“We should get off the road soon.” Halbarad urged his horse past Aragorn’s so that he could catch up with Gandalf a few paces ahead. He pointed ahead to a lonely copse of trees on the side of the Greenway, their bare branches a stark contrast against the grassy plain beyond. “Up there, by my reckoning.”

But Gandalf gave a small “ hmph ” and shook his head. “No point in cutting across now, when the road slopes north.” 

“It’s the same distance from here,” Halbarad argued. “And without the threat of bandits or travelers who might chase Rangers off the road.” 

Gandalf appeared mildly affronted, and he drew himself up to his full height in the saddle. Aragorn hid a smile. 

“I have walked this road a hundred lifetimes and more, Master Ranger, since the days your forefathers ruled these lands as kings. No one is chasing me off of it.” 

Halbarad threw up his hands and sighed in exasperation, but seemed otherwise content to let the matter go. He dropped back so that he rode beside Aragorn once more, his face clearly expecting sympathy, but once more, Aragorn couldn’t help but side with Gandalf. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two argued just for the sake of it.” 

Halbarad snorted. “You sound like my mother.” 

“She’s a sensible woman. Don’t tell me you want to spend the next two days picking your way through the underbrush, leading the horses so they don’t break their necks.” 

“Better that than the attention we attract in the open. Any shadows we chase will be long gone, at the rate we’re going.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”  Aragorn stared ahead at Gandalf’s wide-brimmed hat, its point jutting up into the sky. It would appear comical on anyone else, but it added to the wizard’s grave countenance and the power Aragorn had seen firsthand. It had begun to snow lightly, the white flurries melting when they touched the packed earth of the road but clinging to Gandalf’s robes, and Aragorn somehow suspected that if he wished, the old man could banish the flakes with a wave of his hand and a few choice words.

“My father spoke so highly of Gandalf the Grey.” Halbarad’s dubious tone carried a hint of longing, as though he still wished to hold to Dirlaeg’s wisdom. “I would sit atop his shoulders at the harvest festivals, watching little fireworks dance around, and he would tell me a wizard in battle was a sight to behold. I wonder what he’d say now, if he could see his son following on a fool’s errand.” 

“Come now, my good Halbarad.” Gandalf slowed so that he rode beside them once more.  “I remember your father well, and was sorry to hear of his passing.” 

Halbarad bowed his head in acknowledgement, his face softened in mild surprise. He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. He died with Arador, did you know?”

“Yes, that unfortunate business with the trolls.” Gandalf’s eyebrows furrowed in sorrow. “And then Arathorn so soon after. It’s enough I can almost forgive Lord Elrond for hiding the last Heir under my very nose, all those times I was in Rivendell.” 

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably in his saddle at the mention of Elrond, the soft leather creaking beneath him. He was fortunate, he knew, in a way so many of his kin among the Dúnedain were not: he’d grown up with a father, one who loved him and watched over him, the best and kindest person he’d ever known. Yet he had not seen Elrond in over five years. They had parted lovingly, but his face burned at the memory of their conversation in Elrond’s chambers, when his desire for Arwen shone so brightly it formed a gulf between them. 

How foolish he had been! To have Elrond declare him a man fully grown and then act no better than a lovesick puppy. He had hoped, along with his expectant grandparents, so eager for a marriage, that his love would fade with the passing years. But still it burned within his heart, and he had long given up trying to banish it. His cousin Nethril, at least, lent him strength to wait, when her love for Isilmë endured despite tradition and the stiff sensibilities of Men.

Halabard seemed to notice his sudden melancholy, for he nudged his horse over so that their legs jostled against each other. “Enough talk of dead fathers and heirs. You know they left us some songs or two, for long and lonely travels on the road.” 

“I had a hand in some of those, I will say.” Gandalf brought out pipe and leaned comfortably back in his saddle. He used no flint or match to light it, but smoke curled upward all the same to mix with the flurries that drifted from the sky. “Your forefathers were many things, young Dúnedain, but they needed some lessons in levity.” 

