The War of Light and Shadow
By Freddie23
OIOIOIOI
Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.
A/N: Thank you all for your reviews.
Alrighty folks, I hope you enjoyed the story so far and that you like this chapter.
Here we go.
OIOIOIOIOIOI
Chapter 52 – The Cursed
The sounds of the brutal battle still rang loudly in his ears. He could hear little else even now that the clashing of swords and the screams of the dying had subsided. Or maybe the screaming really did continue. He couldn't be sure.
All about Janor was now chaos. Men raced around, finishing off the Orcs that lay twitching and dying on the ground before they posed further threat. But many Men lay themselves dying, struck down by deadly Orkish weaponry.
Hands grabbed him by the shoulders and suddenly Eomer's bloody face was directly before his own, green eyes were wide with concern as they watched him.
"Are you all right?" the Rohan man asked seriously.
Cocking his head to one side and frowning, Janor yelled, "What?"
"Are you all right?" Eomer repeated in a slower, louder voice.
"Yes."
The commander grabbed Janor's chin and forced his head up a little, examining the source of the blood running down his face. "You cut your head."
Raising his hand, shaking fingers gingerly touched upon the wound at his hairline. "Oh," was all he could think of to say. Eomer spoke again, but this time the words seemed jumbled and senseless. So he asked again, "What?"
"Let's get you to a healer."
"No. No, I'm fine." Given that the ground was wet with Human blood, Janor imagined that the Rohan healers had their hands full with the mortally wounded. A cut was of little significance in comparison to the suffering of others. "Really."
Already, Eomer's eyes were darting around, assessing the carnage around them in order to decide where his presence would most be needed next.
"Go," Janor told him, pressing his palm to his head to staunch the bleeding. "I'm fine. Go. You're needed elsewhere."
For a brief moment, Eomer looked torn but when he heard someone desperately shouting his name, he turned to leave. "See a healer as soon as you can," the commander called back as he hurried away towards the distressed voice beckoning him.
Still dazed, Janor muttered, "Sure," then himself walked off. Confused though he may have been, the man still knew that he had to account for all his Rangers; technically, he was their commander now that Kinnale was no longer living and he had a duty.
"Please help!"
Janor spun around, very nearly losing his balance as a wave of dizziness engulfed him for his thoughtlessness, at the plea for the voice sounded familiar.
"Ciaran?" he called out loudly, his eyes searching the battlefield for the boy. "Ciaran!"
He searched for a while, stumbling inelegantly over the bodies of the slain and slipping on mud made boggy by blood, before he finally found Kinnale's son knelt on the ground, pressing down on the chest of a gasping young woman, trying in vain to stem the constant flow of blood pouring from a wound.
"Janor, help me!" he cried desperately.
The boy was drenched in blood but Janor could see no evidence that any of it was his. Relief washed over him and his knees went weak, forcing him to kneel lest he reach the ground in a less than graceful fashion. Immediately, it became obvious that the woman Ciaran was trying to help was already long past any aid. She was clinging onto the last thread of life but her eyes were already dull, her skin pale, her breath coming in short gasps from her open mouth.
"Ciaran, let go."
"What?" the boy demanded incredulously, his head snapping up to meet Janor's eyes.
"Let her go." He took Ciaran's arm and pulled it away so that his hand was no longer plugging the hole in the woman's now unmoving chest. "She's gone."
For a long moment, Ciaran sat staring blankly at the body and his bloody hands, clearly in shock at what had just happened right in front of him.
"Come on," Janor prompted as he heaved himself to his feet. "You can help me. There is much to do."
The body count was far larger than either commander of the Rohirrim or Rangers had initially anticipated. It was night before those who remained alive after the bloody battle finally moved out, eager to be away from this site of death. They wasted no time burning the corpses, leaving even their own dead to lie in the dirt. Scavengers would descend soon, both animal and Enemy, and the survivors did not want to be anywhere nearby when that happened despite the macabre scene they were leaving behind. It would be too much of a risk to linger considering their fatigue and massively decreased numbers.
Of the Rangers twelve had been slain in the fight, mostly those inexperienced soldiers who had volunteered before they had departed from Bree.
It had been the Rohirrim who had suffered the heaviest losses though. After Eomer had rounded up all the survivors, they had concluded that over half their number had been slaughtered. The Enemy had not distinguished between warrior and civilian. Women and children, having been flushed out of their hiding places in the cave networks, had been just as mercilessly attacked as the fiercely battling soldiers.
