━━━━»•» act four. age of glory

53. realm of the dead «•« ━━━━

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ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ third age ━━ year 3019

𓇻 dunharrow; dwimorberg

THE CAVE GLOWED WITH A FAINT GREEN LIGHT THAT SEND A SHIVER DOWN ELGARAIN'S SPINE. The unnatural glow seemed like a warning of its dead inhabitants. Mist clung to the ground, swirling like fingers reached up from their graves. Even by the light of the torches carried by Aragorn and Elladan, Elgarian could hardly see the ground beneath her feet. Behind her Gimli muttered something about elves and dwarfs and the fear of being underground. She couldn't blame him, for this was far from the beauty of the Glittering Caves or the halls within the Blue Mountains.

Elgarain felt as if there were eyes set upon them, gleaming from the darkest corners that even the torchlight didn't reach. Endless whispering of voices echoed around her and even if she tried to walk softly, every step was an announcement of the living having entered the realm of the dead. There was no way to conceal her trespassing.

The path they had followed opened up into a great empty space, growing in width and length. The air felt dark and heavy, pressing down on her. The hairs on the back of her neck raised in warning and a chill ran down her spine. Something deceitful rested in the air—Elgarain could almost taste the foulness.

Then something glimmered, like a beacon luring them to false comforts. She squinted to make sense of it through the unnatural darkness. Aragorn was the first to slowly approach whatever lay hidden in the shadows.

"Does he feel no fear?" Gimli muttered beneath his breath, his grip on his axe tightening.

Elgarain wondered the same but knew in her heart that death was not something he feared.

Aragorn passed his torch to Elladan and kneeled. Elgarain stepped closer, as if her presence would be enough to protect him. Gyda followed her closely and she could feel her gaze lingering on her, though her guard was quick to look away when she reached Elgarain's side.

In front of them lay a pile of bones; still clad in their mail. The belt was of gold and garnets and rich with gold was the helm upon the skeleton's bony head. He had fallen near the far wall of the cave, as now could be seen, and before him stood a stony door closed fast: his finger-bones were still clawing at the cracks.

The soldier's remains lay half buried in the dust, twisted in such a way that it seemed less like death found him and more like he had been trying to flee from it. The sight made something unpleasant stir inside her stomach. Fear was a far worse opponent to be slain by than anything made of flesh and bones. How many elves and men had she healed, only for them to succumb to the horrors shown over and over again by their own minds? She shuddered and turned her eyes away from the corpse.

Aragorn remained still for a moment longer, the torchlight flickering across his face, before turning wordlessly toward the next archway. His steps echoed along the narrow passage, sharp and hollow, each one swallowed by the stone.

Elgarain followed, forcing herself to keep looking forward, eyes set on Aragorn. Her hand rested on the knife attached to her belt. Never before had she missed her trusted spear as much as she did in this moment. She could hardly believe how trusted the weapon had come to feel in her hand.

Behind her, Legolas' voice came whispering through the darkness, so soft it was only meant for the elves of their company to hear. "The dead are following. I see shapes of men and horses, and pale banners like shred of clouds and spears like winter-thickets on a misty night."

Instinctively she looked over her shoulder. A sharp pain shot up her arm as Vilya seemed to suddenly burn on her finger. And as if the ring had cleared her vision, she could suddenly see the green shimmering light taking the shape of corpses and men. They held spears, banners and swords. With their hollow eyes and empty stares, they followed their company like tame sheep. No, like a dog corralling its herd. Then the pain on her hand faded and the vision disappeared. Still the darkness seemed to pulse faintly, as though it had a heartbeat of its own.

Elladan's voice followed, quiet but certain. "Yes. The Dead ride behind. They have been summoned."

Elgarain exhaled with trembling breath and moved closer to Gimli, who was walking beside her. His steadfastness calmed her wild beating heart, even if only a little.

"Let them come," Gyda said steadily, "The curse binds them still, it will hold with the heir of Isildur among us."

At last, the narrow path widened, spilling them into a vast, hollow chamber where their footsteps echoed. A stairway hewn directly from the mountain's heart, rose before them. Its stone edges worn smooth by many ages. Dust veiled each step in a thick, unbroken layer, and long cobwebs hung like ghostly banners.

Pillars carved with intricate detail loomed into view, their surfaces etched with ancient runes and forgotten sigils. Elgarain felt it again—the eyes watching them, scrutinizing their every step. At that same moment, Gyda moved closer to her, clearly having felt it as well.

"Who enters my domain?"

The wall shook, as if the mere sound of the voice could make the earth move. The sound wasn't merely heard, it carved into her chest, vibrating through her bones until her heart stumbled in its rhythm. She stumbled by the force of it, reaching for Gimli's shoulder to steady herself. Gyda spun around, driven by instinct as she stood in front of Elgarain and pulled her sword free with a sharp whisper of steel.