***  

They turned off the road early the next day, the South Downs barely visible on the horizon. The snow had stopped, but the sky remained a steely grey above them and the air turned chill and damp.  He wrapped his cloak tight around him, grateful for the thick woolen scarf Ivorwen had supplied him with, his breath ragged against his lungs. An eerie silence descended upon them as hills loomed larger upon the edge of their sight, and when he shivered it had little to do with the weather. 

He’d patrolled this area of Cardolan before, first under the watchful eye of his grandfather Dírhael and then as Chieftain in his own right. Though no Men had dwelt there for centuries, it was always lush with fresh game and falcons that keened over the sky. But the expanse before them appeared only flat and grey, and even Halbarad’s sardonic commentary died on his lips. 

“Be on your guard,” Gandalf said quietly. “It is much as I feared. They grow bolder, and seek to build new strongholds beyond those granted to them by Angmar.” 

They left the horses at a small outcropping of rocks at the base of the hills, the creatures too easily startled by ancient and foul things. Aragorn rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. At the Angle, he had come too late to fight the possessed bodies, and in Tharbad his blade had done little good, only holding them off until Gandalf fully banished them, but the smoothed metal beneath his palm lent him strength just the same.  

“How do you know where to find them?” Halbarad asked, his voice barely above a murmur. 

“They will find us, Master Ranger.” Gandalf held his staff out before him, the stone at its top dimmed so that it was only a pale, burnished silver. “They have no love for the living.” 

Halbarad scowled at the answer, but he held his tongue, and the three of them crept into the hills in the silence taught to all Rangers. Aragorn wondered if their soundless steps would alert the barrow-wights just the same, or if it was their very feä that attracted the fallen Maia. The thought unnerved him almost more than the idea that bodies long dead could be his undoing, and he fixed his gaze on Gandalf ahead of him. 

So intent was he on following Gandalf that he almost didn’t notice the fog that crept in around them, its wispy white tendrils swirling around their ankles and rising swiftly to engulf them all. Aragorn had encountered enough of the creatures now to know this was no natural fog, and he drew his sword slowly from its scabbard, wincing a bit at the scrape of metal. He heard Halbarad do the same beside him, but when he looked to his right he could barely see his friend, only a dark figure against the swift shadow. 

Dread punched through him, a nameless terror he had not felt even at Tharbad, and he clenched his hand tighter around his sword.  He’d spent ten years in the Wild fighting orcs and trolls, leading the Rangers of the Dúnedain through carnage that would break the souls of the Breelanders they defended. Fear did not suit him.

“Show yourself,” he muttered impatiently. “Let us meet and be done with it.” 

“Gandalf?” Halbarad called out into the gloom, but there was no answer.

Aragorn turned to see that the wizard had vanished ahead of them. Darkness fell around them now, the fog swirling thicker. Halbarad gripped Aragorn by the shoulder before they pressed onward. The ground beneath them sloped upward.  They strode swiftly to the top of the hill without word. The vantage point did them no good, for when they looked out beyond they could see nothing, not even the pale glint of Gandalf’s staff. 

“Can you see him?” Aragorn asked. 

“Nothing,” Halbarad said. “I don’t like this, Aragorn. We should double back to the horses, hope that—“ 

A cold, rattling breath shuddered behind them.  Only years of training kept Aragorn from trembling in fear when he looked behind them. Two pale pinpricks of light shone in the fog, ice seeming to emanate out of them. Halabard raised his sword with a fierce cry and rushed forward. But a low, mournful voice reached their ears through the fog, and Aragorn stood transfixed by the sound. His body would not obey his commands.  When a rotting hand reached out to grip his arm, he only faded into blackness. 

***

His lungs burned when he tried to draw breath, a huge, oppressive weight bearing down upon his chest. His eyes flew open to only the dimmest light shining from pale eyes staring down upon him. His mind felt muddled, clouded by the mesmerizing voices of the wights, but the dawning terror of being trapped in a barrow soon cleared it. He screwed his eyes shut to banish the last of the song. 

A great stone lay upon his chest, his hands folded neatly on top of it. Metal chilled his neck and he glanced down in horror to see a great, rusted sword resting upon his windpipe. He turned slowly, gently.  Halbarad was in much the same predicament as he. The same sword lay across both their necks, but the wights only stood motionless around them. Halbarad’s grey eyes met his own, and together their fear burned off into resolve. 

