The Last Othellan

Facing the Dead

We rode through the night until the sun rose eerily against the rocks, the early morning turning them a blood red, which didn't quite reach the deep black folds in the stone enormity surrounding us. One thing was clear – this was not a place in which to linger.

As the sun rose fully, the road looked less indistinct. I berated myself for my nerves as sunlight fell warm on my shoulders. However, the full light only made the place look more desolate and abandoned, and it still left dark crevices in the rocks a mystery to my eyes. Our little company was utterly alone.

Unless...

"What kind of army would linger in such a place?" Gimli asked, breaking the compressing silence around us. We turned our horses down yet another twisting path.

"One that is cursed" Legolas answered. "Long ago, the men of the mountain 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."

I frowned at the legend Legolas told. If what he said was true, we were relying on oath breakers and faithless turncoats to save Minas Tirith. It was a huge risk to depend on this army. However, what choice did we have but to take the path laid out before us? Minas Tirith was too crucial. All we could do was try.

"Who shall call them from the grey twilight?" Legolas continued, his voice lowering until it was barely more than a whisper. "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."

I saw Gimli supress a shudder. It was not a pleasant prospect, I had to admit, bargaining with the dead.

The flat silence of the mountains pressed in upon us as we rode on for a short time longer. This place was oppressive, I decided. My senses seemed magnified ten times, and every tiny sound seemed to me as if it could come from the threats awaiting us – those in the mountain, in Minas Tirith, even in the Black Lands themselves. I shivered slightly, but checked myself. I was an Othellan warrior. I would not be cowed by these weak spirits, should they choose to show themselves.

Eventually, the rocks seemed to press in around us, and the back of my neck prickled. It grew steadily darker as we came to a narrow pass, which Aelfen rode into only after I had calmed her and dug my heels hard into her sides. When we reached the end of this small pathway, we found a door into the mountain, a gaping mouth longing for its next meal.

We dismounted and Aelfen threw her head up, but I just manged to keep hold of her reins, walking forwards to stand beside Aragorn and peering into the blackness beyond the door. I could see almost nothing, except a few more rocks, but looks could be deceiving.

"The very warmth of my blood seems stole away", Gimli whispered. It was as if he wanted nothing less than to disturb this ancient place. At the top of the door was writing in a language I did not understand. I peered at it for a second, Aragorn beside me doing the same, until Legolas translated it.

"The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut."

A gust of wind appeared out of nowhere from the door, as cold as a northern winter, its howling a dying man's last breath. The horses screamed and Aelfen reared. I clung on to the reins, trying to shush her, but she wrenched herself away from me and ran from that fell place, Brego and Arod beside her.

"Brego!" called Aragorn, but it was too late. We had to watch our horses fade into the distance. The only way out now was through. Aragorn turned back towards the door, from which an indistinct mist was pouring, as cold as before.