Weary, and their hearts heavy with grief, under Eomer's order, they had left. No one truly wanted to leave. They wanted to stay, respectfully bury their dead the way they deserved to be honoured, mourn their losses but in times of war and death there was not that luxury.
A force as great as the one they had just faced was no random patrol sent across the lands, Eomer had reasoned to the reluctant. It had been sent specifically to intercept and decimate the forces of Men.
The Orcs' armour had all born the emblem of Isengard. The White Hand.
Isengard and its turncoat Wizard was chasing them.
Knowing all too well the depths of the White Wizard's evil, Eomer had given the heart-breaking order for them to leave. He knew now that Saruman had their scent and he would not give up at the first defeat. The taking of Helm's Deep would undoubtedly still rankle the Wizard, perhaps it had even humiliated him before his master and that could not be tolerated by one compelled by power and pride.
From now on, the race of Men was truly a hunted people from all quarters.
OIOI
"'The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead. And the Dead keep it. The way is shut'."
"What do you suppose it means?" asked one of the Dwarves in a hushed voice after Legolas had translated the engraving above the unassuming crack in the mountain that served as the door into the Dwimberg before which they were now standing in an enclosed mountain pass thickly swathed in bright green moss and emanating the deepest chill Legolas had ever felt in his life. Something unnatural lived beyond here. He could feel it creeping across his skin and seeping into his soul. Pure evil.
"I believe it to be fairly self-explanatory," Jecha replied flatly, although his dark eyes twinkled in amusement when they flicked across to his irked sturdy companion.
"Creepy is what it is," reasoned the Dwarf, visibly shuddering as though it would emphasise his point enough that the others would agree with him. Little did he know that they needed no convincing. They agreed whole-heartedly with his summation.
His son then asked anxiously, "We have to go in there?"
"Afraid so." Jecha looked about himself. No one of the others stood at the entrance to the Dwimberg seemed overly enthusiastic to walk the Paths of the Dead. They all shared similar looks of fear and apprehension.
"It is so quiet," observed Gloin gesturing as though straining his ears for any sound that might indicate life beyond the doorway.
What he said was true. The air was completely still, not a breath of wind swept over them. No sound filled the path on which they waited, building up the courage to take the step inside; not a rustle, not a riffle of leaves. Nothing. Even the deep rumbling sound of the mountain of Mordor was curiously absent here, as if the paths were smothered in a thick blanket of silence that not even the Shadow could penetrate. It was eerie.
"We must take this road," Jecha prompted confidently, although Legolas noted that he showed no more inclination than any of his companions to tread the paths of the Dead.
Truth was, the paths frightened the Easterling just as much as they did the others. None who ever ventured this way ever returned according to the legends. What lay at the heart of the Dwimberg no one knew. Rumours no doubt did not do the true horrors of the City of the Dead justice. After leading the future King of Men all this way with the promise of an unbeatable, immortal army at the end, Jecha now feared to take it further. Perhaps death laid at the end for them, or perhaps it was something worse. He was in no rush to find out.
One of the Dwarves finally offered to Jecha, "You first," extending his hand towards the dark crack in the mountain.
For a Dwarf, natural underground creatures that they were, to also fear going into the mountain was not exactly encouraging for any of the others. The crevice looked so terribly dark; a deep, thick darkness that it seemed no torch would ever be able to lessen and no soul could endure.
"We cannot stand here staring at it for the rest of time," pointed out the Gondorian man, Bracell, although his feet remained firmly planted on the ground. As much as he might like to comment on their hesitation, he was not going to be the one to take the first step either.
Kalub looked to the blonde Elf stood just in front of him. "Legolas?"
The prince merely offered him a sideways glance. In that brief moment, Kalub registered fear in Legolas' eyes but also, rather more surprisingly, steely determination. At some point, Legolas seemed to have reconciled himself to going into the unknown. And yet he hesitated just the same as the others.
"What are you waiting for?" whispered Kalub harshly, knowing that the Elf would hear his question.
Legolas did not answer him though. He simply waited, watching the entrance to the mountain with the same steely look in his eyes.
For long moments, still no one dared to move, every second, the tension growing.
Something had to give eventually.