In unison they shoved the great stones off their chests.  The sword flew across the barrow and they rushed at the closest wights. The stench of rotting flesh nearly overpowered Aragorn when he forced the corpse to the ground, his knees digging into crumbling bones, but a great force shoved him off the wight before he could bring out his dagger, and hurled him across the barrow. The wight advanced on him. A pallid hand grasped his throat, sharp bones digging into his flesh, and he struggled for breath.

You fool, echoed the voice in Aragorn’s mind. Threads of dead skin hung from the wight’s jawbone and trailed across his skin.  You will command the dead but once, and it is not us. 

“Aragorn!” Halbarad shouted. 

A great crashing sound filled the barrow. Light streamed in through a hole made by crumbling earth and stone. With great effort, Aragorn kicked out against the wight. The fingers around his throat loosened just enough for him to wrench himself away and dash towards the light. Bits of earth cascaded down on him as he ran, Halbarad sprinting ahead of him. A wight sprang from the shadows behind Halbarad, rusted sword raised high. In desperation, Aragorn seized his dagger and flung it so that it buried itself in the wight’s back. It turned with an unholy shriek that set Aragorn’s ears ringing.  When he drew his sword he felt as if his bones ground together at the wight’s sound.

Halbarad came behind the wight and hacked its sword arm off with a fierce battle cry. It fell to the ground and twitched. Aragorn stood back to back with his kinsman, swords drawn.. It would become a contest of endurance, Aragorn realized with growing dismay, for a dozen or more wights rushed toward them out of the shadows. Even then, if they could not guard themselves against the strange, melodic grasp of the wight’s call--

White light blazed to their left, and Aragorn blinked, dazed. Gandalf stood atop the hill, his sword in one hand and his staff in the other, the white stone illuminated so bright Aragorn could barely look at it. 

“Begone!” Gandalf shouted in a deep, echoing voice. “Angmar cannot protect you now!” 

The wights shrieked again and abandoned their attack of the Rangers to converge upon Gandalf. 

“Took him long enough,” Halbarad muttered, and rushed up the hill after them, Aragorn close on his heels. 

They would not be much help now, he knew, for he had seen Gandalf speak the same words to banish the wights at the Angle and at Tharbad, along with strange invocations of power in a language he did not know. He seemed to have the matter well in hand, and his staff flashed again. The moldering corpses all froze in place, their heads tilted upward in expressions of nameless horror, and beams of light shone out from their mouths towards the sky. 

But one of them wrenched its head forward and advanced on Gandalf. Gandalf brought his sword up to parry the strike, but the wight’s sword cleaved through the air, and with a great ringing crash of steel upon steel forced him to his knees. Gandalf opened his mouth to speak, but the wight’s cracked lips moved first: 

Transfixed by the barrow-wight’s voice, Aragorn watched as Gandalf, with great effort, brought his staff to bear upon the wight, the light of the stone seeming to diminish with each step. The barrow-wight’s eyes grew brighter, his sword held loosely in his hand, and with one low shriek he knocked Gandalf’s staff away and slashed his sword across the wizard’s middle.  

“Gandalf!” 

Aragorn wrenched himself free of the wight’s spell. He leapt forward and sliced outward with his sword, decapitating the wight with one clean stroke. The rotting bones crumpled to the ground, and Aragorn rushed to catch Gandalf before the wizard fell to the ground. Blood streamed out from his grey robes, but Gandalf reached with a pained grunt for his staff and used it to lever himself to his feet. 

The wights approached, white light now streaming out of them, their power draining Gandalf in a way Aragorn could not sense. But Gandalf cried out one final, harsh word and struck the ground with his staff.  A great crack knocked Aragorn back off his feet, and the wights opened their mouths in a silent scream. A rushing sound ripped through the air, the wind whipping at the folds of Aragorn’s cloak.  One by one, the wights around him clattered to the ground. 

Halbarad ran up beside Aragorn, but he stopped dead at the sight of Gandalf. The old man stood before them both, his face pale and haggard, a light in his eyes of equal part wonder and pain. His hand trembled around his staff, blood dripping steadily down his robes.  

“Elendil’s heir, truly,” he muttered, and then collapsed to the ground.