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"I have the authority to command you and all your kind, Britou! For I..." Candaith tried to breathe evenly, but he was still winded from the endless assault that this Oath-breaker had been sending against him and the others. And, well... he was mildly nervous too. He knew this was a terrible idea, yet he had to do it. He had to get these spirits to stop before they killed them all. "I am the heir of Isildur!"
While it was hard to tell what expression the spirit wore, Britou did seem to pause at Candaith's words. "What evidence do you have that this be so?" he asked.
"Only this." Candaith slipped his glove off and lifted his hand to present the ring upon his finger. "The Ring of Barahir, heirloom of Isildur's line."
Britou sniffed the air — if a ghost could even sniff — and appraised the ring. Candaith tightened his hand around his sword. He knew that the Bebarahir ring was nearly an exact replica of the real heirloom, for he was the one who had imparted the design of it to those Dwarves and he was very certain of his memory. But still, a tingling anxiety filled his chest. This had to work, and if not for his sake, then for the people he cared about.
"I see," Britou said, his voice light and deep simultaneously. "We will fulfil our oath at last, that the heir may lift the curse. Tell your men."
Candaith sighed lightly and nodded, turning to his companions. Halston was leaning against his spear and had his hand covertly behind his back, likely hiding his own ring. His exhaustion was evident, but Candaith's kinsman still stood tall. Cyrondir's grey eyes flicked between Candaith and Britou, his hands clenching and unclenching around his twin daggers. Candaith tried to smile at his father, tried to tell him without words that it would be okay. Cyrondir saw the smile, and his eyes shimmered with pride.
Finally, Candaith looked at Wulfe. She still had her sword raised defensively, and while she tried to hide it, Candaith could clearly see that she could hardly hold herself up. Her gaze locked with his. In the span of a few heartbeats, she read his expression, his posture, his everything, and whatever she saw made her shoulders drop, her sword lowering. Candaith's lips twitched upward more, but instead of smiling back, Wulfe's face morphed into horror.
Candaith frowned, and it was then that he felt a coldness in his chest. He glanced down. He certainly did not expect to see the end of a ghostly blade protruding from between his ribs.
"But that is not the Ring of Barahir, and you are not the heir of Isildur." Britou yanked the sword back, and Candaith choked on air, the chill shifting into pain.
Wulfe screamed and tried to run toward him. Candaith lifted his hand slightly in some weak attempt to stop her — he did not want her to get closer, for that would bring her too near to Britou —, and fortunately, Halston must have had the same thought. He lunged forward to grab her, pulling her back against his chest.
Candaith’s sword hit the ground, his knees following soon after. Britou shouted something, though Candaith could not hear it. His hand delicately touched his chest and came back coated in thick blood. The sight, or perhaps the simple lack of that blood in his body, made him tilt sideways and crash onto his side. His arm landed outstretched toward his companions — No, they were not just companions.
Halston, his friend. His brother for all intents and purposes. All of the Dúnedain were his brothers and sisters, his kin, his family. He prayed none of the rest of them that ventured into this forsaken place met the same fate as him. He was certain Halston would be okay. He had Lothrandir, even if he was currently angry with him.
Cyrondir, his father. The man who taught Candaith how to wield a bow. He remembered a moment when he was still a small child. His father woke him early, just before the sun rose, and brought him to a high hill. