Chapter Text
Gimli clutched at Legolas' waist while they rode over the uplands of Lamedon. Pouring down the slopes their horses' hooves thundered, and behind them, the dead souls followed, swarming silently, voiceless dead whispers, unsubstantial hisses. Gimli's hair stood on end, even his beard. His hands clamped at Legolas' waist, rigidly. The unnatural chill emanating from the dead spirits terrorized him.
But Legolas moved smoothly before him in flow with the motions of the horse, seemingly without the least effort and fearless as they rode at breakneck speed. And just for a moment, Gimli was almost comforted. The thought that his fear for this unquenchable whirlwind of a wood-elf was completely out of place and bordering on absurdity, was welcome.
Gimli tried to hold on to that feeling, as the elf's long hair lashed at his face, fair strands rich and heavy in the wind of their speed and he huffed, sputtering in annoyance while they caught in his beard. There was no chance for him to use any of his hands to ease this trouble.
Legolas turned his head to look back at him. In the elf's eyes gleamed a bright, almost madly flickering light of excitement that must have come from his delight at the rush of their ride.
"I would have told you to hold fast, Gimli," he shouted back over his shoulder, "if your fingers were not already crushing my bones!" he laughed, and the light sound caught in the streaming air, rippled over the dwarf and eased the chill in his heart while he groaned.
But they were riding to reach Pelargir, near the sea, and Gimli's fear could not be cornered. The shadows of ghosts, their cold sighs, their lifeless whispers surely did not help – they froze him. On this mad ride, clutching at Legolas' waist, his thoughts streamed and lashed in his mind. Like Legolas' hair in the speed of the wind.
He looked over at Aragorn. And Gimli felt once more alone in watching this impetuous, vulnerable elf's back, while the man was swallowed and lost in the responsibilities of his destiny, surrounded by the Dúnedain, Halbarad and his men, the aim they strove for over generations soon being fulfilled or all lost to darkness.
Aragorn, the heir of Isildur, spurred his faithful horse Roheryn, brought to him by Halbarad from the North, to unleash all his force into speed. There was a grimness and a strange darkness about him. In his face, the marks of worry ran deep. And yet he looked determined to follow what was expected of him, fuelled by an enormous pressure to push on and accomplish his destiny.
The Dúnedain, riding all around him, fortifying him, sustained their cause; the end of long years of exile in the wilds, finally drawing near in their hope. A tide of determination on hard pounding hooves pressed forward, rolled and charged like a thunderstorm. And with them, in their midst, flanking Aragorn, never leaving his side, the two sons of Elrond shone; their long dark hair streamed behind them, their faces were fair and sharp, their broad swordsmen's shoulders imposing, and yet their bodies were graceful and elegant in both form and motions. Their eyes gleamed, as did the silver-bright runes on the black sheaths of their swords.
Legolas plunged Arod into the tide and then reemerged, pulling away, seeking distance, sailing the edges of the streaming power with lightness.
Gimli heard the fearful shouts, the calls reaching from every town and every village they passed; "The king of the dead is come upon us!"* And people ran frenzied, unhinged by the fear that went on over the land before them.
Gimli's own dread ran deep, but Aragorn charged forward and the shadow host followed, held in check by the man's sheer will. Gimli knew it was wearing on him, but Aragorn's features were set and showed no weakness.
They crossed the rivers Ciril and Ringló and when they reached Linhir above the Mouth of Gilrain they found the fords under attack, but the men of Umbar and Harad stopped fighting and fled in terror as the ghosts swept over the land. But Angbor, the Lord of Lamedon, stood his ground and faced the army of the dead. He was a brave man. After swearing loyalty to Aragorn, he gathered his men, and they followed the grey company on their way towards the Anduin.
During the day, they halted only enough to recover, feed and water their sweating and foaming horses.
Legolas brushed down Arod's flanks, speaking lilting, comforting elvish words to the horse. Gimli listened to the familiar musical voice of the elf, and warmth filled his heart, keeping the cold, voiceless whispers of the ghosts surrounding them further away. He wondered at how this wood-elf's fair, melodious voice had grown beloved to the point of soothing him like the deep hum of a mountain would, or the steady beat of a hammer on iron. This unbelievable creature had become a natural part of his life.
~.~.~
Gimli remembered how his blood had frozen in his veins, how his breath had hitched in terror as they stood at the door to the dead. All the hearts quailed, but Aragorn's will and determination had been so strong that his men followed him into the threatening darkness with deep trust. Unquestioning, one by one, their cloaked shapes had slipped through the gate in the rock. Their faithful horses loved and trusted their masters to the point of walking devotedly by their side, encouraged by the lead of the rangers' firm hands on their reins, and the calming murmurs of their voices.
But Arod, the feisty and skittish Rohan horse, had shrieked and bolted and whinnied in terror. The high-pitched cry resounded and echoed hollowly between the rocks, multiplied, and spooked the horse even further. It cantered, nerves undone in terror. Gimli felt sympathy for the beast as he was sharing the same feelings. Legolas had been calm and steady then. A warm, glowing presence amid the gloom, the elf had reached gently to cover Arod's eyes, had sung to him quietly, and the horse had relaxed into his secure lead. Gimli had stood there alone for a moment, all the hair on his body stiff with fear, he had briefly wished for Arod's place, but then before the soothing sound of Legolas' song would get lost behind the stone, Gimli had muttered to himself, "Here is a thing unheard of! An elf will go underground and a dwarf dare not!"* With that, he plunged into the gaping mouth.
…Intrepid Legolas! He had absolutely no fear of the dead. And Gimli shuddered again at the thought that the elf was even ignoring the warning of danger to his own life, waiting somewhere there, imminently on the way, close to the sea. The constant nagging had robbed Gimli of many hours of sleep.
Legolas had complained, "Sleep Gimli, I cannot rest if you shift and turn endlessly. I can hear your thoughts roiling."
"You know what I think?" Gimli had frowned at the uncanny thought.
"No Gimli, but I can hear the rumble in your mind like gravels in a cave-in. – I wish you would sleep snoring gently," he said then more softly – fondly – and grinned. Gimli knew the elf was troubled then, for there was no other way he would admit such a thing otherwise.
But Gimli did not snore that night and neither of them found sleep.
~.~.~
Gimli was exhausted. This ride demanded too much from him. All this passed through his mind as he stood now square on firm ground. Although his legs felt cramped by the struggle to cling so long upon the horse, his bottom felt even worse and he welcomed the change in position. He watched the elf leaning affectionately against Arod. And Gimli did not miss the elf's gaze, staring worriedly to the north, toward their homes. He looked beyond worried. He looked haunted. Strange shadows flitted over the brightness of his eyes.
As if Legolas felt Gimli's gaze scrutinizing him, he shifted and glanced at the dwarf. And as he saw the frown on his face, the corners of his mouth curved upwards to smile hesitantly, "Why, Gimli? Why are you watching me so?"
"Hmm…!" Gimli's voice came in a gentle grumble, "I don't like your gaze!"
Legolas gave a nervous laugh. "You are watching me too closely, my friend!" But then his eyes sought the same direction again, and he went very still.
Gimli harrumphed, clearing his throat.
"We are drawing near the sea, and I'm thinking about the meaning of Galadriel's words," Legolas finally admitted, not moving his gaze from the north, "I think of home… if there will still be a forest to return to… if at this moment my people are falling, and my father with them, if the great wood is burning and with it both our homes, Gimli. My heart pains me. I worry for them… It is torment. Horrible dreams return every night, and now, dreadful visions claim and haunt me during daytime as well."
At those words, a surge of homesickness rippled through Gimli. He thought of his mountain home and his people defending it with all their honour and skill, with their lifeblood. And he felt himself shuddering, deep in his bones. He needed to stay calm. He planted his feet firm on the earth, closed his eyes and thought of deep mines thrumming with the low sonorous song of stone, the soothing glint of precious gems and mithril… the peace of persistence over long ages… of steadiness…
And then he looked at the elf and took a deep sigh. Of course, this one's worry concerned everything but himself. Legolas worried once more about his forest, his people… diverting from his own vulnerability. And Gimli was left all alone with the worry for this wild wood-elf. As much as he joined the elf in his thoughts and concern for their people, he doubted very much that the Lady's words had been about the war in their homes. The prediction bore a clear warning. And Legolas was discarding it too lightly. It made Gimli anxious, and as much as he did not want to allow the feeling, it made him resent Aragorn for leaving them on the side, unwatchful, for allowing their friend to follow him into danger, into what could be his demise.
He said nothing to Legolas. But he sought Aragorn with a grim, accusing gaze; the leader among his people, amid the grey company who had claimed him, pushing him on, away from his small group of friends who had come so far hunting orcs together, sealed to brotherhood by the choice of their hearts.
Gimli almost jumped as the elf was now suddenly behind him and his long slender hand wrapped gently over his rigid shoulder.
"Peace, Gimli. Do not look at him so. It is not his fault. We all pledged to follow him to the end. It is our own choice. Do not resent him, for he needs our support."
