elrohir butted in before anyone else had the chance to speak. "First piece of news is that our dearest sister misses you terribly, Aragorn."

Elladan snickered at the sudden blush that formed on Aragorn's face, and continued, "Father tried to get her to board the Elven ships the other day, but she refused. She has fallen for you, Aragorn. Incurably too, I might add."

Boromir noted that Aragorn's face seemed to be glowing.

Elrond gave the two brothers a glare, effectively quieting down both of them, and turned to Aragorn. "Yes, it is…true. Arwen now refuses to board the ships to the Grey Havens. She has chosen a mortal life with you." His voice dropped to a low, almost warning whisper, "So you had better return victorious, Estel, because if you break my daughters heart…" He let that threat hang in the air.

Boromir and Percy tried to suppress their snickers as Aragorn's face paled dramatically. "I will not fail you, Elrond." "It will not be our end, but his."

Elrond raised a challenging eyebrow at this. "Do you? You ride to war, but it may not be in victory. Sauron sends an army to Minas Tirith, you know this. But in secret he sends another force, which will attack, from the river. A fleet of Corsair ships sail from the South."

Percy gave a mock salute from his spot, leaning against a wooden post. "Consider it done, your lordship."

Elrond ignored him. "You are still going to be outnumbered, Aragorn. You need more men."

"There are none." Aragorn snapped, reigning in his anger at the last minute.

Elrond shot him a look, and quoted, "If you have need of haste, remember the words of the seer."

Aragorn stiffened, "You cannot be serious? Murderers! Traitors! You would call on them to fight? You know as well as I do that they answer to no one!"

Boromir raised a querying eyebrow, following his king's line of sight to that spot outside, but failed to hide his slight slump of disappointment when all he saw was the mountain, albeit a very eerie mountain.

"They will answer to you!" Elrond insisted. "You are Isildur's heir. And with this, there will be no doubt!" He reached into his pack and pulled out a long bundle wrapped in cloth.

Aragorn gasped. "Is that…"

Elrond unwrapped the bundle, and produced a majestic silver blade inscribed with elven runes, beautiful, deadly, stretching longer than a man's arm and sharper than the work of any mortal smith. The black, two-handed leather grip gave off a strange gleam against the wavering candle. The last time Boromir saw this sword, it was still merely several broken shards lying on a piece of cloth, and he couldn't help but marvel at the incredible change that befell upon it. It held an unmistakable air of power, as if an unstoppable force resided at its core.

"The Sword that was Broken has been reforged. Narsil is renewed." Elrond stated.

Boromir looked upon it with awe. So this is the sword of Elendil, the sword that Isildur had used to remove Sauron's finger. Almost involuntarily, his hand reached out, but he forced it back down. No, it was not his right. He knew better than to let the urge consume him again.

Elrond made as if to offer the sword to Aragorn. "No." Boromir called, snapping himself out of the trance of awe and interrupting whatever it was that Elrond was saying.

Elrond looked upon him in disbelief. Short gasps were heard, and Boromir received glances both shocked and betrayed. He ignored them. He knew what he was doing. "Lord Elrond, if I may, this sword is not yours to present."

Understanding dawned in the old elf's eyes. And he bowed slightly, allowing Boromir to take the sword. With slow, measured steps, Boromir dropped to a kneeling position before Aragorn, and offered the sword to him. "My King."

To his surprise, Aragorn knelt too, his face level to his. Tears glimmered in his eyes. "Thank you, Boromir. My friend." He accepted the sword, looking up and down its length, attaching it to his belt. He stood, and with one hand pulled Boromir to a standing position too. "Thank you."

Boromir smiled, suddenly so proud of his friend, his King. "Great men are forged in fire, Aragorn. It has been my privilege to light the flame."

Aragorn pulled him into a tight embrace, and raised his eyes to address everyone else in the room. "Thank you. This I vow, I will do all that I can to destroy the shadow, or die trying."

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Boromir stood watching quietly as Aragorn gazed deep into the Palantir. He had his own doubts about this, but for his friend's sake he kept them to himself. The ball lit up in flames, but Aragorn did not falter. He spoke quietly into the stone, and he raised the sword – which he had renamed Anduril (Flame of the West) – to the sphere. A fearful roar issued forth from the orb.

Sweat beaded on Aragorn's forehead, and his arms seemed to shake from immeasurable strain. His chest heaved from some unseen burden. Finally, with a loud gasp, he threw the stone to the floor, where Boromir threw a cloth over it. Aragorn slumped against a post, his face satisfied. "It is done."

"You were right about your strength and right." Boromir remarked in relief.

"The right cannot be doubted. The strength…barely. I stood before him, unmasked, and I showed him the blade reforged. I wrested the Stone to my own will." His face was shadowed. "I saw what Elrond warned me of. Danger strikes at Minas Tirith."

"Will we be in time?"

"I fear not. A muster takes time. But now the Enemy has been caught off balance. The fact that I live and walk the earth, with the sword that defeated him, is a blow to his heart. He is not so mighty yet that he is above fear." He smiled. "I have bought us time. Now we have to decide how to use it."

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The remaining members of the Company, along with Théoden, Eomer and Eowyn all sat in a circle, discussing their next move.

"I have looked into the palantir." Aragorn announced. "I have seen the enemy preparing for war. I have seen the hosts of Mordor marching out from Minas Morgul, with the Witch King of Angmar above their head." Shocked exclamations burst out. Aragorn silenced them. "We cannot afford to stay for long. We are truly in need of haste."

"Be that as it may, Aragorn, an army does not assemble in a day." Eomer argued. "I have called a muster of Rohan. All the soldiers that Rohan can spare will be called to Dunharrow where we now encamp."

"How long?" Aragorn asked.

Eomer considered. "Three days."

"Too long." Boromir stated. Aragorn nodded in agreement.

"There is no other way. It would be folly to charge in unprepared." Eowyn defended her brother.

"No." Aragorn said quietly. "It seems to me there is another way. He looked up, his eyes hooded. There are the Paths of the Dead."

