The Sunset Princess

Dwimorberg

The rest of the night passed in absolute silence. Though the ghosts of men held no terror for me, the fear of the Dúnedain was infectious. It seemed to thicken the air around us until we could barely draw breath.

There was a certain presence about the path, as if it breathed. Nonsense, since those who occupied the Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain, had not drawn breath in many, many years.

Despite the Sons of Elrond fretting, biological and fosterling all, it was not me who felt the terror of the unnatural, lingering spirits. All three of them were afraid. Aragorn, in front of me, was tense, his gritted teeth flashing white as he glanced back at his men. I looked back too to see Gimli fixing his eyes firmly on Legolas' back, jaw set. The twins were staring straight ahead, glaring, their hands tight on their reigns. They had mortal blood, and thus dead men walking held some fear for them too. Behind them, the men were in varying states, ranging from determination to sheer horror. Raina's white face gleamed skull-like from behind her brother.

"What kind of army would linger in such a place?" Gimli asked.

"One that is cursed." Legolas answered in hushed tones. I glanced back at him to listen, for I knew little of this road. "Long ago, the men of the mountain swore an oath to the King of Gondor to come to his aid, to fight. But when the time came, when Gondor's need was dire, they fled, vanishing into the darkness of the mountain. So Isildur cursed them, to never rest, until they had fulfilled their pledge."

I looked forwards again, to the back of Aragorn's dark head. This, then, was his true purpose. To muster an army of dead men and save Gondor with it. Legolas continued, his quiet voice even lower than it had been.

"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."

So strange had my life become. I was unsure I had ever even believed the souls of men could linger here on Middle Earth. They were the guests of this world; they didn't belong here. To be tied to it, with no purpose but waiting, must be a special kind of hell.

Even I shuddered when we passed through a copse of black trees. Their spirits were dark, their bark gnarled and skeletal. There were no leaves on their heads, but they utterly blocked out any light, nonetheless. Ahead of my loomed a great tree, it's upper branches grinning like a skinned skull. Whether red, or black, or white, I could no longer tell. It was all I could do to stop Hengist from bolting. I wished I could let him run, so we could escape these accursed trees. Even a second among them was like a thousand needles in my spine.

Legolas' breathing was fast behind me. Even he could not endure these trees. The ghosts of men may not have any bearing on him, but the shades of trees were different.

When the trees were behind us, I took a deep breath of fresh air. That, for us, would be the worst part. We would be needed now, not to endure, but to help our mortal friends endure.

In our path stood a mighty stone, like a finger, pointing us into doom. "My blood runs chill." Gimli whispered. His voice sounded loud in the gloom, but it seemed to fall away quickly, like a stick thrown pointlessly at an armoured enemy.

The door beyond was an open wound, and it was oozing. Pale, insubstantial hands seemed to grip at what would have been the doorframe, had it been any more than a gaping hole in the mountainside. They faded like smoke as soon as I set eyes on them. Atop the door were carved signs and shapes, but in the pre-dawn light it was too dim to read them even for elvish eyes.

The Dúnedain shuddered as one. Halbarad stepped forwards beside me and stood straight.

"This is an evil door, and my death lies beyond it." I whipped around to look at him, alarmed. Halbarad was not a man of many words, and what little he said he chose carefully. "I will dare to pass it nonetheless, but no horse will enter."