"I do not fear death," Aragorn declared so suddenly and so firmly that it startled everyone but Legolas who had been waiting patiently for just this moment.
Before anyone could react to the entirely unexpected statement, Aragorn had drawn Anduril and strode purposefully into the darkness of the Dwimberg.
There was a beat when everyone froze, stunned at the bravery – or stupidity – of the King of Men. Legolas moved first. Upon Aragorn's statement, he had nodded his head very slightly in appreciation and a small smile had graced his lips. Now, hardening his features and pushing back the force of his claustrophobia at the thought of walking underneath the earth, the Elf faithfully followed his ward through the crevice and into the darkness beyond.
"Let's go," prompted Jecha to the others, none of whom seemed particularly keen to go with Aragorn into the unknown.
However, each, save for Grima who was given little choice in the matter, was loyal to Jecha and so they followed him and the king inside.
The tunnels proved to be somewhat of an immediate disappointment. Dark they may have been but there was nothing especially terrifying to the cautious travellers obvious upon stepping inside. At least it settled their nerves, although Anduril remained drawn and ready and each warrior was ready for whatever might come their way. Complacency in a place like this could prove fatal.
They had no idea where the fabled City of the Dead was actually located but Aragorn kept true to the widest path, not letting himself get diverted down the smaller paths branching off from the main. Mostly, he had to feel his way along the path as it was too dark to see much of anything before him. The others stuck close, almost touching so as not to get separated. In this pitch black it would be easy to get lost – not an appealing thought in a place such as this. No one spoke; as if afraid their voices might summon some dark spectre to their location.
Unsure of how far they had walked due to the lack of daylight to guide them, Aragorn eventually brought them to a halt so they could take some rest.
Sleep proved impossible for most of them – only the Wild Man seemed thoroughly unconcerned about where they were headed for and their choice of campsite. Perhaps he had slept in worse places during his years, Aragorn mused as the man's snoring broke the silence. Most of them just sat quietly, reflecting upon this quest they had gotten themselves into. Here in the dank, dark tunnels beneath the mountain of the Dead, the idea suddenly seemed less appealing than when they had been speaking of it in the bright light of day in an open, airy space with no additional threat about them.
So deep was the silence that Legolas physically started when Aragorn's voice whispered close to his ear, enquiring, "Am I doing the right thing?"
Once his heart rate had calmed from the shock, the Elf looked to his anxious ward, seeing only a vague outline in the darkness, and answered in a soft whisper, "I cannot say for certain."
It was hardly the reassuring response that Aragorn had been looking for and Aragorn lowered his eyes in shame. Legolas had followed him into the dark to walk the Paths of the Dead without query or hesitation. Truthfully, he had rather hoped that this signified a change of heart in his sceptical guardian. But it seemed that this hope had been unjustified.
"But," Legolas continued after a moment, "I believe that it is the right decision."
For a while, Aragorn sat stunned, staring gaping at his guardian. Then, "You do?" A lump of emotion came to his throat.
"I trust your decision, Aragorn. I should have had faith from the beginning that you knew what you were doing. Forgive me for ever doubting you."
Aragorn shook his head, even though he doubted that Legolas could see the slight action through the blackness. "I understand why you did not."
"Since you were a child, I have asked you to follow me, oftentimes with little explanation and with no good reason, and you have done so. Now that you ask the same thing of me, I have to trust you. You have more than earned that."
Legolas' hand came to rest on Aragorn's shoulder. The simple touch was filled with strength and comfort, as if it flowed from within the Elf, and Aragorn felt relief wash over him all of a sudden. His worse fear had always been that Legolas would one day abandon him to pursue his own path, leave him alone to lead Men he did not know in a war that was way beyond him. That was truly terrifying. An enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders with the knowledge that Legolas was going nowhere soon. This darkness and the date with Death that laid at the end of it did not look quite so terrifying in his eyes now.
OIOI
"Oh. Do not look down," Legolas quietly warned his young ward as they walked side by side.
Naturally, Aragorn's first instinct was to cast his eyes downward just as something cracked sickeningly underfoot. "Why would you say that to me knowing that was exactly what I would do?" the man asked in good humour, for, luckily, he could see nothing of what Legolas could due to the darkness.
"My apologies," Legolas replied with a quirk of the lips.
"What is that sound?" Another loud crack sounded from the uneven ground beneath his feet and he slipped on the surface, relying on his much steadier Elven guardian to stabilise him.
"Trust me when I tell you that you do not want to know."
"Very well."
"Bones!" an exclamation from the Dwarf Gloin startled all the others.
It was Jecha who demanded, "What?!" in the wake of the rather odd cry.
"Bones," repeated the Dwarf, still obviously in shock at his grisly discovery. "There are bones everywhere."
"So much for not panicking anybody," mumbled Legolas under his breath. How easy it was for the Dwarves to grate on his nerves; even when they clearly weren't trying; they seemed to have grown quite adept at it. Some things could not be changed by time and wars, he mused.
Aragorn hissed to his guardian, "That's what you didn't want me to see?"
"You wouldn't rather have lived in ignorance?"
Aragorn shrugged, although now he considered it, he would have preferred not to know the true nature of what cracked beneath his feet.
High pitched screams came from behind them and Legolas spun around, knowing already that they emanated from the Gondorian woman and her skittish daughter. This was precisely what he had been hoping to avoid with his silence. Panic would help no one. It spread like wildfire.
"No! You can't make me go in there. No!" This time it was Grima doing the shouting. He had shed his gag somehow and was digging his heels in, fighting against the two sturdy Dwarven guards with all his might.
As Legolas walked past, he snapped, "Shut up and get moving." He had no patience for the thief's fear or reluctance.
When he reached the woman of Gondor, desperately trying, along with her partner, to placate her still sobbing child, Legolas found sympathy flood his heart. Funny, how things changed. How little patience he had had with young Aragorn in those first years. And yet now, he felt like he wanted to help this little girl, ease the fear she must have been experiencing, just as he had Ciaran after Kinnale died.
It was plain for anyone to see that the girl was just too frightened to continue onwards. All this must have been utterly terrifying for her; the darkness, the prospect of ghosts at the end of the long tunnel and now a cave floor literally carpeted with the remains of the dead. Finally, it seemed that everything about this nightmare journey had become too much for her young mind to process and she could stand no more, go no further.
As Legolas knelt down before the child, coming to her level in an attempt to ease her fear of him. Her distrustful father, meanwhile, placed his hand on the handle of his sword, ready and willing to defend her from the strange Elf should anything happen that appeared even remotely threatening.
Legolas was undeterred, however.
"Listen to me," he said softly, although loud enough to be heard over the child's near hysterical cries, "I know you are deeply afraid of this place, but we must continue. We cannot leave you behind and we cannot turn back. The only course available to us is forward."
When the girl's crying did not falter in the face of his faultless reasoning, the Gondorian roughly grabbed Legolas' shoulder and pulled him back, snapping irritably, "You're not helping."
Legolas obediently stood back. Perhaps Aragorn's upbringing had not granted him the insight he had thought it had. Dealing with a distraught child was clearly still beyond him. He found himself to be rather disappointed that he had learned so little from Aragorn's turbulent childhood.
"Come on, sweetheart," coaxed Bracell, getting down on one knee before her just as Legolas had done moments before, only he confidently cupped her small face in his hands, hoping the physical contact would have some impact upon her. "You have to be brave now, all right? Can you do that?" He felt her nod gently against his palms, her cheeks wet with tears. "Good girl." Picking up his sword, he sheathed it for the first time since they had entered the dark tunnels under the Dwimberg and lifted his daughter up into his arms, deciding that carrying her was likely the most expedient way of getting out of this wretched place. When he took a step forward, with his frightened wife clinging to his arm, the man nearly walked into Legolas. "Go on then," he snapped, exasperated at the Elf blocking his way.
Opening his mouth to say something was rendered pointless when he could think of nothing intelligent that wouldn't result in a full out battle right here in the tunnels. So, Legolas simply settled for stepping aside to let the glowering man by.
The anxious and increasingly weary party continued onwards. At times, the silence and the seemingly endless darkness became almost too much for any of them to bear. Often, Grima could be heard whimpering to himself, gagged as he now was again, as they crunched across what it comforted no one to know were broken skeletons. For once, Aragorn wholly concurred with the larcenist's sentiment.
Even more than the thick darkness, it was the hush that unsettled Aragorn the most. Having never liked remaining in silence for any length of time, Aragorn found the quiet to be almost unendurable. And yet he, like all the others, still feared to break it. They were drawing near to their destination now. Even in the darkness he and everyone else could feel it.