The mood of the entire room plunged at once. "The Paths of the Dead!" Eowyn gasped. "Is it your errand to seek death, my lord? For that is all you will find on the road. They do not suffer the living to pass."

"It is a fell name. we do not speak of it." Théoden agreed.

"This is madness, my friend!" Eomer protested.

"I don't like the sound of it." Thalia ventured.

Aragorn sighed, getting to his feet. "It is the way I must go. I leave in five minutes. I charge none to follow me, though I do not deny company would be most welcome."

Gimli stood.

Aragorn smiled softly. "Perhaps you might want to reconsider, Gimli."

"hmmm..." Gimli did not sit.

Legolas stood, chuckling. "You should have learned now of the stubbornness of dwarves, Aragorn."

"I'm going." Nico stood. "Ghosts and the Underground? You'll definitely need some help."

Aragorn laughed. "I would be very grateful for yours."

"Count me in" Percy got to his feet.

"Percy!" Thalia gasped. "I knew Death boy would volunteer, but you?"

Percy pulled off a lighthearted grin. "Hey, there're Corsairs to fight, very possibly a battle in the River. How could I resist?"

Thalia sighed, then pulled both her cousins into a tight hug. "Just...stay safe." She muttered.

"We will." Nico smiled, hugging her back.

Percy looked completely serious. "Don't worry, Thals."

Boromir frowned. "I'm sorry, my brother. This is one journey I...cannot take with you."

Aragorn gripped his shoulder. "I understand. I do not lay any compulsion on you. Stay, and strengthen our ties to Rohan." He smiled.

"Thank you, Aragorn." Boromir said in relief.

"You will do as you will, Aragorn."Theoden said, resigned. "It is your doom, maybe, to tread strange paths that others dare not. This parting grieves me, and I do not deny my strength would have been lessened by it, if Boromir had not stayed."

Aragorn nodded to Boromir and strode out of the strode out of the tent. "Let us prepare. We leave as soon as we're ready."

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Boromir watched alongside Théoden and Thalia as Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, Percy and Nico walked into the cleft by the mountain. Merry was waving sadly from behind him. Thalia, too, stayed behind, deciding that she would be of more use riding in open battle, though she was surreptitiously wiping tears from her eyes. Merry had been forbidden the trip by Aragorn due to his youth, much to his secret relief.

"He rides to his death." Eowyn commented sadly.

Boromir shook his head. "He rides to bring hope to us."

"He rides among the Dead now, Boromir." Théoden sighed. "I hope for his safety, but I fear I will not see him again."

"He will return." Boromir stated, as much trying to reassure himself as the others. He had complete trust in Aragorn, but even Aragorn may have trouble dealing with the Dead.

"What now?" Thalia wondered.

"For now, we wait." Eomer answered. "Here at Dunharrow we have called a Muster of Rohan. Riders will come from all over their country with their eodreds. When Rohan is assembled, we will ride for Gondor."

Boromir suddenly shaded his eyes, looking into the distance. "I see two horsemen riding fast towards us."

"Shall we stop them?" Theoden asked.

Boromir held up a hand. "We wait, for now."

The two horsemen arrived, alighting. They had the appearance of wizened old men, though Boromir had long learned not to judge by appearances. They were both robed in blue, and bore long smooth staffs. As with Gandalf and Saruman, they exuded an air of hidden power.

"Istari." He breathed.

One of the wizards smiled. "Greetings, I am Alatar the Blue, and this is my companion Pallando the Blue. We have come to your aid."

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Frodo

The Dead City lay before them. A long tilted valley, a deep gulf of shadow; it ran back far into the mountains. Upon the further side, some way within the valley's arms, high on a rocky seat upon the black knees of the Ephel Duath, stood the walls and the tower. All was dark about it, earth and sky, but it was lit with light. Paler indeed than the moon ailing in some slow eclipse was the light of it, wavering and blowing light some exhalation of decay. A corpse light was the first expression that came to Frodo's mind. A light that illuminated nothing. In the walls and the tower windows showed, like countless black holes looking inward into emptiness, but the topmost course of the tower revolved slowly, first one way and then another, a huge ghostly head leering into the night. Here was Minas Morgul, The Tower of Sorcery. the Dead City, City of the Ringwraiths.

For a moment, all four of them stared, transfixed, staring up with unwilling eyes. Gollum was the first to recover, dragging them away. Annabeth was the first to understand, and urgently pushed the two hobbits forward. Time seemed to slow, so that every step seemed to take minutes. A foul stench of decay hung in the air. Bestial, hideous forms were carved into the rock. It was a nightmare.

Gollum led them slowly up a small cleft. "the secret stairs are here! Yess master, yess, mistress, we have found it! The way to Mordor. Climb! Climb!"

An upward road climbed slowly up the cliff wall. Frodo squinted. In the dim light, he could make out faint steps hewn into the rock. "Are those...stairs?"

"Yes! The secret stairs Now climb! Master! Climb!"

Frodo nodded and started up the rocky path when suddenly a strange feeling seized him. Slowly, he turned towards the gate of Minas Morgul. Something was calling to him, something was drawing him. He took a step towards the yawning gate, than another. The Ring burnt hot by his breast.

A despairing cry came from behind. "No! you mustn't go there! Not that way!"

"They're calling me" Frodo said dreamily. The voices were getting stronger, the call more intense. His fingers played with the Ring around his neck.

Suddenly, strong arms wrapped themselves around him and tossed him onto someone's back. Frodo tried to struggle, but the person had an iron grip. "Snap out of it Frodo!" Annabeth cried. Frodo awoke, clear minded once more, lying on Annabeth's back as she sprinted upwards, taking the secret stairs.

At that moment the rock quivered and trembled beneath them. The great rumbling noise, louder than ever before, rolled in the ground and echoed in the mountains. Then with searing suddenness there came a great red flash. Far beyond the eastern mountains it leapt into the sky and splashed the lowering clouds with crimson. In that valley of shadow and cold deathly light it seemed unbearably violent and fierce. Peaks of stone and ridges like notched knives sprang out in staring black against the uprushing flame in Gorgoroth. Then came a great crack of thunder.

