(Archive) The Wight Album

8/2/99 11:40:08 PM

Ruins of Cardolan Wall, Edge of the Barrow Downs
A wall that was likely once great in its ancient heyday runs past here. All that is left of it is a ruin now, perhaps 8 feet tall in its highest places, but with many areas that are low enough to climb over easily. A broad area of grassland stretches away northward, toward a line of tress and the Great East Road. Just inside the ruined wall, to the south, the land rises rapidly to a plateau high overhead: the infamous Barrow Downs. To the immediate east lies a wooded hill and a small path.
Contents:
Aragorn
Elladan
Obvious exits:
Up Hill, North, and South

Night has fallen upon the Barrow Downs. The haunted hills of Cardolan, feared for long centuries by man and beast alike, know little of life or light at this midnight hour. Against a low red moon, the jagged silhouette of a broken wall runs, cracked and ragged, along the ridge to the west.

Yet appearing over the ridge is a strange sight: Three tall forms, men it would seem, cloaked and bearing torches. It is as if they hunt for something... or someone.

Despite the dark hour, the eyes of the second of the trio are bright and keenly searching ahead, staring through the gloom toward the low mounds ahead. "Tyrn Gorthad," he murmurs softly, glancing aside at his brother. "Or so it was called. I think the more common name suits it better, now."

He narrows his eyes, and looks up for the stars but their light seems faint. "An evil and forsaken place. This is a poor hour for our arrival. But so be it."

A lone rabbit freezes in the path of the three hunters, frightened and scared in the ruddy spotlight.

Elladan's voice breaks on the chill night air, bereft of something of its accustomed clarity, swallowed seemingly by the consuming mists that shift and churn as writhing ocean swells about his feet. Yet his words are hung with some strange and stirring music, that would pierce even this gloom. "A poor hour, perhaps. But the heartening of this blackness on the chill soul of our prey shall be of little in its soon desperate cause. The lamps of Elbereth are over us, and the advantage is ours for their vigilance."

The first of the hunters, the tallest and yet the weariest somehow, pauses as a rabbit freezes before him. In that moment, when man and hare stand motionless, Elladan speaks something in the half-elf's voice warms the creature, and it scampers away.

This sight is not enough to warm Aragorn's grey eyes, however. Keen and clear, they seem possessed of a queer gleam as he stares toward the nearest hill, eastward. "Would that your blood ran stronger in my veins, my kinsmen. Yet I am still mortal, and still know fear. Before we go further--allow me to thank you." His voice, solemn, is quiet as snow.

Elrohir turns toward the Dunadan, and regards him curiously, taking seriously the words of his companion yet surprised by them. "There is no need. You and we are of one mind on many things, though your fear is difficult to understand. The spirits of men who dwell here are of no concern to the Firstborn... Though there is something else, an old evil, as well..."

Unwilling to finish, the Son of Elrond loosens the blade of his sword in his sheath, and adds, "There are many barrows. Know you our destination well?"

Clenching his teeth, the Heir of Isildur follows Elladan's earlier words to the sky with his eyes: Elbereth's jewels indeed, the stars are far and distant now. Alone, Aragorn, Elladan and Elrohir must face the spectres of sorcery long-dead... kept alive in the shells of his ancestors' bodies.

The thought visibly unsettles him he takes a deep and calming breath before setting forward once more. "I know the Tyrn Gorthad," he says, voice cold and calm. "We go."

The deep folds in the third traveler's cowl fold in betrayal of his deep, deliberate nod at the reassuring words of his brother. He summons himself, straightens his back, and ventures a stride nearer the tumbled wall. One stride only, and he halts, and all is still...

Still, still and deep, chill and sleep, deep and still. The cold wind that gusts and echoes over the barren hills is a deadly lullaby, beckoning weariness, beckoning despair, beckoning surrender. It is a hard thing even for Aragorn to remain alert, yet he does, eyes sharp and flickering left, right, and ahead. Suddenly, he breaks the silence, dreadfully curious. "Hold...."

The expanse of the downs, with their snow-dusted hills shining slightly in the sullen moonlight, lies to the south, the wind blowing up the dry, powdery snow, making strange, hypnotic shapes in the air. There is no sign of life, be it human or animal, in the downs - and yet, something might be moving out there, flickering in the corner of the eye, never quite coming into full view or focus. Then again, it might just be the windblown snow.