The first true indication that they were almost upon the resting place of the Dead Army was the temperature. It plummeted so suddenly that it took them all by surprise and they faltered in their steps as though they had hit a physical barrier. In spite of the almost palpable fear among them, Aragorn led the group onwards. At his side, Legolas too remained steady. He may indeed have feared being trapped under the earth with an army of undefeatable murderous ghosts but he would not falter in his conviction to Aragorn now.
As the tunnel narrowed, forcing them to walk in single file for the first time since entering, a soft green haze, almost like a thin mist, surrounded them. The temperature dropped further still in the mist, leaving all of them shivering uncontrollably. The cold touch of death came upon them and the hairs on the backs of their necks stood on end, as if something inexplicable charged the air. The mist, it seemed to the observant, seemed to develop slowly into thin tendrils that grew thicker and more kinetic the further they advanced; branches of semi-solid green, brushing against the intruders, phantom fingers sent, it seemed, to scare and to discourage such intrusion into the land of the dead.
Boldly continuing onwards with Aragorn still in the lead, just moments later the group emerged onto a large plateau from which they got the most arresting view of the cavern where legend claimed the ghosts of the ancient army of traitors resided in their eternal torment. It took the breaths of each one away, so stunning was it to behold.
All along high, steep walls, carved into dark, crumbling stone, was a network of broken rooms, curiously illuminated by the strange green glow. It looked almost as if a great wind had swept by in the distant past, ripping off the edifices of these small compact dwellings and revealing the skeleton of the building within with the sole purpose of stunning into inactivity any soul brave or foolish enough to have preserved this far. Silence drenched the cavern, chilling the intruders further still – because they did indeed feel as if they were interlopers in this home of the silent dead.
For the longest moment, they could do nothing but stand and stare open-mouthed at the magnificent, chilling sight stretched before them.
Their reverie could not be indulged for long, however. As they had anticipated, their entrance to the mountain had not gone unnoticed.
Even as they stood, the hazy green light that had permeated the tunnels and cavern in which they now waited, shone with even greater intensity. It was still patchy in places though, fractured. At the same time, the mists lingering high up in the honeycomb of small, empty square homes grew steadily thicker and began to slowly migrate downwards, coming together until it seemed to transform into a luminous, solid green stream pouring, then sweeping through thin air to settle just above the plateau on which the group of mercenaries stood in terrified awe.
From this thick cloud, more tangible thin tendrils stretched down onto the plateau itself, before becoming almost solid once more.
Instinctively, Aragorn took a cautious step backwards so that he was in line with his guardian, who was watching the decidedly supernatural scene unfolding before them with narrowed eyes, gleaming bright green in reflection of the cloud. He did not seem scared but nor did he seem entirely unworried. Aragorn did not know what to make of such confusion within his normally certain mentor and so he shifted on his feet and waited to see what would come of this, praying that their end would not come before they did what they had ventured into this tomb to do.
Within the great cloud, Legolas could define the shapes of beings, sneering, snarling shreds of spectral flesh clinging to translucent bones, forming a mass of shimmering terror. Vague and unformed though they were, these beings could surely be none other than the fabled Army of the Dead. Taking control of this particular negotiation was not an option in this case, so he waited with practiced patience and no small amount of dread to see what would happen next with this impossible situation.
"Who enters my domain?" a low voice demanded in clipped, precise Westron, undiminished through time spent alone and isolated in the chambers of the dead.
Swallowing thickly and taking care to clear his throat before he spoke so that at least he sounded strong, Aragorn answered clearly with confidence he didn't know he possessed, "One who will have your allegiance."
The shape that had descended first onto the plateau had now morphed into the clearly defined figure of a man; tall, thin with features so much resembling a rotting corpse that Aragorn found it hard to look at. Beneath the green, transparent flesh, a more substantial skeleton, still formed of the odd mixture of light and cloud, could be discerned. A bizarre sight for anyone to behold. The being's slack jaw widened and a mocking laugh filled the chamber, echoing off the walls to give the illusion that his army joined the laughter. Indeed, all around him now stood more green-tinted spectres; a whole army, in fact. They now also joined in with the king's laughter, making the sound grow to be almost unbearable to hear.
"We answer to no one."