Gimli blinked up at the elf in unbelief. Had he been so easily readable? He shrugged. There was indeed no going back now.
"It was our own choice, and Mahal knows, I do not regret to be at this young ranger's side while he rides to claim his throne and the mighty name of Elessar," Gimli stroked his beard thoughtfully, "but the price we pay is yet uncertain."
"Come lad, let's ride on. We cannot know what will befall our homes," he said. "We are not there and we cannot change the way things go. We are in the middle of the same war."
Legolas was still staring North, chewing his lower lip. He blinked several times before looking at Gimli, and it was as if his heavy sigh hitched before he mounted, his eyes unfocused and suspiciously moist. But Gimli pretended to not have noticed. He rubbed his sore bottom and cramped legs in an exaggerated gesture, hoping to divert his own mind and his friend's from their sombre thoughts before catching the elf's hand which reached down to him and then hauled him up to the usual place, to watch his back.
I promised to follow you to the end. Nothing will hold me back. Those had been Legolas' words. And they turned in Aragorn's mind relentlessly. Words of unconditional trust and loyalty, of comfort and encouragement. Words of his dear friend, his brother. But what gave him the right to accept the elf's promise so readily?
Isildur's heir had summoned the shadow host, and it swarmed and pressed behind him. It took all the man's strength to keep the unleashed power of the dead in check; so much of his determination and will. And he was grateful that his powerful brothers were close, supporting him in the task. And Halbarad and his kin had ridden to his aid, from far in the North, to claim this crucial road together, ever faithful.
From time to time, he caught sight of the white Rohan horse and on it a flash of light, a stubborn, graceful warrior of the wood, following him wherever he may go. Moving close and taking distance, navigating the fringe of the grey company, constantly in motion, but always there, always persistent. But although he tried to evade it, Gimli's occasional accusing gaze did not slip from his awareness, boring into him, digging into his conscience, uncovering a nagging fear and fuelling it.
Aragorn recalled their conversation the night before they left the Hornburg riding down the Coomb like thunder. More than ever, he had looked upon Legolas and Gimli with gratitude and respect. – How could he ever carry this burden without them?
He had tried, tried to talk Legolas out of it, offered him to send Gimli along with him to Edoras. But Legolas had been fierce in his refusal. His posture had been calm and controlled, yet a passionate fury had flashed in his eyes.
Gimli was right; Aragorn was tired. He had not even attempted to insist and engage in a fight. He had lowered his eyes, nearly closing them, and his shoulders had risen and fallen and hitched with a sigh as relief washed over him; Legolas would stay by his side. – It would not be death, surely; there were so many other possibilities… And Legolas looked so strong already. He had mended particularly well, even for an elf. – Aragorn told himself again and again as if to persuade himself, chase his own biting reproaches away.
He owed this elf and this dwarf so much; it was his to give them the King Middle-earth deserved. With great determination and hope, he controlled the sheer mass of ghosts; unsubstantial bones, bloodless muscles and sinews reduced to eerily shimmering mist, eyes glowing, voiceless cold whispers and hisses leaving empty throats pouring between tight, fleshless lips. He was guiding them towards their freedom. He had to hold them, hold them back as they pressed on – not yet, he could not let them go yet…
Minas Tirith was burning. He had seen it in the Palantir. And on the horizon up the Anduin, the smoke curled and drifted to the sky. There was no time. They were needed. The sheer urgency and despair kept all the doubts about Galadriel's words somewhat away. So much depended on him now, and he – they – could not fail. The pressure from the host coiled more and more until it became almost unbearable… soon, very soon, he would discharge the cold power of dread, unleash the forgotten army of the dead upon the harbour and the black ships on the Anduin, let terror spread upon Pelargir.
Now was the time! They pushed him hard, to release them into the battle below. Aragorn could bear it no more; the black ships loomed on the dark, deep waters of the mighty river. The harbour was beleaguered by the forces of the enemy. Now was the time! Aragorn exhaled, freeing a low, guttural battle cry. He felt the tension uncoil, the shadow host pouring, melting into a flood of terror spreading down to the river. Men cried out frantically and fled without even resisting. But the orcs stood and fought, and there were many of them. The horses of the living charged into the servants of Mordor.
His brothers fought beside Aragorn. Their swords flashed bright, raw violence glinted in their eyes. They struck down their enemies, wild and efficient, razing to the ground any foe in their way. Their eyes that were so caring and soft when they looked upon Aragorn had now turned to hard, transparent ice burning with hatred. Aragorn knew it was still present; the grief and the pain of their mother's suffering, the loss, and it unchained in hatred, demanded release in battle. Aragorn felt their power sustaining him, fuelling his own battle-lust. He cut the orcs down, strike by strike, stalwart and capable. All around him, the grey company fought, sustained by the dread that the army of ghosts spread.