Halting even as the Dunadan speaks, Elrohir's gaze sweeps ahead, his bright eyes piercing the gloom. They narrow, looking southward over the barrow, and he murmurs, "Aye... The gloom itself almost seems to take form. But I do not in truth see anything. Yet."

He turns to his twin, and says, "What do you see, when you look into the night? Something stirs, and it is both an old and a new stirring... Like digging fresh earth from an old grave..."

"My skin tingles, and the hackles rise on my neck," Aragorn fairly growls, his slate-grey eyes narrowing as flecks of windblow snow dust into his raven hair, his beaten green cloak dark in the night. "I like this not, my friends. I can... feel... the evil here."

His attention drawn by Elrohir's bold stride, his hand drops to the hilt of his sword, seemingly of its own volition.

Three figures stand, as monoliths of stone, and the cowl-cast shadows that bedevil their faces part suddenly before the onslaught of their brightening eyes, that break mightily upon the stirring shadow before them - two eyes seem as the dawnfire, furious bright four as the piercing rays of silver stars, unwavering, ancient beauty. The mists withdraw before them, the darkness, for the moment, seems to shallow.

Three hands, needless of command, reach slowly for three glistening hilts, and the sound of drawing steel breaks clarion clear upon the night as three shining swords are drawn, and uplifted.

Elladan nods deeply again, and his words spill cold on the night air. There is little of song in their utterance now. "I see nothing, brother. But I feel something. This mist wraps tendrils about my heart. Something cold is before us."

As if in response to the drawing of swords, the wind howls around the ancient, crumbled stones of long-forgotten monuments to the fallen kingoms of Men, towards the three, picking up in intensity, and dropping in temperature. Dark clouds scud across the low moon, chased by the wind, and somewhere, far to the north, a wolf howls, the quavering cry barely audible over the wind. This is a night to be at home, in front of a warm, safe fire, not standing in the desolate hostile country.

Stepping slowly forward, the clouded light of Isil itself failing to pierce the darkness for clear sight, Elrohir raises his sword higher, as though for the final stroke 'gainst the foe in the night, and upon its blade bright and deadly gleam.

"There is something at work here... no mere chance. The old powers of broken Angmar settled in these mounds... That old realm even the Eldalie fought with great caution."

True steel. Though Narsil be broken and its shards left behind in the vaults of Imladris, Aragorn has not come unto this meeting unprepared. In his hand lies an old hilt, but the blade it supports is older still, and from it he draws the warmth and the strength to withstand the cold wind. Raising himself to his full height, the Heir of Isildur calls aloud in the fair elventongue:

"Elendil! The blood of Elendil seeks justice! Come forth, defiler! We do not fear thee!"

A storm seems to break, the air seems to quiver, and songs of ancient wars and fallen warriors echo as a deafening symphony on the chill air at the Dunadan's cry. Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond, scions of kings, draw back their hoods in unison. And lo, they are beautiful, and fell!

Clinging mists start to ooze out of the old ground and tombs, circling around the three, hiding tall, dark and evil shapes that lurk at the edge of revealment. A chill, whispering voice, coming from no one source, mocks the man's words, appearing to be unimpressed by the twins, and far more fell. " Older, nobler bones than yours have made challenges more terrible, and where are they now? Cold and mouldering, in dark graves under barrow and under stone."

As one the brethren Half-Elven step forward, their blades bright still though the stars lie hidden behind the clouds. Their voices lift in unison, the answering challenge in them strong, the power of both Kindreds great in them. "Come forth indeed! Then in haste to depart this realm is not yours to dwell in any longer, and the dead will have no sway."

Supressing a shudder through sheer force of will, the scion of Arnor's ancient kings looks warily left, then right, into the mists. Eyes glittering with both anxiety and anticipation, his blood must surely run cold and hot with fear and passion. Gloved fingers tighten their grip on an ancient sword, and he joins his voice to those of the Twins he steps up beside them. "Blood and bone are strong as stone, but steel is sharper, and steel cuts deeper."