And Minas Morgul answered. There was a flare of livid lightning; forks of blue flame springing up from the tower and from the encircling hills into the sullen clouds. The earth groaned; a green swirling light burst forth from the tower, a signal reaching out to the heavens. Out of the city there came a black figure riding a huge winged beast.

The black figure screeched a cry to the heavens. Tall it was, dark and terrible, faceless. An ornate crown was on its hood. Frodo groaned as once again he felt the pull of the Ringwraiths. The pull to don the Ring and reveal himself. Now he beheld their leader, and she understood that only now was his full strength revealed. Here was the Lord of the Nazgul, the Witch King of Angmar. The rending screech shivered, rising swiftly to a piercing pitch beyond the range of hearing.

He remembered the pale king, driving the Morgul blade into his shoulder. The pain suddenly flared up, as acute as the day he received it. He groaned from the pain. "I can feel his blade..."

"Hush now." Annabeth soothed, holding him tight.

The terrible cry ended, falling back into a long sickening wail to silence. The huge black gates swung open, like a huge mouth gaping wide. Out of it the army came. All of that host was clad in sable, dark as the night. They marched, small figures in rank upon rank, marching swiftly and silently, passing outwards in an endless stream.

The four travellers were silent. Mutely, they watched, helpless to do anything.

There was a dull clang as the gates of Minas Morgul swung shut. The last of the army faded, marching into the West.

Annabeth finally stirred. She put Frodo down gently, and they strode up the stairs again, their sense of urgency renewed by the sight of what they had to stop. The sense of despair had not left him, but the bout of weakness had. He could continue. They hurried up the stairs.

For a long time, they walked up the stairs with nothing between them and the city down below. The slightest misstep could have them plunging to their deaths. The next section had walls on either side, but the stairway became as steep as a ladder. The hobbits had a harder time of it, as their legs were shorter, but still they persevered on.

"Clever hobbits to climb so high, very clever hobbits." Gollum remarked as they paused for a short breather. "There's another stair still, much longer stair. We shall reach soon."

Sam groaned, still huffing from the climb. "Longer, did you say?"

"Yes, yess, longer. But not so difficult." Gollum assured. "Hobbits and Mistress have climbed the Straight Stair. Next comes the Winding stair. Then comes the tunnel."

"Yes, this tunnel." Annabeth spoke. "The Pass of Cirith Ungol." She said the name, watching Gollum carefully.

Gollum flinched, but said nothing, trying to move off. Annabeth grabbed hold of one bony arm. "Listen to me, Gollum. I don't entirely trust you, so let me make one thing clear. Anything happens to the hobbits, you'll have me to answer to." She showed Gollum her knife. "Just know that I am watching you, Gollum."

Gollum nodded slowly, then bounded off into the darkness. "Follow! Follow!"

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"I wonder what sort of tale we've fallen into?" Sam wondered aloud as they continued to trudge up the hill.

"Pardon?" Annabeth asked, too tired to turn.

"I remember those brace things in the old tales and songs. Great adventures, brave quests, epic battles." Sam explained, huffing slightly. "I used to think they had to be sought out, that folk went on them to escape their dull lives. But now, I see that it's not the way of it."

Frodo smiled. "Like Uncle Bilbo's adventure? Reclaiming the dwarves lost treasure?"

"Yes, but now I see that folk don't have to seek them out." Sam laughed. "Sometimes folk just land in them, like their paths were laid that way. I expect like us, they had lots of chances to turn back, only they didn't."

"Oh, I know what you mean." Annabeth gave a surprisingly light laugh, her eyes lighting. Suddenly she sobered. "But it's not always a good end, though, is it?"

"All tales have ends." Frodo spoke. "And good end or sad, these tales are the ones worth listening to."

"True." Annabeth acknowledged.

"So I was wondering what tale we were in." Sam brought the conversation back. "I don't know, and I guess that's the way of a real tale. You may know, or guess, what kind of ending it might hold, but we don't really know for sure until the story's ended."

"Just as all the great heroes of yore." Frodo smiled. "The Tale of the Valar, the Tale of Turin, the Last Alliance of men and elves, Beren One Handed and the Silmaril – "

"Speaking of the Silmaril," Annabeth interrupted, "It became Earendil, the star, didn't it?"

"Why!" Sam stopped for a moment. "I never thought of that before! We've got, Frodo's got the light of it in the star glass that the Lady gave him!" Frodo's fingers found the glass still in his pocket.

Annabeth laughed. "I think...I think those ancient tales never end. The people come and go, and the monsters come and go, when their parts are ended, but the story will go on." She mused.

"Our part will end later" Frodo smiled, before a brief expression of doubt crossed his face, "Or sooner."

"Don't be like that now," Sam huffed. "Why, perhaps in the future, in hobbit homes across the Shire, the bards will sing a ballad of our adventures! 'Let's hear of Frodo and the Ring!' They'll say."

Annabeth laughed. "The Fellowship of Thirteen and the Ring of Doom." She mused.

Sam looked taken aback, "Why, that would be a marvelous name for a tale, wouldn't it?" He grinned. "The story of Kings and Noblemen like Aragorn and Boromir, Elves and Dwarves like Legolas and Gimli, Wizards like Gandalf, astonishing Heroes like Annabeth, Percy, Nico and Thalia, and Frodo the Ringbearer with his little band." He laughed. "Oh that sounds like a story I would love to listen to."

Frodo laughed. "Why Sam, to hear you somehow makes me as merry as if the story was already written., But you left out one of the chief characters; Samwise the stouthearted." He grinned. "I wouldn't have got as far as I did without you and Annabeth, would I?"

Sam blushed, the red shining through his dirt stained cheeks.

Annabeth chuckled. "It's true, you know. We're all stories in the end. We'll just make it a good one for the little ones to hear, eh?"

Their spirits higher than before, they continued to climb.

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The tunnel was deep and dark, like an orc's den. They entered in single file, with Annabeth taking the last position. In a few steps they were in utter and impenetrable dark.

They stumbled through the dark, led by Gollum. They seemed to go for ages, until suddenly Sam gave a cry. "Hey! Where's that Gollum got to now?"

