The Edge of Night

The King Who Dwelt in the Mountain

Elfwyn rejoins the others, who are waiting in the shadows of a tent for Aragorn. "He is foolish. 87 years he's lived and yet he is as naïve as a youngling." She mutters under her breath. If Haldir and Legolas hear her, they say nothing of the matter.

The soft sound of hoofbeats approaches and Gimli decides to make their position known. "Just where do you think you're off to?" he asks Aragorn, who looks over at him startled.

"Not this time. This time you must stay, Gimli."

Legolas joins him on the other side, stepping out from the shadows as well. "Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of Dwarves?"

"Or of the daughters of Men?" Haldir asks from his place beside his wife.

"If you are bound and determined to get yourself killed, you're not going alone. Someone has to keep you from doing something stupid."

"You might as well accept it. We're going with you, laddie." Gimli concludes.

They ride, single file, behind Aragorn as he leads them to the path in between the mountains. By this point they had disturbed the camp enough that their departure has an audience. Elfwyn can hear the concerned mumble of her people as they watch their princess depart with the best warriors among them. But there is nothing to be done about it. Her people, her country, will be decimated if they do not get more men.

She makes eye contact with her father and a quiet realization washes over the both of them. This could very well be the last time they see each other. She pulls back to look at him again, as if to etch every possible detail of him into her brain. An ill feeling creeps into her stomach as the gifts she received from the Valar take over her. A bloody battle, great winged beasts and her father, lying unmoving under his horse as the Nazgul stand above him. This would not come to pass. She would sacrifice herself if need be. Her father would live, live to see his kingdom renewed.

The sun was dawning, casting a golden light through the small valley they were riding through. The remaining members of the Fellowship rode in silence, each in their own thoughts. Elfwyn does not miss the concerned looks being thrown her way by both her husband and the Prince of Mirkwood. Gimli was never one for long periods of silence though and his voice echoes through the canyon. "What kind of army would linger in such a place?"

"One that is cursed." Legolas explains. "Long ago, the Men of the Mountains swore an oath to the last 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."

"And so Isildur cursed them... never to rest until they had fulfilled their pledge." Elfwyn finished, having heard this particular ghost story her entire childhood, both from her older brother and cousin, as well as the soldiers who had come in contact with the mountain.

"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." Legolas's eerie voice speaks a long forgotten prophecy, causing a chill to run down Elfwyn's spine despite the sun beating down on her.

They come to a fork in the road and follow the smaller path up the side of the mountain, to a clearing with a door that only lead into the cavernous darkness. They dismount their horses and lead them on. There was nothing living in the mountain, the trees bare and gnarled from the lack of sunlight in this part and the lack of water. "The very warmth of my blood seems stolen away." Gimli notes in a whisper.

"The way is shut." Legolas reads from the inscription above the door. "It was made by those who are dead. And the Dead keep it. The way is shut." A loud rasp of breathe blows from the depths beyond the doorway, blowing smoke from within and spooking the horses, causing them to rear and flee in fear.