It was the year 2569 of the Third Age. The Great Hall Meduseld of the Rohirrim was now completed and Brego, the King of Rohan, and his people were celebrating with a feast.


The Golden Hall's walls were adorned with tapestries which were brilliantly illuminated by the setting sun streaming through the high windows. The pillars were beautifully carved and gilded. Meduseld was then truly golden.


The long tables in the middle of the spacious hall were laden with food and drink and everywhere there was muted conversation. Prince Baldor, his younger brother, Aldor, and others who came from distant lands to celebrate the completion of the Great Hall sat at the foremost table. Wine flowed as easily as the conversation but the prideful prince was silent. His eyes were on Aravorn, son of Aragost who was the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, sitting across from him.

The youth was perfectly aware of the indolent stare, and tactfully ignored it.

Baldor quickly conversed with his father and rose from the table. The hall fell into respectful silence.

"Greetings friends and guests. With the leave of my father, I have an announcement to make." Baldor looked poignantly at Aravorn. "When I rode out with my father and brother to explore the land, we happened upon strange caverns beneath the White Mountains. An old man was at the entrance, barring the way. He told us that the way was shut, that it was made by those who are Dead, and the Dead keep it, until the time comes. And then he died." He had the whole congregation at his attention. "I, Baldor, son of the King, have decided to enter those caverns and tread upon the Paths of the Dead and find out for myself what secrets lay there. And now I vow before you to walk the Paths of the Dead or never return." He picked up his goblet and drained it.

Aravorn's eyes grew wide with disbelief. The whole hall broke into loud conversation and Baldor, glad at the sensation he caused, sat down imperiously.

Most of the evening was spent discussing Baldor's decision. Some thought him mad while others thought him brave.

Feigning weariness, Baldor excused himself from the feast. Glancing fleetingly at Aravorn, he left hurriedly, allowing Aravorn some time to excuse himself as well.

Once out of the Hall the young Dúnedain quickly surveyed the area for Baldor, glimpsing the blond head further down the corridor, he hastened after him. To Aravorn's surprise, Baldor had halted in the doorway of his chambers, and the youth walked straight into him. Rough hands grabbed him and pulled him into the inner chamber.

Baldor pushed the door shut and promptly started undoing the ties on Aravorn's dress cloak.

Aravorn batted the hands away, "No, stop, I need to speak with you."

"And what about, if I may ask?" Baldor's tone was lilting as if he was speaking to a child, indulging Aravorn.

The young face showed concern, "I beg you not to go on this quest that you so foolishly decided upon."

Baldor's face darkened with anger. "I never asked you to act as my protector. I wish to go on the Paths of the Dead, and so I will!"

Aravorn clutched at Baldor's clothes as if he was ready to shake some sense into the man. "I've heard strange tales about those caverns. All who enter never come out alive."

"I can take care of myself, Aravorn. There could be no man or beast on the Paths of the Dead that could stand against me." The prince would not be swayed.

"There is talk that no man or beast does live there. No one lives there save the Dead." This was almost whispered and the face showed such genuine fear that Baldor's anger disappeared but his resolve did not weaken. Instead he pulled Aravorn close and kissed him fiercely, successfully cutting off any further conversation. His hands resumed their frantic work; the cloak was soon off and away, lying in a heap on the floor. Aravorn's arms crept around his back, clutching at him.

Breaking off for air, Baldor pushed the dazed Aravorn away and then down onto his knees. The dark eyes looked up at him questioningly at first, confused by the sudden change, then realizing his position his fingers found the ties of Baldor's leggings.

Aravorn looked slyly up at Baldor as he ran a finger up the already straining erection and smiled when Baldor closed his eyes and tightened his hands on Aravorn's shoulders.

The youth leaned in closer but not close enough to touch and just lingered there. He placed his hands on Baldor's hips and rubbed his cheek up and down the cloth clad leg.

Through gritted teeth, Baldor managed to hiss, "Stop teasing."

And so he did. Tenderly he kissed the underside. He then wrapped his lips over the head and ever so slowly moved his mouth up and down. There was labored breathing and convulsive clutching until finally Baldor tensed up and reached completion.