"Isn't he in front of us?"

"Not anymore!"

Frodo panicked. "Sméagol! Sméagol!" but his voice croaked and the name fell dead almost as it left his lips. There was no answer, not an echo, not even a tremor of the air.

"Annabeth, what do we do now?" Frodo turned slightly.

As before, there was no answer.

"Annabeth?! Annabeth!" Sam was also on the verge of panic. "She isn't here!"

They were alone in the dark.

Something hissed.

They were alone in the dark, and there was something else with them.

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Aragorn

The Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain, was silent. Ancient stones stood amongst gloomy black trees. There was no wind, no air. But fear flowed freely in currents around the valley. Evil was keenly felt. The road was wide, with walls on each side. Dread lay heavily on all that may dare to enter. At the Dark Door, A long finger of stone stood, dark, black and foreboding. A warning. Signs and figures were carved upon its wide arch. No man could look on it without quailing. But it did not matter. No living man had set foot in the cursed valley for many, many long decades.

For the first time in more than a hundred years, footsteps sounded on the cold stone floor. Nervous whinnies carried through the valley, along with the whispered assurances of their riders. Something stirred inside the mountain. There were trespassers inside the Paths of the Dead.

The silence was abruptly broken by a voice.

"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 oath breakers;

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 grey 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"

"Oh sure, make it all the more creepy, why don't you?" Percy complained. "It's cold, I can barely see or feel anything, and the only thing I hear is you reciting that creepy poem!" He waved his torch around, but the firelight barely illuminated the floor before them.

Aragorn gave a wry chuckle, shrugging. "Thus spoke Malberd The Seer, in the days of Arvedui, last king of Fornost."

"Dark staves…" Gimli muttered. "To fit a dark path."

"Do you fear the dead, friend Gimli?" Legolas teased lightly.

Gimli snorted. "Aye. I have no shame in admitting this. But I follow nonetheless." He paused, then added as an afterthought. "Besides, An elf will go underground and a dwarf dare not? That is a thing unheard of!"

"Still," Percy continued, trying to keep a light air, "This place should be up Nico's alley, eh? Creepy black surroundings, lots of ghosts." He winked.

Nico rolled his eyes, a small smirk tugging at the sides of his face. "So why are we here, Aragorn?" He asked. "Something tells me that you're not just here to take a shortcut. I can feel something stirring."

Aragorn's grim gaze swept the walls. "In the days of Isildur, The King of the Mountain swore allegiance to him at the beginning of the realm of Gondor. But when Sauron returned and grew in might again, Isildur summoned the Men of the Mountains to fulfill their oath."

"Lemme guess." Percy interjected dryly. "They broke it."

Aragorn nodded. "They had worshipped Sauron in the dark years. Then Isildur said to their King. "Thou shalt be the last king. And if the West proves mightier than thy Black Master, this curse I lay upon thee and thy folk; to rest never until your oath is fulfilled. For this war will last through years uncounted, and you shall be summoned once again ere the end."

"So it's like the losing side paying tribute to Ares? Unable to rest until they fulfill some obligation or other?" Nico queried. "Father is always grousing on how Ares treats his tributes."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. He had long since grown used to the random comments the demigods could throw out. "They fled before the wrath of Isildur, and did not dare to go forth to war on Sauron's part; and they hid themselves in secret places in the mountains and had no dealings with other men, but slowly dwindled in the barren hills. And the terror of the Sleepless Dead lies about the Hill of Erech and all places where that people lingered. From then, few men dared even to approach this haunted mountain."

"And yet, here we are." Legolas observed, bringing his torch close to the walls around them as they walked. "Walking the Paths of the Dead."

"I see nothing." Gimli's voice floated out of the dark.

"Oh, I sense them." Nico said quietly. Aragorn looked at him in alarm. "For now, they observe, but they are suspicious. I hope you know what you are doing, Aragorn."

Aragorn nodded, and his hand went to the hilt of his new sword. "The fact that we have entered is proof enough. It is said that when Eorlingas came out of the North, Brego and his son Baldor climbed the Stair of the Hold and came up to the Dark Door. On the threshold sat an old man, aged beyond guess of years; tall and kingly he had been, but now he was withered as an old, stone. Indeed for stone they took him, for he moved not, and he said no word, until they sought to pass him by and enter, And then a voice came out of him, as it were out of the ground and to their amaze it spoke in the western tongue; The Way is shut."

"Yeesh, and I thought we were done with the ghost stories." Percy muttered quietly. Nico and Gimli snickered.

Aragorn ignored them. "Then they halted and looked at him and saw that he lived still; but he did not look at them. The way is shut, his voice said again. It was made by those who are Dead, and the Dead keep it, until the time comes, the way is shut. Then the old man died in that hour and fell upon his face."

"So the way has been opened for us to pass through?" Legolas asked.

Aragorn gave them a quick flash of a smile, then he turned and continued walking.

Time unreckoned passed in the pitch darkness. Aragorn felt the dread steadily increase, though nothing assailed or hindered them. A deep blindness was upon him. They seemed to wind their way through interconnecting tunnels and rough-hewn burial chambers that all looked the same – the walls carved with dusty niches that might once have held bodies. Even the sounds of their horses' footsteps had been muffled by the deep darkness.

Aragorn shivered. In the eerie glow of their torches, his companions looked like flickering ghosts. Percy tried to speak, to lighten the mood, and Aragorn was thankful for that, but soon the air was so oppressive that even speaking was difficult. But Percy had always been persistent.

"Why didn't the skeleton cross the road?"

Nico groaned.

Speaking was an effort, but Percy managed to gasp out, "Because it had no guts!"

The whole company, Aragorn included, muttered groans.

The walls suddenly widened out, and they came to a wide-open space. There were no walls on either side. Something glinted in the gloom as Aragorn's torch drew near. Intrigued, he stepped closer. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened at the sight.

"Does he feel no fear?" Gimli grumbled from somewhere behind him. "There's a huge difference between being brave and just being recklessly boneheaded!"

"Sounds like something Annabeth would say." Percy chuckled quietly. Then they came near and saw what Aragorn had seen.