Aragorn was grateful for they fought mostly orcs and the beasts were much easier to kill for the heart, would not leave such a bitter taste lingering after he spilt their black blood. Most of the Easterlings and Southrons who had beleaguered the harbour feared the shadow host and ran away in blank horror and uncontrolled chaos. They were easily captured by Angbor's forces, which had joined Aragorn's party on the way.
But suddenly, in the distance, high over the Anduin, something white struck Aragorn's vision. Wide-spread wings circled and sailed the wind over the river. Galadriel's words rang in his head. The calm, grave voice of the Lady of Lórien intensified, echoed within him and his heart lurched. His gaze sought frantically for his friend, for a flash of gold amongst the rage of battle. He swung his heavy weapon, meeting orc flesh, and in between, at any break he could take, he looked out for Legolas or Gimli. He knew that where the dwarf was, the elf could not be far. His distress grew by the second, as he could find none of them.
The army of the dead had reached the black ships of the Corsairs, spreading fear, hunting the men. Aragorn ran towards the river, scanning the shore almost frenzied, followed by Halbarad, who was shouting to him from behind. And there he caught sight of the elf's elegant shape climbing upon a close-by ship, as the first living creature to go with the assault of the dead, fearless as was his wont and utterly reckless. Halbarad urged Aragorn on to take to the fleet before the Corsairs could loosen the anchors and flee. Right before them in the harbour was docked the greatest ship. They were together as they climbed on board the mighty vessel.
But Aragorn's mind was still clouded with the sight of the white wings of the gull, stretched out wide, sailing the wind, and he glanced upwards as they reached the planks on the ship. He saw and heard men cry out and scream in terror. They sprang from the balustrade, but some of the bolder ones struck out at him and Halbarad and some other rangers who had climbed on board behind them. Aragorn defended himself by swinging his sword mechanically, led by reflexes. His mind was still caught by the bird and the fear for his friend encompassed him. As soon as he could manage, he rushed to the gunwale that admitted a view on the ship Legolas had climbed. There he spotted him, agile and swirling in action. The elf's white knives were still in their sheaths at his back and Aragorn saw the elf strike down a man with a hard punch of his fist. He saw Elladan hauling up Gimli into Elrohir's firm grip who hoisted the dwarf upwards, while Gimli looked not at all pleased at needing the help of the elves because the hull was too high for him. He almost could hear him humph despite the chaos ringing all around.
But then Aragorn heard what he had dreaded all along. The gull's call cut through all the sounds of fear and battle; the frenetic shouting, the clashes of blades, the thrumming of feet on wooden planks, the rushing of the river, the hisses of the dead - all seemed far away, fading to nothingness, while the gull's cry pierced Aragorn's ears, spiking an icy fear.
Aragorn stared over at the elf, frozen and shocked. His knees buckled, and attentive as Halbarad was, he held his friend and leader upright when he would have sunken to the ground. One arm around Aragorn, Halbarad struck out behind him at an enemy with the other because a battle was still raging between the rangers and a few Corsairs who had been bold enough to stay. But Aragorn stumbled forward towards the gunwale. He fought against his friend's hold on him, he wanted to leap…
"No!" Aragorn cried out, "Noooo!" He wanted to stop what was happening. He felt such crushing guilt and fear. He had allowed Legolas to follow him, because of his egoistic need to have his dear friend close. And now the call of the gull had struck and he could lose him. The deep pulling waters of the Anduin were dark and unforgiving. Legolas had been fighting hard, but now he could not see him anymore in the streaming dark. He had to do something! Anything! He had to leap…
"Aragorn!" Halbarad shouted, restraining him, "You cannot do this, you cannot plunge into such danger, the risk is too high! Your brothers are there, they are capable."
Aragorn thought he would go mad. He wrestled mindlessly against Halbarad's hold. But the man was broad, his senior and mentor, succeeding to restrain him, secure and calm him with his deep voice until Aragorn slumped desperately against the elder man's body, staring paralyzed, and still crying out; "No!" He panted and shouted, again and again, until his voice became coarse and broken. He now scrambled and struggled just weakly, resignedly in Halbarad's grip. His lips trembled while he stared helplessly at what was happening on the other ship. His eyes were wide in dismay, tears welled, quivered, and burned. Halbarad stood by his side, his strong arm around his shoulder supporting him, preventing him from sliding to the ground.