Aravorn released the softening cock and smiled in satisfaction, looking delectable. Baldor could not resist and he pulled Aravorn up and pressed his own lips to the slightly swollen ones, bruising them further.

When Aravorn started rubbing his own erection against Baldor's leg, Baldor frowned and held the youth away. He rubbed the bulge with his knee and then stepped away.

Aravorn's face fell; he knew he would not be pleasured tonight.

"Suffer a bit, tonight, Aravorn, and then we'll see what the new day brings." Baldor quickly straightened his clothing and gestured for Aravorn to leave for his own guest chambers. And so he did.

---

It was the day that Baldor was to set out on his journey through the caverns beneath the White Mountains and Aravorn was worried. He was worried for Baldor's well being while in the caverns.

The provisions were all packed and Baldor's horse was saddled and ready for the journey. Baldor himself was splendidly dressed in harness, with a gilded hauberk, a belt of gold and garnets and to top it all off, a golden helm atop his head.

Aravorn had tried once more to dissuade Baldor from the foolish show of strength but the prince had his kind set and would not listen. Now Aravorn's heart was heavy with dread as he waited patiently for Baldor to mount up. Once he did, Aravorn stepped up to him and in earnest said, "Tread carefully, return swiftly, I will be waiting for you."

Baldor smiled and nodded once.

After saying farewell to his brother and father, Baldor looked over those gathered to see him off and galloped away.

He rode all day, stopping once to let his horse rest and take some nourishment for himself. Baldor soon reached the river Morthand that rose under the shadow of the White Mountains. He was now close and his horse, as if sensing this, started shying and refusing to go further. There was nothing else to do but let the poor beast go. It was whinnying and foaming at the mouth, backing away fearfully.

Quickly unstrapping the pack with provisions, Baldor, led the creature to the side of the road and there loosely tied the reins around a branch of a tree. If the horse really wanted to break away it would not be difficult.

The road was narrow and rose steadily. Going on foot was decidedly much slower but there was no other choice. Finally the road came to an end before the foot of the Stair of the Hold.

After climbing the Stair he came upon the doorway to the Paths of the Dead which was marked by a pillar of stone. There was no sign of the old man that he had encountered when he first laid eyes on the Door.

The entrance was dark and a cold breeze blew, bringing a smell of death and decay with it. Baldor's skin crawled but he nonetheless stepped determinedly into the yawning darkness.

He gripped the hilt of his sword and his eyes searched the darkness, eventually adjusting to the gloom. Looking back once, he saw the cheerful sunshine at the entrance but the light never touched the inside of the cavern.

The cavern itself was not very large and it only contained one stone door in the far wall. The door itself was not particularly peculiar but the fact that it was wide open was.

Baldor cautiously stepped through the doorway and when nothing happened he confidently strode further in. As soon as he was clear of it, the door slammed shut and complete darkness fell. On instinct Baldor whirled around to face his assailant, unsheathed his sword and stood at the ready to fight any foe. There was no one there that he could see as he could see nothing at all.

Whispering voices reached him and he turned about, hopelessly confused by the darkness surrounding him. The whispers did not speak in any language he understood and they seemed to be tangible, swirling about him. Steadying his resolve, Baldor decided to find the source of the ghostly whispers. Mustering his courage he haltingly made his way forward, or the way he though was forward, being led by the voices somewhere ahead of him. One hand trailed along the wall, steadying his progress and the other held his sword aloft.

The cold breeze persisted and it seemed to reach through the skin to Baldor's very bones, chilling him.

All of a sudden the upraised sword met resistance but it did not seem to be solid, much less a natural barrier. A candle flared in the darkness and a man was revealed, the same old man who had previously sat at the entrance to the caves. He was pale and ghostly looking; the candle flickered and covered the face in dancing shadows making him look even more surreal.

Startled, Baldor stood stock still. The man leered and pushed the sword point away from his chest, almost twisting the sword out of Baldor's hand.

Baldor finally found his tongue. "I've seen you before, old man, what business do you have here? Are you haunting the Paths like the rest of the Dead?"

"Oh, but I do not haunt the Paths. They are my home but the way is shut to you." The voice was papery thin and seemed to dissolve in the air.