Her eyes darted through the dim light, searching the dark corners of the chamber, but all she saw were restless shadows cast by their torches. Her breath came fast, the air grew colder, and she could feel it settling over her skin like ice.

Then light came. It shimmered faintly at first, a gleam at the top of the stairs, but soon it began to move, bending, twisting—forming. The glow shifted like mist caught in a storm, pulling together into the shape of a man. Elgarain was unable to let go of Gimli, but the dwarf did not seem to mind, holding up his axe high as he faced whatever had come their way.

Beside her Aragorn lifted his torch higher. The flame flared defiantly. "One who will have your allegiance."

"The dead do not suffer the living to pass."

This time she was prepared for the cold knife that accompanied the voice, still it did not make the feeling any more bearable.

"You will suffer me," Aragorn spoke with a steady voice.

A long, tense silence followed. The dead were in no hurry to answer the living. The very air seemed to hold its breath, the cold pressing tighter around them.

And then laughter—it started slowly faint and then grew swelling into a sound that clawed its way through the chamber. It was laughter devoid of warmth or mirth. It was echoing from every crevice of stone until it was impossible to tell where it came from.

Beside her, Gyda flinched and as Elgarain looked around, she realised why. This time, Vilya didn't need to assist her to see through the veil between their world and that of the dead. This time, the dead were the ones revealing themselves to the living instead. The light shifted once more and from the swirling mist around them a city took shape. Her breath caught in her throat as the corpses appeared once more, this time far closer and clear. Men in armour dulled by time, their hollow eyes glinting faintly in the green glow.

The mist thickened, stealing every bit of warmth left in her body. Her very soul screamed for her to run, but she remained standing where she was. There was no other way out of this than the promise of an oath long since given...Fighting or running would be useless here.

"The way is shut," the haunting voice spoke. Now, she could finally see who it belonged to. The ghost of a king, wearing a decaying crown on his skull. A dull red cape was draped around his shoulder. The fabric seemed to flow behind him as he moved closer. "It was made by those who are dead. And the dead keep it."

More soldiers took form around them, their rotten flesh see-through. The army had them completely surrounded, a circle of green glowing bones and steel.

"The way is shut," the king repeated. Then, a grin seemed to appear on his hollow face. "Now you must die."

He had barely finished speaking before Legolas had raised his bow, notched an arrow and let it fly toward the king. But as she expected, the arrow went straight through him and lodged itself in the stone wall behind the ghost.

"I summon you to fulfil your oath." Aragorn walked closer, his steps calm, his gaze steady and not giving away a hint of fear. At the sight of him, her heartbeat calmed and she finally let go of Gimli.

"None but the king of Gondor may command me," the king sneered.

The sound reverberated through the chamber, shaking dust from the high ceiling but Aragorn did not yield. In a single motion he raised his sword, the steel glinting in the light and the symbols etched on its surface seemed to pulse with hope. But the king of the dead had raised his own sword to meet the weapon. Their blades crashed, but instead of the weapon meeting air, like Legolas' arrow had, Andúril stopped the ghost sword with a strong blow.

A tremor went through the sea of dead soldiers surrounding them.

"That line was broken!" the king gasped.

Aragorn tilted his head. "It has been remade." He pushed the ghost back and somehow, it seemed to stumble, brought off balance by the sword he had once sworn to serve. "Fight for us and regain your honour," Aragorn spoke, his voice carried through the chamber, clear and commanding. The glow of Elladan's torch flickered across his face, casting his features in a golden glow that brought life to the death and decay surrounding them.

His gaze swept over the hundreds of hollow eyes fixed upon him. He lifted Andúril, and pointed it toward one of the ghostly soldiers nearest the front. Its armour faintly translucent, its once proud crest dimmed by centuries of shame. "What say you?"

No answer was given as he made his way through the crowd and repeated his question.

"Ah! You waste your time Aragorn." Gimli's voice broke the heavy silence. "They had no honour in life. They have none now in death."

For all the faults these men might have had in life, Elgarian could not believe they held those same values now. The ghosts were empty, hollowed out by their curse. Their banners now torn and their shields broken. Their names nothing but haunted whispers of frightful men. She did not believe they would wish to continue existing like this, for one could hardly call it living. This was how they had spent many long years haunting the mountain, and now there stood a man before them offering them hope. She wasn't sure if she were given the same fate, she would believe her eyes at this very moment. Much less be able to speak.

"I am Isildur's heir," Aragorn continued, most likely thinking what she had and wishing for these shells of once great men to wake up from their slumber with the truth. "Fight for me and I will hold your oaths fulfilled." He spun around and faced the king once more. "What say you?"

But when the reply came, her hope turned to ash in her mouth. Laughter rang out once more as the army that surrounded them began to fade away, row by row.