"You will answer to me," warned Aragorn in a low voice, boldly taking a step towards the King of the Dead, for there was no doubt who he was treating with.
Even though all the living carried weapons, they all knew that should it come down to a fight then blades of steel would prove useless against creatures already long deceased. The army, however, each carried individual weapons – swords, axes, spears – of opaque green; although according to legend they had no real need for such earthly weaponry. A mere touch would kill, as if they merely passed death on like a disease to those unfortunate enough to come into contact with their cursed spectres. Perhaps, Legolas mused, it was simply out of nostalgia or habit that they continued to appear in the apparel of their former selves with all the weaponry relevant to their time. Maybe it brought them some modicum of comfort during their confinement. A more formidable army there could not be.
Laughter swiftly followed Aragorn's declaration. It resounded all about the cavern, mocking and taunting and genuinely amused.
"And who is this who thinks he can command us?" the king, stood tall and proud, demanded haughtily.
Rather than replying with words, Aragorn simply raised Anduril before the king's face. He knew that these traitors, so connected to the once great kingdom of Gondor despite their bitter disloyalty, would instantly recognise the sword of kings. Narsil in any form was unforgettable.
Indeed, upon espying the Flame of the West, the King of the Dead immediately sobered; his body, formed from mist and light, faltered and he seemed to retreat away in the face of powerful re-forged steel. The others, too, stood back, melting away from the living, breathing King of Gondor as though afraid.
Perhaps, Legolas mused with some small hint of hope, there was one weapon on this earth that the invincible army feared.
"That blade…"
"Re-forged by the Elves of Imladris."
"Impossible."
"No." Aragorn shook his head and advanced on the king now that he knew at least his weapon was feared by the Dead. "Not impossible for it is now before you."
His form becoming more defined again, seemingly in defiance of what challenged him within his own domain, the King of the Dead maintained strongly, "That line was broken."
Tiring of speaking with these intruders into his dark realm beneath the mountain, the King of the Dead sped forward and raised his own spectral sword and swung it at Aragorn with all his preternatural might. Aragorn's reaction was instinctive in the face of attack. Cold steel could not cause harm to Death itself but his natural instinct did not register that and he raised Anduril to parry the blow.
Much to his amazement and the amazement of his attacking enemy, the two blades clashed, the grating noise filling the cavern.
Legolas was unsure who was more shocked at the outcome. Both kings, alive and dead, looked down with wide eyes at the touching blades. Although bright silver and quivering green ground against one another, neither the King of the Cursed not Aragorn made any further move to attack. There had been so many surprises already for both sides this day. Now was the time to take in the fact that the mortal had just equalled the Dead.
Slowly, the King of the Dead's head rose and, although his face remained expressionless in death, Aragorn thought he felt fear coming from the shimmering spectre.
"Impossible!" the king finally boomed in defiance, voice betraying anger that his body could not express. "That line was long ago broken."
"It has been remade." Aragorn's own voice was strong, confident and so very odd-sounding to those who knew him as the meek young ward of the Elvish prince.
"No!"
The Army of the Dead shimmered before the eyes of the living as they retreated. Against all the odds, this undefeatable army was scared of a young man who happened to wield the ancient sword and belong to the even more ancient bloodline of those they had brutally betrayed.
At long last, the Dead King disengaged his weapon from Anduril and retreated one step away from the man who wielded it.
Jecha threw a subtle glance Aragorn's way. Future King of Men: so Aragorn had declared himself to be when they had met. Was this child, under the guardianship of a mysterious Elven guide, really all he said he was or was there truly more behind his bloodline? What kind of power resided in that unassuming child that the King of the Dead himself would fear him? A troubling thought indeed.
Glancing behind thoughtfully at his alarmed army, the king seemed disconcerted. His form was flickering slightly, as if it wanted to retreat away from this new danger, return back to the sanctuary of the massive necropolis.
Aragorn, however, was not going to fade away. He stood firm. He took a bold step forward, Anduril raised, held in far more confident hands now that he knew that it had at least some effect on the ghostly presence surrounding him.
"Why have you come?" demanded the ghost.
"To relieve you of your curse."
All the spirits exchanged glances at this and Aragorn saw their mouths moving as if in speech although they emitted no sound that his ears could detect.
Suspicion fairly radiated from the king but he curiously asked, "Explain your meaning to me."