"I wish to pass and you cannot stop me, now step aside." Baldor stepped forward threateningly and brought up his sword before him.

The ghostly figure just shrugged good-naturedly and smiled but it did not look genuine. He cupped the flame gently and blew it out, fading out of view himself. The candle flame was gone but the passageway stayed lit with a grayish light with no visible source.

Finding the sudden disappearance strange, Baldor moved forward cautiously but was immensely relieved that the light remained.

Suddenly a wind picked up and the whispering came back, louder than before. Baldor planted himself in the middle of the passage; ready for whatever it was that was moving towards him.

The Dead came with a vengeance, some were on horses and many were attired in armor. A cold mist trailed behind them. Baldor's confidence sagged and fear crept in but he dared not move. The Dead charged straight at him but to Baldor's great surprise they passed right through him. The clattering of armor and hoof beats echoed about him as his vision swam and blinked on and off as ghost after ghost passed through him.

As the last of them passed his vision left him for a fleeting moment and Baldor panicked, he fell to his knees, his sword clattering to the stones uselessly. Once his sight returned before him on the stones, he saw Aravorn, covered in wounds and lying in a pool of blood, his black hair matted with it. Baldor covered his eyes in horror and fell back.

A howling scream ran through the passage and an invisible force tore at Baldor's armor. Aravorn suddenly stirred and his mouth opened, letting up more fresh blood, spilling it down his chin. Baldor stared in dismay as Aravorn rose sluggishly and moved towards the fallen Baldor who immediately lunged for his sword. His fingers finally grasped the hilt and he rose with the reassuring weight in his hands.

Aravorn was trying to speak but nothing but blood and wet gurgling came from his mouth. The eyes looked haunted and empty. Baldor held his sword up menacingly and backed away slowly, back towards the dreaded door through which he came through.

The gurgling creature ran at Baldor holding out its hands pitifully but before it ever reached him Baldor impaled it on his sword. The thing that looked like his beloved Aravorn looked at him beseechingly and then it faded and with it faded all the blood and the light.

Baldor's breath quickened and his gasping was the only thing heard in the black emptiness. No longer reasoning he turned about and fled headlong into the dark, seeking a way out. As he brushed the walls the Dead grabbed at his harness and arms, pushing and pulling. Either a ghostly limb or a natural incline in the rock tripped Baldor and he fell to the stones. Taking advantage of his position the Dead scratched his face and ghostly hands held him to the ground. With his whole strength and mighty shout Baldor broke free and scrambling to his feet he stumbled on. His eyes were rolling frantically, trying to find a shaft of natural light.

The wind passed again and the air turned foul, Baldor choked on the fetid smell of rotting flesh. Turning away he ran frantically whichever way he happened to turn, bumping into a wall he turned again and ran into another wall. Feeling around the obstruction he felt the grooves that indicated a door but there was no way to open it. He uselessly pounded into it with his shoulder but it would not budge.

The putrid smell receded and the whispering resumed. It sounded solemn.

Gasping for breath Baldor collapsed onto the unyielding ground. His hands searched for the pack with his provisions and with dawning terror he realized that it had been lost in the confusion of his flight. With renewed vigor he searched the walls for any purchase or way out. The walls were solid rock except for the door that would not yield.

Despair settled upon his heart and he thought back on the time he spent with Aravorn and the gentle voice soothed him with words of comfort. With a start Baldor realized that it was the whispering of the Dead that he was listening to and in anger he stood and swung his sword uselessly, around and around, making it sing through the air but it caught nothing.

The fear was great and he felt like a coward. With a cry he attacked the door with his sword, scraping the blade on stone, again and again. When his strength gave out he fell to his knees and feebly tried to hack at the stone again but it was no use.

When he could no longer hold his sword, now notched and broken, he pounded his fists on the stone. He slept uneasily, often awakened by howling voices or the clatter of the Dead men's armor but they never passed his way anymore.

Hunger and thirst faded but the will to survive did not. As his strength left him he still fought for freedom, clawing ineffectually at the cracks, he scratched until his fingers bled but it was no use.

He thought of Aravorn, still waiting for him, before everything went black.

The End