" Oh," the voice of death answers, " The dead always hold sway in the end. When you are less than a memory on the earth, the dead will still remain. Even steel dulls, rusts, crumbles to earth. Even steel dies, and cuts not. All things die, even elves, though it takes them many ages of the world. Death cannot be conquered, foolish ones. Embrace it tonight, with us." One of the looming shapes in the mist grows bigger, less fuzzy around the edges, though still hard to make any detail aside from it's general humanoid form, as it - they? - speak on. The temperature continues to drop, so cold now it seems like it might freeze the lungs, every breath hanging in the air.

Against the cold, the sudden drop and chill more bleak than any winter has yet summoned to Eriador, Aragorn's cloak offers little protection. The sturdy garment flaps in the wind, cracking loudly in the night, and only by willpower does he stand. Teeth bared, eyes wide, he gazes into the night at the oncoming form, and can speak only one word. A breath, a prayer, a psalm: "Elendil!"

The voice simply taunts, " Elendil? Elendil is dead, is he not? He cannot help you." Two more of the shapes move closer, gaining definition. One for each victim, it appears.

The strangest of sounds breaks on this chill night, and makes wordless answer of the dread drippings of the black spirit's words. It is, of all things....laughter! Laughter, like the ringing of myriad bells of silver. Laughter, like the singing of glad birds in green trees on dawn's coming. Laughter, and it sings as living light on the air surrounding, and creeping mists are foiled of their terror. Elladan's voice is laced with the bright music as it makes its reply. "Death? Death? Have you no greater threat than this? You are rumored to be terrible. But what terror in this hollow boast?"

The cold troubling him no more than an autumn breeze, Elrohir echoes his brother in laughter. Slicing through the rasping whisper of the wind, the sound does indeed do much to dispell the enchantment of gloom woven about the trio, as do the clear and ringing words of the Half-Elven to follow his brother's.

"You know aught of elves do you, dark shade? There is no death for the Firstborn that is without rebirth. There is no sword that cannot be reforged, no night that the dawn dispels not. Make no threats, but despair! For this night you will end your terror, and driven into the wind you will be, scattered and made no more."

The laughter of Elladan seems to strengthen the Dunadan. Taking heart, the son of Arathorn lofts his sword on high, and lowers it flat, parallel to the ground, arm extended to point as an arrow would, point to his stalker. "Elendil is beyond thy power, spectre," he says, voice now clear and confident. "And by his blood am I heartened. Heed us and flee, fly back to Angmar and trouble no more the graves of the Westermen. We come hither to banish thee."

The three wights draw back at the laughter, taken aback. But after a few moments, the voice recovers. " The very shape of the world has been changed by fear of death. It is far from a hollow boast, young, foolish ones. You know not the power that lies withen us. You speak of rebirth for the firstborn. That is but a lie, unless you become like us. Once you are dead, there is nothing but us. Tonight, you shall learn that. We shall not be scattered, but enrichened. Your blood is meaningless - it will spill out upon the ground, like everyone else's in time. But now, I grow bored of this little game." Slowly, the wights start to reasert themselves, and the scent of decay rises strong as they close in.

Shaking his head, and bringing his sword up, a light seems to spring from Elrohir and it both. "As do I. Blood you wish, but you shall not get and bitterly will you rue your attempt. Steel you do not fear? The steel of the Eldalie you will fear... It will bite, and you will fall and fail, one by one, and the darkness you serve will reclaim you. This land is not yours, nor the life you take neither. Death is yours, your inheritance for the evil that you serve. And that is all you shall ever have." Flanked by the others, Elrohir steps forward again, ire burning in his eyes, and he says but one word of challenge. "Come."

Again, the strangest of things befalls. No laughter, now, as death gathers closely about the bright company. No song, no music, and no clash of steel rings on the chill air of this fell night. Three figures, bright of face, fell of hand, distinguished in arms, descended of kings, cease their advance. Cold mist swirls hungrily about them, the scent of death closes perilous upon them, the undying, undead, near. And they crouch, and eyes shut, and swords point groundward, and they fall upon one knee, heads bent. And all is silent.