Bones, the bones of a mighty man. He had been clad in mail, and his armor was still intact. He had fallen at the far end of the cave, the bones of his hand still clawing at the cracks. Beside him was a notched and broken sword, as if he had hewn the rock in his last despair. Around him lay jewels and coins, all glinting in the torchlight. Even his armor was made of pure gold.

"Touch nothing." Nico warned.

"We won't." Legolas assured him.

"What did he want?" Percy wondered, speaking slowly. "Do you think we'll ever find out?"

Aragorn sucked in a deep breath, for a moment wondering what errand the man had, and how he had entered. But that was not his errand. Behind him, the whispering darkness watched. He spun around. "Nay!" He called to the ghostly air. "For that is not my errand Keep your hoards and yours secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"

There was no answer, unless it were an utter silence more dreadful than the whispers before; and then a chill blast came in which the torches flickered and went out, and could not be rekindled.

"Oh Styx. That's that, I suppose." Percy's voice floated out of the darkness, resigned. The horses whinnied in fear, and Percy muttered comforting words to all of them, stroking them.

Aragorn took several deep, calming breaths. He could see nothing, nothing at all. "Nico, how is your vision?" He enquired.

"I can see, but barely. Forms and shadows, I guess. I don't really have much power in here. I can feel the tunnel, though. It goes on for a while yet."

"Lead the way, Nico. You're the only one out of us that can see." Aragorn commanded.

Of the time that followed, one hour or many, Aragorn remembered little, and the little that he remembered he wished that he could forget. They forged on through the darkness quickly, stumbling, occasionally tripping. Fear and Dread were their constant companions, and there was a groping horror ever behind them , seeming ready to seize them at the slightest chance.

"The Dead are following!" Legolas cried. "I see shapes of Men and of horses, and pale banners like shreds of cloud, and spears like winter-thickets on a deep night."

Rumor came after them like the shadow-sound of many feet. Voices not his own or his companions were heard from far away. Sounds of laughter, of yells, of distant horns. Behind him, Gimli gave a low moan. Even Aragorn felt himself almost seized by the throes of madness. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on through the blackness. They stumbled on until they were crawling or running as men possessed. He could endure no more. He must either find an ending and escape or run back in madness to meet the following fear.

Percy gave a loud cry and slashed at the air frantically. Nico dropped behind to grip his hand. Together they continued to run as fast as they could. "Take a left!" Nico yelled. "The exit is near!"

The first sign was the patch of darkness slightly lighter than the surroundings. The next a glimmer of stars. Then from another wide, broad arch, they burst out of the mountain at the other side into glorious light, even the meager evening sunlight dazzling to their eyes. Aragorn gave a relieved cry. "Now to the Stone of Erech! Ride! Ride!"

They rode, the dead behind them. In the dim light, Aragorn could almost see them. Pale men on pale horses with weapons drawn, riding behind them, with the sky and land visible through them. At the head rode the King of the Dead. Taller and stronger was he, a crown upon his brow and a rich cloak draped around his broad shoulders. Wherever they passed, doors slammed shut and windows were hurriedly shuttered. Lights went out and children ran. "The King of the Dead!" They wailed, "The King of the Dead is upon us!"

They arrived on a hill. Upon the hill stood buried a large black stone, tall as a man, blacker than night. They alighted their steeds and stood upon the hill. Around them, the dead thronged, a great host, massing together until they almost became opaque. A chill wind, the breath of ghosts, stirred the air around them. The King of the Dead strode forward. "You have summoned us." He spoke in a voice of chill wind, of rustling leaves.

Aragorn stepped forward, summoning all his confidence and looking the King in the eyes. A shiver passed through him as he gazed into the dead eyes of the King, but he held steady. "I would have your allegiance." He replied.

"The Living have no business with the Dead."

Another deep breath to instill his confidence. "And yet I have summoned you, Oathbreakers, to fulfill your oath, and to give you peace."

The King gave no answer, but tilted his head, considering him.

Aragorn took a quick glance at his friends, who tried to give him reassuring smiles. He turned back to the King. "The Hour has come at last to fulfill your oath, Oathbreakers. Now I go to Pelargir upon Anduin, and ye shall come after me. And when all this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold the oath fulfilled, and ye shall have peace forever."

The King almost laughed. He shook his head, seemingly surprised at his audacity. Then he looked to Aragorn contemptuously. His voice was low, deadly. "Who are you to command us? Who are you to offer us peace? From what comes your right to make demands of us?!"

Aragorn replied in slow, measured words, steadily returning the King's gaze. "I have the only right. For I am Elessar, Isildur's heir of Gondor."

The King laughed, and a clamor broke out of his assembled hordes. "This cannot be"

Aragorn raised a hand and placed it upon his chest. "I am the only one that can give you your peace! Follow me."

"WE RECOGNIZE NO MASTER!" The King of the Dead bellowed, his eyes alight with rage.

"You will obey me!" Aragorn bellowed in turn.

Outrage broke from the Army of the Dead. The ghosts clamored and yelled in defiance, banging their swords against their shields. The sound echoed over the hill. Aragorn sighed and put his head in his hands in despair.

"SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO HIM!" A loud cry rang over the hill, and suddenly a large portion of the Dead found themselves temporarily robbed of speech. Nico's chest heaved as he glared upon the dead. "He has summoned you, and he has made his demand. Honor the promise you made, or so help me I SHALL ADD TO THE LIST OF YOUR CURSES!" Aragorn sent the son of Hades a grateful glance.

The King paused, considering. "You have a strange aura, almost as if you have spent time with the dead. But still you do not command us. You are but a mewling child!" He spat.

Nico drew his sword, which drew light in until it was as black as the Stone beside them. The ghosts nearest to him stepped back in awe or fear. "I am a Son of Hades, Lord of the Earth and Ruler of the Underworld. The Dead in all worlds answer to me, even you. I may not have as much power in this world, but you WILL STILL HONOUR MY COMMANDS!"

The King of the Dead roared in outrage. "ATTACK!" He screamed. "DESTROY THEM!" The Dead surged forward to them in a huge wave. Aragorn's heart dropped to his stomach. This had gone horribly, terribly wrong.

