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Chapter Seventeen: Don't Follow the Lights

The song he'd whistled continued to spin through his mind, followed by Aragorn's claim of recognition. Robin remembered every single night that he'd convince his adar to sit by the fire and play-- plucking strings of his harp in a calm and soothing melody.

He didn't like the idea that someone else knew the tune. It was almost like he'd lost a piece of his father.

Robin clenched his jaw. If his father could see him now.

"The dead have no rest here," Legolas whispered ahead. His voice trailed back with the wind.

Beside the blond ellon, Gimli scratched at his beard. "This was the place of a battle, was it not? I don't remember the stories, honest."

"It was The Battle of Dagorlad," Robin voiced. The others turned but he dismissed their curious stares, continuing. "It was a battle between the Last Alliance and the forces of Mordor eons ago. Hundreds of Gondorian and Easterling men and boys alike died here. They were never buried, just..." He motioned around. "Swallowed by the marshes."

"I've heard stories," Elanor added. "Of spirits and ghosts."

Thralor scoffed at that, but the Ranger shot him a dark glare. "I'm not twisting my words. The dead never received peace, so they've never left Middle Earth."

"We've seen the werewolves," Elrohir mumbled. "I wouldn't pass on ghosts. Though I do hope we get a night of peace."

Robin didn't say anything but he did agree with the ellon.

Peace would be nice.

Eventually, they paused to light torches. There was no dry wood within an entire days walk of the wet marshes, but Elanor and Aria had each carried enough wood for everyone to have one. The warmth was welcome, as well as the light that opened up their path.

Robin's legs ached. But he would rather lose a limb than stop to rest for the entire night in the marshes.

Suddenly, a sharp cry behind them broke the night air. Almost dropping his torch and drawing his sword, Robin whirled around.

It was Thralor.

The bald-headed dwarf gazed into one of the many ponds, his normally hard and tight face turned in a look of horror. His entire face, all the way to the top of his bald head, was pale.

Gimli brushed past Robin, racing over to his brother. But the second his eyes fell on the pond, his face went white as well.

"Thralor?" Aragorn stepped forward. "What is it?"

"T-- t-- there are--" The dwarf stuttered off, his mouth hanging open.

Robin's stomach dropped.

"There are faces in the water," Gimli finished, his voice unnaturally quiet. "Don't you see them?"

Eru.

Robin knew exactly what they were talking about, already turning away. But he could see them in the other bodies of water now-- faint, glowing faces. Faces of the dead. The lights. Don't follow the lights.

"We need to keep moving," Aria said stiffly. She wasn't looking either, face drawn tight. "The marshes have to end soon."

Beside her, Elanor nodded, swallowing hard. She looked nauseous.

"So many of my ancestors died here," Aragorn murmured. He turned in a half circle, pained eyes going across each surface of the water. 

"Now isn't the time to pause, Estel," Elrohir prodded the king's side. "Let's go."