The voice turns loud and terrible. "Mere steel cannot harm that which is already dead, and we can conquer steel. Behold!" From the mists, a sword is thrown, to land just on the edge of the clear area around the three, at the feet of one of the wights. It leans down, with a hand becoming clearly visible, with long skeletal fingers, and touches the sword. Lo, the sword shatters, fragments falling away from the hilts. In the few moments before it's destruction, it might have been recogonized - as the sword of a lost ranger, Aeglas. The voice merely adds one demand: "Give us your lives. Resistance is useless."

And in response to the deathly challenge, the invocation of Aeglas' vain struggle, the call from beyond the grave... they do not stand nor raise their steel. Elladan and Elrohir, the Sons of Elrond, and Aragorn the Heir of Isildur--in voices bright as the morning, they begin... to sing.

In a harmony like waterfalls at the beginning of the world, three deep voice lift and mingle in unparalleled beauty and hope. The kin of Luthien, her children, they pray now and cry to the heavens.

The wights step into the clearing, trailing streams of mist. They are tall shadows, with terrible eyes lit by distant pale lights, long-limbed, cloaked with decay. Eager hands reach forth, grasping for the three... and the three being to sing.

 Ah Earendil, Oh Earendil!
 O gloried shining Silmaril
 So radiant, deliver us
 O Light from Heaven, strengthen us!

 By Courage bright, by Feanor's craft
 In Justice and in Holy Wrath
 Deliver us, and banish hence
 these spectres dark.
 Deliverance!

 Ah Earendil! Oh Earendil!
 Forefather, shining bright!
 We call on thee
 Let Darkness flee
 Let Death fail in your Light!

Even as their voices lift, the voices of Earendil's grandchild, and his most noble descendent upon the side of Men, there is a stirring, a change. Already the dark power quavers, and far above, through the gloom and the mirk, the clouds part. The light of isil begins to spill through, but it is rivalled by a still brighter and more puissant brilliance.

The star of Earendil, the light of the Silmaril earned so long ago, the symbol of the Valar's faith to all Elves and Men, of the covanent of the light and the love of the One for his children. Its light breaks through the clouds, searing their blackness and bathing the low mounds and ruined walls in its pure and hollowed glory.

The words, the song, in the ancient Elventongue are caroled not in the grey-elven, but the Quenya, the tongue of Tirion. And their beauty, their richness of volume and tone and melody, their mingled harmonies would make the trees cry, did any such live in this desolate land. Between the song and the star, then....

Silver light bathes the three stooped figures, blinding bright, beauty untold and strength unwavering in glory dancing upon the slender beams of starlight, the lingering strands of song, that dance now triumphant about these fleshy forms. The song lingers on the air, and repeats itself with gathering boldness, though lips are still, and it, this simple song, draws all before it in its warm embrace. This is beauty pure. This is light unseen, but felt. This is unearthly strength to hearts that are pure, unholy terror to spirits of blackness. Earendil is unleashed, and woe to those unfit for his coming!

As the clouds break to let through the wonderous light of the last hallowed Silmaril, the wights draw back, venting high pitched, quavering screams shrill enough to break glass. The mists flow back into the ground and tombs, the shapes that are still concealed going with it, seeking shelter from the two ships riding the night sky. The three exposed wights' cry raises to a climax, and cuts off. Two of the fell things crumble into dust, blown to oblivion by what is now a refreshing, not opressing wind, and the third seems to almost flow into the ground, seeking the low places, the enclosure of defiled, ancient tombs of Men, starting to turn to dust even as it tries to flee - a race with an unknown winner. The wights leave no sign of their presence but the echos of their cry, a rapidly dissapaiting smell of death, and the memory of their presence. Somewhere, off in the Old Forest, an owl hoots, and the downs seem open and free, unoppressed, for the first time in many years.

And with the lifting for a time of the oppression of Angmar's curse, and the sound of the birds far and away among the trees, and the first faint stirrings of dawn beyond the eastern wall of the Mountains far away... it is as if the land itself sighs in relief.

A sigh that is echoed in the mortal eyes of Aragorn as he rises, but standing beside him are the immortal Sons of Elrond, the Twins, and in their faces he finds the calm and placid confidence of faith and eternal friendship between Elves and Men. A trial has been passed, an evil beaten. The Ages may come, and the Ages may go, but here and now the ancient alliance still holds true.

*************** FADE TO BLACK ***************