Everything was a blur as the very air seemed to bend as hundreds of ghosts swirled around the entire hill. Aragorn was forced to defend himself as he was beset on by hordes of whispering ghosts.

"Bad! Bad! This is very bad!" Percy cursed, slashing Riptide in a wide arc around him. His sword seemed the only one that could touch them, but they reformed even after the Celestial Bronze had dispersed them.

"Our weapons can't harm them!" Legolas cried from behind Percy, as he fired arrows uselessly into the throng.

Gimli yelled as one of the ghosts dented his helm. "But their weapons leave a mark! This is most one-sided battle!"

"Hold! Obey me!" Aragorn cried desperately.

"Stand down! Stay still! SHUT UP!" Nico screamed. His commands slowed the ghosts down, but the effects only lasted for less than a minute. His eyes met Aragorn's and suddenly opened wide in realization. "Aragorn, I can't command them, but YOU can! Your sword. Show them your sword!"

With all his strength, Nico gave his loudest cry yet. "SHUT UP!" He reeled back slightly from the exertion of his strength. As before, the ghosts fell silent for but a moment. But then the silence was filled by another voice that radiated with authority.

"I AM ARAGORN, SON OF ARATHORN. I AM ELESSAR, HEIR OF ELENDIL AND ISILDUR. I WIELD NARSIL, REFORGED AS ANDURIL, FLAME OF THE WEST! ON MY NECK LIES THE ELFSTONE, THE TOKEN OF MY KINGSHIP. YOU SWORE AN OATH TO MY FOREFATHERS. NOW HONOUR YOUR OATH! JOIN US IN THE FIGHT AGAINST SAURON, AND I WILL GIVE YOU YOUR REST!" Aragorn bellowed at the top of his lungs, holding Anduril and the Elfstone aloft.

The Army of the Dead fell silent. Aragorn stood, chest heaving. "Are you with me or against me?" He said slowly.

The King of the Dead gave a short, stiff bow, then raised his sword, and behind him hundreds of ghostly swords were raised, like a thicket of branches in winter. "We fight."

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

Annabeth

The cave was pitch black and freezing. Unbidden, what she had seen in the Mirror suddenly flashed into her mind. And to her horror, she realized it to be exactly the same cavern. "F…Frodo? Sam!" She cried, trying to find her companions in the dark. "Where are you?!"

She tripped over something and fell hard to the ground. She raised her blade, trying to see what had tripped her. In the faint bronze light, she saw bones. White, bleached bones. Bile rose in her throat. She almost broke down on the spot. She had seen this before, in her vision. She knew exactly what to expect. And gods, she was terrified. She was so terrified. "P…Percy…" She heard her own voice begging. But his name had strengthened her resolve. "I am not going to die here. I am going to see Percy again." She swore.

She got up slowly and raised her knife again. Again, she cursed herself for being so careless as to leave her backpack alone. Now it was gone, and with it her shield, her last jar of Greek fire, Daedalus' Laptop, and most importantly her torch.

She continued on, hoping against hope to catch even a glimpse of light that would tell her where Frodo was. He had gone in ahead with Gollum, with Sam following. She had fallen behind slightly, then Gollum had suddenly turned on her. She had fought him off, of course, and now he was probably sulking in the dark, but his attack had worked to distract her and separate her. It was a trap. And now Frodo and Sam were heading straight into it, and she was elsewhere, lost. Helpless.

It was almost worse than the darkness of Moria, and if possible, here it was deeper and denser. There, there had been airs moving, echoes, and a sense of space. Here the air was still, stagnant, heavy, and sound fell dead. She stumbled in a black vapor wrought of veritable darkness itself that, as it was breathed, brought blindness not only to the eyes but also to the mind. Styx, did she hate underground places. First the Underworld, then Labyrinth, then the Mines, and now this. What's next? Tartarus?! Underground was never a good place to be. To her, night always had been, always would be, and night was all.

She almost tripped again, and her hand reached towards the walls to steady herself. She choked back a scream as she felt the sticky, silky strings covering the walls. She wasn't a fool. She knew what was ahead. But the webs made her realize just how close she was. She stumbled ahead, breathing heavily. The tunnel became thicker with cobwebs, filling it. Soon she was pushing the sticky strings off her face, angrily slicing through the gauzy curtains. Her heart wanted to break out of her chest and run.

She stumbled ahead at an almost reckless pace. Her left hand clutched the coral pendant on her neck, drawing courage from it. Her right hand was a blur, slicing through every string in her way. Tears were streaming from her face.

Suddenly, the tunnel opened out into a larger cavern. The faint light from her blade fell upon a bundle on the floor, wrapped tight with silken threads. Annabeth rushed towards it, putting her hands on it. It was just the height of a hobbit. Annabeth saw that it was too thin to be Sam, and that meant that this was Frodo trapped underneath. She touched the silk on the bundle, recoiling in disgust as her fingers almost stuck themselves to it. It had gotten to Frodo. To her horror she realized she could feel no pulse.

Her knife was out in an instant, trying to free the hobbit without actually hurting him. Slowly, she freed the top half of him. She pressed her hand against his neck. There was no pulse. "Oh Frodo..." She whispered sadly. She didn't want to do this. It almost felt disrespectful, but there was no other way. She took the chain around Frodo's neck and slowly lifted it over his head. She placed the Ring into her pocket.

A skittering from behind made her freeze solid. A gurgling, bubbling noise and a long venomous hiss. Something moved with slow purpose in the dark. Something large, something that radiated malice. Something that could entrap and wrap a hobbit in silk. Suddenly she was seven years old again, hiding under her covers, waiting for the spiders to attack her. A foul reek radiated through the air. Slowly, almost too scared to look, she turned. The faint bronze glow was reflected from a thousand facets. Two great clusters of many-windowed eyes.

She had thought she was prepared for this. She had spent the whole trip after being separated from Percy mentally preparing for this. She was wrong. Not even the terror that had gripped her when she felt a Nazgul could compare to this. She tried to scream. No sound came from her throat.

