✓ 𝙈𝙮 𝙁𝙖𝙚 ━━ Legolas

・.・✫Twenty-Three

Aragorn's gaze softens, touched by their unwavering loyalty and bravery. "Very well," he concedes, a hint of gratitude in his voice. "But stay close, and be prepared for whatever dangers may lie ahead."

As we all mounted our steeds, we set off on the Dimholt road, the soldiers nearby watching with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "What's happening?" one soldier whispers, his voice filled with uncertainty.

"Where's he going?" another soldier wonders aloud, his eyes tracking Aragorn's determined form.

Amidst the confusion, one soldier calls out desperately, "Lord Aragorn!" But his words fall on deaf ears as we ride into the night, the camp disappearing before our eyes.

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

As we ride along the barren mountain path, the desolation around us seems to echo the weight of our mission. Gimli's gruff voice breaks the silence, his question hanging heavy in the air.

"What kind of army would linger in such a place?" he muses, his brow furrowing in contemplation.

"One that is cursed," Legolas replied solemnly, his gaze fixed ahead on the looming mountains.

"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."

"Well isn't that a delightful tale", I said sarcastically. Looking around the place from my place behind Legolas.

He continues speaking, "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."

Approaching the ominous Dimholt door, adorned with skulls as grim sentinels, we feel the weight of history bearing down upon us. Legolas reads the haunting hieroglyphs above the door, their words a dire warning of the peril that awaits beyond.

"The way is shut," Legolas intones, his voice carrying the weight of ages past. "It was made by those who were dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut."

As wind and noise emanate from the dark depths of the doorway, our steeds grow restless, sensing the eerie presence that lurks within. Aragorn's determined cry cuts through the mounting tension, his resolve unwavering in the face of uncertainty.

"I don't like the look of this place," Aine murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of her cloak.

Khellan, ever the stoic warrior, offers a reassuring nod. "We've faced worse," he says with quiet confidence, though the tension in his voice betrays his own apprehension.

"I do not fear death!" Aragorn declares, his words a defiant challenge to the shadows that encroach upon us.

But as Gimli hesitates at the threshold, his reluctance to enter the dark depths evident, a flicker of amusement dances in his eyes.

"Well, this is something unheard of!" he exclaims, his voice tinged with incredulity. "An elf will go underground where a dwarf dare not! Ah, I'd never hear the end of it!"

With a hearty laugh, Gimli casts aside his doubts and charges into the tunnel, the rest of us closely following behind the dwarf.