"You have my word!" Aragorn promised, turning frantically. "Fight and I will release you from this living death. What say you!?"

"Stand you traitors!" Gimli cursed, raising his axe up high.

The wind howled and the mist that clung to their feet was blown away. A low rumbling echoed, followed by a loud crack. Her gaze snapped up to the ceiling, watching with wide eyes as it started to break apart. Dust showered from above and pieces of rock came crashing down.

Elgarain stumbled away and a shrill shriek tore from her throat. What she had thought to be a rock turned out to be a human skull. It was soon followed by a cascade of skulls clattering across the ground. One after another they came raining down upon them. Her eyes darted upward, the walls surrounding the stairway began to fracture, cracks forming a web across the stone. Dust and debris drifted down in thin clouds. From the hollowed gaps, skulls, dozens, then hundred spilled forth, rolling and tumbling with a life of their own.

"Out!" Aragorn's shout barely registered before Gyda turned, clasped her fingers around her thin wrist and hauled her through the cavern. But more and more skulls came tumbling for crevices and they stumbled through the heavy onslaught. "Hold on!" Gyda shouted as she pushed forward.

"Legolas, run!" Aragorn shouted above the noise.

Elgarian stumbled, unable to keep up with the fast pace of her guard. Her feet were slipping on the round, slippery bones, forcing her body to a halt. "Gyda!" Elgarain shouted frantically. "I can't hold on!" As she spoke her body was pulled backwards by the force of endless skulls falling into the depths below.

"Elgarain!" Gyda screamed, her own voice swallowed by the tumult.

Helplessly, Elgarain was torn away from her guard. Her body was tumbling down downward towards the chasm, pale and helpless. She hated how weak she felt, hated how her burning limbs had hardly any strength to push back against the current. The dead were drowning her, telling her this was where she belonged. Her time was finally up....

Gyda's fingers scraped against the rough stone, each nail catching painfully as she reached for any ledge, anything that would bring her closer to her queen. "Elgarain!" she screamed against, her voice raw and nearly drowned out by the echoing clatter of bones.

Elgarain was clawing around, pale hands desperately searching for anything to hold on to. Finally, she caught a jagged stone jutting from the cavern wall and clung to it with all her strength. With wide eyes she watched as Gyda jumped forward, using the momentum of the falling skulls to drive herself in the right direction. Then, just before her body was flung off the cliff, she pushed her sword into the stone wall. Gyda's own hand shot out, closing around Elgarain just as a smaller cascade of skulls tumbled between them. The Elleth grunted with pain but dared not let go.

"Elgarain, hold on! I've got you," Gyda spoke through gritted teeth.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, and for a moment she feared she might slip again. But she refused to go out like this, brought down by some sort of sick joke played by a king of ghosts. With agonizing effort, Elgarain managed to get her legs up against the stone wall.

Finally with a heave that left Gyda gasping, she dragged Elgarain back toward solid ground, the grip on her sword so strong her knuckles had turned white. She pushed Elgarain forward in front of her and tore the sword free. "Go, quick! Go."

Together they scrambled up, hands digging in the ground and fingers curling around each stray rock they could reach whilst more skulls tumbled down.

Elgarain held a firm but trembling grip on Gyda's arm and forced herself to keep moving. She could hardly see anything; her vision clouded by pearly white bones endlessly falling. It felt as though she'd been running for ages when she finally found herself in a smaller passageway.

The chaos of the collapsing cave made way for a slim shadowed passway. Aragorn was already there, hand extended toward them. Gyda pushed Elgarain forward into his arms and she allowed herself a brief moment of lingering there.

"Quickly!" Aragorn urged as he wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders to move her forward.

She planted a quick kiss against his cheek and then she was running again, following one of the rangers towards a faraway light. The ground began to slope upward, finally leading them out of the shadowy depths. As the sunlight greeted them, Elgarain felt herself taking a deep breath. Clear air filled her lungs and her heart felt instantly replenished with life itself. But when her eyes adjusted to the light, dread fell upon her once again.

Below, a river stretched through the valley and upon it sailed the black ships of the Corsairs of Umbar. Close to the riverbank a village stood alight. Smoke curled like a warning sign as the pirates sailed to attack Minas Tirith.

Beside her Aragorn sank down to his knees. For this was what he truly feared, not the cold embrace of death, but the destruction of his people as he was helpless to stop it.

Elgarain, pale and trembling, lowered herself beside him, pressing close against him, hoping to bring some sort of comfort to his pain. Even though she knew there was none to give. For what greater pain could a king possibly feel than watching his people burn?

The wind howled, soft at first and then it stirred in a way it should not.

She shivered and looked over her shoulder.

Behind them, through the rocks of the mountain, the King of the Dead appeared once more to stand in front of Aragorn. She held her breath as she watched the two of them, both of them looking at the other as if they were their last hope. Then the king spoke:

"We fight."

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