Travelling with the learned and eager-to-share Jecha, always so full of ancient wisdom and stories, Aragorn had taken every opportunity to learn all he could, even when he had appeared inattentive. The tale of the Men cursed by his forefather Isildur had understandably been of great interest to him. He had taken it all in, storing it in the back of his mind for just this moment.
"You are cursed; made to walk this earth, unable to rest because of your treachery. Isildur's blood runs in my veins; you know this. I can free you. Do you believe my claim?"
The king took a moment to consider this. He nodded once, chin raised in defiance. He did not like being powerless and beholden to this man, descendent of the one who had condemned him and his army to this living death for all time.
"And what," he asked, his voice booming, putting on a deliberately bold showing before the man who held his fate in his young hands, "would be the price for such a mercy?"
"Fight for me."
Laughter cackled out of the stuttering green spectre and he appeared to rise even further in height. Behind him, the rest of the army laughed too, the sound echoing chillingly around the vast chamber. The notion of loyalty amused them even now. It seemed their lesson had not yet been learned.
In the haunting light, Aragorn frowned, a faint blush colouring his cheeks at the reaction his plea had elicited. Had it been such a foolish request? Regardless of the taunting, Aragorn shifted on his feet and stood his ground. He would not be swayed easily now. They had come too far to falter.
"Fight for me," his voice sounded loud, impressively loud, in the cavern, even over the dulled, wheezing laughter of the Dead, "and I will hold your oaths fulfilled."
"Why should we trust the King of Gondor? Treachery runs as sure as blood through your veins, boy," said the King of the Dead, chortling with laughter but also laced with deep distrust and malice.
"Not all Men's hearts beat with cowardice as yours once did."
Soft the reproach might have been but it altered the atmosphere instantaneously. The laughter died and vacant eyes all looked to Aragorn. They did not take kindly to the jibe regarding their fragile honour, it seemed.
"We are cursed." It seemed a poor excuse for their past misdeeds but all the spectres nodded in unified agreement.
"Because you failed to answer to the call of your people."
"We would have been slaughtered."
"A more merciful end to your lives, perhaps."
Once more the king seemed to grow in size, becoming all the more intimidating for it. "Enough of this talk. Leave this place, Foolish One."
Stepping closer, Aragorn said, "I cannot."
"Then here you shall die, and spend an eternity in this city with us, The Cursed."
"Aragorn, that is not an appealing thought," muttered one of the men from behind the Human king, but Aragorn did not react to the soft hint. Fear may have been gnawing at his senses but he had come this far; there was no turning back now.
"Listen to me," Aragorn called out, even as the Army of the Dead slowly advanced towards the gathered living, surrounding the living and blocking their exit. Huddling together, weapons raised merely for the feel of comfort they provided in spite of their inherent ineffectiveness against this particular enemy, the living all looked pleadingly to Aragorn, praying this inexperienced king's words would not get them condemned to the fates of the Dead. "Listen to me; I can release you, bring you peace at last."
"Peace." The king laughed again as though the word had become a joke to him over the centuries trapped in eternal torment.
"What say you?" Aragorn demanded of them. The king chuckled again. "What say you?!"
Much to the intense alarm of the living, the Dead slowly began to fade from sight, changing from a solid, physical mass that had appeared very close to being corporeal, into the softly glowing mist from which they had descended in the first place.
"You're wasting your time with them," called Gloin angrily at the retreating army. "It is clear that they had no trace of honour in life and they have none now in death."
Ignoring the angry shout of the Dwarf, Aragorn called to the retreating ghosts, almost in desperation, "I am Isildur's heir. Fight for me, regain your lost honour and I will hold your oaths fulfilled." None paid his plea any heed. "Fight! Fight for me and I will release you from your terrible curse, from this living death you suffer." The mist continued to dissipate but Aragorn shouted up into the cavern as loud as he could, "Fight for me!"
The last distant echoes of laughter disappeared along with the green light and the haunted necropolis was once again plunged into deep, almost suffocating darkness.
Breathing heavily in the wake of the confrontation, Aragorn stared up helplessly at the honeycomb of bare chambers. No trace of the legendary traitors lingered. It was as if the whole encounter had never occurred at all.
First to break the silence was the man of Harad, his voice low as he declared uncertainly, "Spirits."
In the darkness, Legolas rolled his eyes at the pointlessness of that particular comment. "Aragorn?"
