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“They tell a tale about this place,” said Aragorn to Legolas as they set up their campfire in the courtyard of the ruined tower.
“I am not surprised,” replied Legolas. “Haargrim. It is well named. Truly a grim and bleak place.”
“I believe it has not been occupied for at least three hundred years,” said Aragorn.
They sat down beside their fire, leaning relaxed against their packs. Their horses munched contentedly upon their feed. “Tell me the story, then,” Legolas invited, and reached out a hand to rest casually in his lover’s.
“A shame Gimli cannot be here to hear it too, but he was quite eager to investigate those rumours of a dwarven colony living amongst the villagers,” said Aragorn. “He will be back tomorrow morn.”
Legolas nodded and shivered slightly in a gust of wind. He settled himself a little closer to the warmth of Aragorn and the fire.
“It is but a short and brutal tale,” Aragorn commenced. “Eleanora was a young human woman, in love with Lord Eofan, a nobleman of Rohan. They wished to marry, but his family would not allow it, for she was poor, orphaned, and without dowry, though of noble birth. She lived alone in the upper rooms of this, her family’s castle – so small and insignificant that it was hardly more than a watchtower. She survived on next to nothing, save what she could obtain by gathering herbs and selling cures and potions to the villagers.”
“One day, Eleanora was walking amongst the rocky cliffs that surround this tower, when she heard a pitiful groan. It came from a very short man, heavily bearded, who had been set upon by robbers and left badly wounded in a gully.”
“A dwarf?” Legolas asked.
“Yes, it seems likely, if unusual for that time when the races did not mingle.”
“Anyway, Eleanora brought him back up to her tower, bound his wounds and nursed him tenderly until he recovered. He dearly wished to recompense her for her kindness, but he had no way to reward her but with thanks. He asked her to wait three days and he would return.”
“Three days later, very late in the evening when all was dark, Lord Eofan went to visit Eleanora, hoping once again to woo her into becoming his lover though she could not be his bride. Often and often she had resisted and sent him away, but still he persisted. When he arrived, he saw another man – a short, ugly, bearded man – and Eleanora had thrown her arms around the man’s neck and was kissing his cheek fervently. Eofan drew his sword, stepped furiously through the door and slew the intruder. Then he turned upon Eleanora, reproached her for her faithlessness, and in the height of his anger, slew her also. Ever since that day, folk report that a mournful spirit, a woman with long dark hair and a terrible wound in her breast, can be heard sighing and crying out when the wind blows through the ruins.”
“What a sad story,” said Legolas, troubled. To lighten the mood, he drew Aragorn into a darkened corner of the courtyard and kissed him soundly. The whistling wind inserted its cold fingers into their embrace, but they ignored it.
Aragorn smiled. “Come,” he said. “Mayhap the upper apartments in this place are still habitable. Shall we see if any furnishings remain?”
Legolas quickly made a brand and lit it at the fire. They made their way cautiously up a crumbling spiral staircase, shadows flickering around them, until they found the doors to a couple of small rooms. One door opened on a scene of desolation – a mere fragment of a room open to the black sky where rockfalls had ripped away its walls. But the other room, though small, musty and bare, was intact.
Aragorn gently removed the flaming brand from Legolas’ grip and placed it into a sconce on the wall. Legolas’ face glowed in the uncertain light. Aragorn touched his cheek softly. It was a sight he never tired of, his Golden Elf. He leaned in for another kiss, warmer and more intimate than before; he felt the familiar passion rise, and Legolas’ equally familiar response.
All of a sudden, the brand blew out in a gust of frigid wind. Darkness descended upon them, thick, palpable darkness that seemed to try to choke them. An illusion of light danced before their eyes, unreal, ephemeral. Aragorn clutched at Legolas, off balance, and felt the reassuring steadiness of Legolas’ arm about his waist. He felt Legolas’ startled gasp.
“What?”
And then Aragorn heard it too, an anguished, sighing voice. “Return it – return what is owed to Durin’s son!” There was a fleeting glimpse of something white and floating, an impression of a tear-streaked face surrounded by a dark cloud of hair. Aragorn reached for Anduril, but there was nothing to strike at. The voice died away but the oppressive blackness remained.
“Come, let us retreat,” murmured Legolas. He stumbled in the blackness and to steady himself grasped at a small projection in the wall. There was a most unholy cracking sound and an alcove slid open, visible more to their careful fingertips than to their eyes.
“No,” said Aragorn. “It is too dark. We will wait until morning, until Gimli arrives.” The wind grew ever stronger and howled around the building as they descended to the courtyard. Though they heard nothing more of the unquiet spirit that night, they huddled together, more shaken than curious, until the dawn came.
Gimli returned promptly at daybreak. He gave a small smile. “I hope you two were not too bored and lonely in my absence,” he said meaningfully, but it was a familiar joke, and Legolas and Aragorn smiled too. They hurried Gimli up the tower to investigate the small room, which seemed ludicrously unthreatening in the daylight. Reaching into the alcove, Gimli brought out a small casket. It opened to display a generous assortment of sparkling gems: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, gold chains and silver bracelets. Gimli fingered the treasure with obvious pleasure.
A little later, after Aragorn had recounted their adventures and the sad story of Eleonora, Gimli said thoughtfully, “I think I have heard this tale from my grandfolk. There was one of my kin, named Gunnin, son of Gurin, who ventured into this part of the country long before it was common for the races to consort together as we do today. He was ruthlessly robbed, then gathered replacement for his goods from his neighbours, for a purpose unknown. Then he disappeared entirely, though some said he was slain by a nobleman of Rohan who coveted his treasure.”
“It is close to the story I have heard from men,” Aragorn mused. “I wonder which tale is correct.”
Legolas was rippling the gems through his long, slender figures. “I think you should keep these safe, Gimli.”
“I will put the casket in my saddlebag,” said Gimli, reaching for it.
“Wait,” said Aragorn. “What is that piece of paper at the bottom?”
On the paper was inscribed, in a crabbed old-fashioned hand, “Dowry for Eleanora and Eofan, with my best gratitude – Gunnin.”
Gimli closed the casket gently, and said, “He was my kinsman. I will accept the return of his gift, Eleanora.”
In the fresh morning breeze, there was an audible sigh. “Returned! Returned!”
Aragorn and Legolas exchanged loving glances as they mounted to leave Haargrim behind without regret. Gimli trotted bravely behind on his pony with a full heart and full saddlebags.
And no-one ever heard Eleanora’s ghost again.