The eyes advanced, filled with purpose and hideous delight, gloating over their prey trapped beyond all hope of escape, exulting in her fear. For a rare moment, Annabeth was transfixed with terror, her limbs trapped, as if held by some holding spell. The stench of death was like a cloud around her. For a moment, the eyes closed, and Annabeth was free, to run for the creature's amusement.

Then the eyes opened again, fixing her with its baleful stare. She forced all her concentration into her hand, and slowly, she raised her bronze knife, fully aware was only a toothpick to the monster. The soft bronze glow was, for once, no help at all.

But the eyes wavered. Doubt came into them, if only for a second. It seemed to consider her, wondering if she was worth considering a threat after all. For a moment, Annabeth's heart dared to hope. Then the creature hissed and darted forward. Her resolve broke at once. She screamed and spun around as fast as she could, and ran for her life.

Annabeth ran faster than she had ever run in her life. Her knife was a flashing bronze blur in front of her; gods help any strand of web that got in her way. Behind her, she could hear the skittering sounds of many legs. Eight long legs. She was openly sobbing now, tears threatening to blur her vision. She felt like she had never run faster in her life. Fear fuelled her on, her heart beating a frantic drumbeat. She had to find a way out!

Suddenly, a new sound penetrated her fugue of fear, running footsteps, coming her way. Her heart allowed a tiny flicker of hope. A glint of bluish white light appeared through the film of her tears. The light reflected off the edge of an elvish knife. Her heart soared with relief and hope. "Sam?!"

"O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!"

Sam was beside her, jabbing a knife that flickered with blue fire at the edges at the horror. In his left hand he gripped a starburst of beautiful, brilliant light, shooting out rays of starlight across the cavern. "Back! Back I say!" He threatened, shoving the Phial of Galadriel at the monster, and Annabeth got her first clear glance of it, a glance that made her want to scream again.

It was a Spider. A huge, enormous spider, standing taller than two buses, and its eyes, two red eyes that glinted with evil. Great horns it had, and behind her short stalk-like neck was her huge swollen body, a vast, bloated body like an overinflated water balloon. Its great bulk was black, blotched with livid marks, but the belly underneath was pale and luminous and gave forth a stench. Her legs were bent, with great knobbed joints high above her back, and hairs that stuck out like steel spines, and at each legs' end there was a claw. It was the most horrible thing she had ever seen.

It was useless to run, she knew that now. The Spider could overtake her with its long legs in but an instant. No use running. But still, she did not run. Taking deep breaths, she forced all her terror into determination. "Stand, stand!" She told herself. "Running would be no good." Instead of running, she forced herself to think. A strange, detached sort of calmness overtook her as she considered the horror before her. It was cowering back from the light, hissing and snarling.

With a yell of her own, she lunged forward with her bronze knife. The Spider hissed, and suddenly it retreated. She hardly dared to believe her luck. No, she didn't believe her luck. The Spider wouldn't be overcome that easily. "Don't let your guard down, Sam! Shine that light everywhere!" She called.

"It got Frodo! Annabeth!" Sam wailed. "It got him while I was distracted! That stinker Gollum betrayed us!"

Annabeth nodded, her eyes darting around the tunnel. "I know, Sam, I know. We'll get out of here with Frodo, I promise." She hoped her face did not betray what she really thought.

"What do we do now, Annabeth?" Sam questioned, his eyes also sweeping the length of the tunnel.

"I…I…" Annabeth faltered. "I don't know…" She admitted. Sam looked at her in shock, and his eyes widened at the fear written clear on her face.

"Are you alright, Annabeth?" He gripped her hand in concern. It was sweet, how loyal he was. He reminded her of Percy so much.

"No." She admitted. "I've…I've had a fear of spiders all my life. I…I can't do this. I'm…I'm terrified. I'm too...a...afraid." She was trembling like a leaf.

The sound started up again, that hissing, burbling sound. Evidently the spider was not willing to let its prey go so easily.

Sam gripped her hand tighter as they made their way away from the sound as fast as possible. "Hey, I remember you saying once, 'Courage isn't a matter of not being frightened, you know. It's being afraid and doing what you have to do anyway.'"

Annabeth snorted, a small smile tugging at her face. "I got that from a TV show."

"What's a t-v?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

Annabeth chuckled despite the situation. Sam, like Percy, had an almost miraculous ability to lift anyone's spirits in any situation. "Earth thing. You're right, Sam." She took in deep breaths. "I have to face my fear."

A skittering sound sounded just behind them. Sam yelped, swinging the Phial to the direction of the noise. A huge shadow was thrown against the wall, then it was gone. Annabeth took sharp, shallow breaths, her gaze darting frantically around them. Sam gripped Sting tightly in one hand, the other hand holding the light aloft, casting a warm, comforting circle of light around them.

"Funny thing," Sam remarked, holding Sting to reflect the light. "Bilbo named this knife Sting after he used it to kill a giant spider in Mirkwood Forest. Seems fitting that it's being used to fight off another spider."

Annabeth managed a grim smile, looking at her own blade. She was still terrified as Hades, but now she had chosen to fight, she was directing all her fear into that outlet. "You want to know something else about fear, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"When you're afraid, your heart beats faster." Annabeth touched her own heart. It was positively racing. "More blood races around your body. You become stronger, you become faster." She winked. "Your mind becomes more alert." She scanned the surroundings, holding the Star-phial high. "You can run faster, jump higher, hit harder. Your body preparing to fight or escape."

Sam's eyes widened, and a small smile was on his face as he too studied his surroundings. "Sounds like magic."

Annabeth grinned. "Fear is a superpower. And let me tell you something." She almost laughed. "I'm terrified. Positively, truly terrified."

"Yeah, so am I." Sam's smile was more confident now.

Annabeth swung the phial, the light landing once more on the Spider. Both she and Sam started back, then stopped. "So you tell me, Sam. Do we run, or do we fight?"

Sam's face was grim. "That monster attacked Frodo. For all I know, my master might be dead. I'm not going to run. What about you, Annabeth?"