Before the man could speak of what had just transpired, however, Bracell, still clinging to his terrified wife and daughter, announced snappily, "Well, that was a resounding failure!" Aragorn opened his mouth to protest the comment but was cut off. "What a waste of time!"
Trying to persuade the man that this whole endeavour had not been his idea from the beginning but rather Jecha's, who boldly chose to remain silent, would no doubt prove pointless so Aragorn did not waste his breath. Unfortunately, the withering glare that he sent in Jecha's direction was of little effect in the darkness although it made him feel slightly better.
Calmly, Legolas prompted his fuming ward, "Aragorn, what next?"
Why was Legolas asking him? How was he supposed to know what to do? This whole thing had not been his idea in the first place and yet he had foolishly allowed himself to be talked into it. He had not imagined this outcome. He had no further plan.
Deciding that there was only one course of action left to them, Aragorn told everyone, "We should leave this cursed place."
Even as he spoke these defeatist words, a deep rumbling, like thunder rolling around the cavernous crypt, sounded, making them all jump. Grima actually yelped at the noise, understandable given that it was nothing natural that could have created the sound.
"What is that?" asked one of the Dwarves sharply.
"I've no idea," Aragorn admitted quietly, his eyes darting about, looking futilely to the walls for the source. At his side, he could sense Legolas doing the very same thing. Suddenly, Aragorn felt immensely grateful to still have Anduril heavy in his hand. "Legolas?" he whispered, voice thick with uncertainty.
"Go," said Legolas in return, his command firm but still quiet amidst the noise of the cavern.
Only nodding once in agreement, Aragorn called out the order, "Get out!" to the others waiting anxiously for his decision. Just as they started moving, the walls began to tremble; dust fluttered down upon them and all instinctively looked upwards. Dust was rapidly followed by something more substantial and a loud crash sounded from somewhere deep inside the mountain graveyard. One crash followed another and seconds later they were enlightened as to what was happening. Skulls, painfully obviously Human, began to rain down on the group, dropping from the top levels of the tiered crypt to smash on the solid stone floor.
"Get out!" Aragorn yelled above the racket and the group burst into sudden action, sprinting not back to the way they had come for that exit had already been blocked by falling stone as the whole structure crumbled around them, but rather towards a narrow crack in the stone. "Go! Go!"
Falling back so that he could be certain that everyone kept together, Aragorn looked up to the pitted walls and saw an ominous green light lurking above. The Dead were awaiting them.
"Aragorn!" Kalub grabbed the younger man by the arm, startling him from his unintentional reverie, and dragged him roughly away.
Legolas did not know where he was leading the group. He ran blindly, following the low, narrow tunnel they had plunged thoughtlessly into. Behind him were urgently pounding footsteps, nearly drowned out by the sound of the mountain cavern disintegrating. Legolas had no idea where Aragorn was either but he prayed that his ward was keeping up with their flight.
Dust, thick and foul-smelling, engulfed them all and they choked on it, keeping up the pace as best they could. The fear that before they had a chance to escape they very well might be buried alive in this haunted mountain to rest alongside the cursed dead almost overwhelmed them as they outran the falling necropolis; even the Dwarves, whose natural instinct was to be under the earth dreaded that they might be trapped here.
The run felt like it took hours rather than the few short minutes. Finally though, Legolas found himself tumbling out into the relatively fresh air. Coughing and spluttering as he tried to clear his throat of the cloying dense dust, Legolas blinked furiously, looking about himself as soon as he was able to open his streaming eyes to reassure himself that Aragorn and the others had made it out before the tunnel collapsed in an impressive blast of rock and dust.
"Aragorn?" Legolas shouted at the blurry shapes stood before him, each bent over trying to clear their lungs and catch their breaths. "Aragorn!"
"Here," rasped a breathless voice. "I'm here."
Relief soared through Legolas' heart at knowing his ward was well and finally he found that he could think with more clarity. He dropped his knives to the ground and his bag followed. Crouching down, he squinted at his bag's contents before settling for fumbling about until he located his water flask.
Once he had rinsed the grime from his stinging eyes, Legolas could at least tell that Aragorn, although caked in dust, was not harmed. Despite their lack of success, they had done what no other, according to legend had ever done – escaped the Dwimberg with their lives.
To Be Continued…