Annabeth felt almost detached, the situation was suddenly so surreal. "Me? I'm…" Her face was set, but suddenly a small smile blossomed. "I'm going to face my fear."

They joined hands, and let out furious cries of defiance. Together, they charged straight towards the monster.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o

She had been right about one thing, she reflected as she ran forward. Fear really did sharpen the senses. Suddenly time seemed to have been slowed as her mind took in the creature before her and analyzed it. Jointed legs, compound eyes, bloated body – places to hit. Claws, venomous jaws, sting at the back – places to avoid.

Her Celestial bronze blade flew through the air and bit into one of the creature's legs. Sam flew by, the phial raised high, throwing beautiful light across the cavern. Sting slashed viciously across one great eye. One eye went dark.

The Creature hissed with fury, and suddenly hairy, clawed legs, thick and strong as steel pipes were everywhere, slashing wildly. Annabeth lunged under a reaching leg and with one strong swipe dismembered the limb from the body. The Spider gave a horrendous screech of pain. Filled with a sudden fire, she continued forward. Her blade cut a line across the belly of the beast.

A huge hairy leg knocked her back, flying. Sam rushed past roaring and waving his knife like a lunatic. The Spider raised prepared its sting. Annabeth pushed herself to her feet and let out a yell, causing the Spider to lose her focus. Sam's blade scored again.

A leg nearly stabbed her. She dodged. Another leg flew past. Sam went flying across the cavern, the phial falling to the floor. Annabeth got to her feet and desperately made a dive for it just as the Spider reached it, shoving the phial right against the Spider's good eye. The spider reared back on its legs. Annabeth and Sam scored lines across the underside. It was no use. Bloated and squelchy it seemed, but it was covered by tough, impenetrable skin. The Spider stabbed downwards furiously. Annabeth gave a low, mad laugh as she shoved her blade deep into the Spider's remaining eye.

The Spider gave a long wail of pain. It must be very distressing, a detached part of Annabeth noted dispassionately, to have your prey suddenly fight back with such ferocity after years of simply killing them. With energy she didn't know she had, she gave another yell and surged forward.

Again and again they struck, aiming for its huge body. But no matter how they slashed or stabbed, they could not penetrate its folds. They did not have the strength. They settled for its legs instead. Two more huge legs fell to the ground twitching.

The Spider's bloody head swung towards the direction of her yell. Its jaws, dripping with venom, opened in a snarl. Annabeth struck hard against its forehead, but her knife bounced off. The Spider swung its enormous head. Vaguely, Annabeth noticed blood on her arm.

Poison was frothing from the Spider's numerous wounds. It gave one last enraged shriek. It crouched back. It pounced into the air. Annabeth screamed as the gigantic beast sprang forward, aiming to crush them beneath its body.

"Annabeth!" Sam cried, running to her side. He raised his elven blade high, and Annabeth grabbed onto the blade too. They crouched, raising the blade. The Spider crashed down on them. Both of them screamed.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

The huge weight pressed down on them, the putrid stench overpowering. A shudder went through the flesh weighing down on them. Something wet oozed on her back. It stung. She couldn't tell where anything was, only that there was something huge pressing down on them. One of her hands was still gripping the sword, the other hand gripping Sam's tightly. There was no light.

Slowly, and with more agonized shudders, the huge weight on them lifted. Juddering, shaking, the Spider lifted itself on its remaining legs. Never before had it been wounded so badly, never before had it felt such pain.

Annabeth looked. Above them was a huge gash, dripping blood and frothing poison. The Spider's strength, pushing down on them, had done what they could not – provide the force needed to thrust the blade deep into its body.

The spider shook. The floor seemed littered with blood and a greenish slime. It cowed at last, shrunken in defeat. Its body jerked and quivered as it hastened away from them. It crawled into another hole and slipped in, leaving a trail of slime. It was crawling away to die.

Annabeth's breath still came in heavy gasps. Sam came beside her, covered with whatever had been leaking from the spider's body. "We did it." He said quietly, unbelievingly.

Annabeth suddenly giggled. "We did it." The giggle turned into a full laugh. "I faced my fear!" She stopped herself before she got hysterical, but she couldn't help herself. Her body was overflowing with emotions. All of a sudden, her legs collapsed and she let out a moan of pain.

"Annabeth!" Sam cried, grabbing her arm before she fell. "What's wrong?!"

Annabeth was dimly aware of something shooting up her arm into the rest of her body. Whether it was pain or numbness she was too confused to tell. "My arm…" She muttered dazedly. A black fog was rolling across her vision.

Sam let out a horrified gasp. Grabbing a piece of cloth from his pocket, he wiped away the grime and blood from her arm. Annabeth blinked in realization. She had assumed most of the blood was the Spider's. She was wrong. Two red lines faintly glimmering green stood out against her arm. Dimly she remembered the Spider's jaws swiping across her arm.

"R..r…really?" She gasped out, wondering whether to cry or to laugh helplessly at the cruelty of fate. Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Oh Sam…"

Sam looked on the verge of breaking down too. "No…NO! You can't die here! You can't! Please! I've lost Frodo, I can't lose you too!"

Her hand went into her pocket, where she brought out the chain on which the Ring hung. The Ring she had taken from Frodo's body. She reached out her hand, with the Ring dangling from her fingers. "I'm sorry Sam…I am...so, so sorry…But I'm afraid…there's only you left now…it's all up to you now."

Sam took it, hanging it around his neck. He broke down to tears, his shoulders shaking with grief at this pyrrhic victory.

Annabeth fell back, everything went black for her.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

Am I not the most evil writer you have ever seen? :P

I hope I have accurately captured the eerieness of these dark paths, the horrors and the glorious triumphs! How are your feels?

(btw, a Pyrrhic victory is a victory that has cost too much to attain. The cost outweighed the victory)

And another thing, if you're a die-hard whovian (like me!) I hope you enjoyed those quotes I sneaked into it, hahahahaha.

So yeah, I really hope you enjoyed this latest chapter in this chronicle, and that you will review. (yell at me for the ending, I don't mind)

Wish you all luck if you have exams too! I will certainly need some...

PJCrazy signing out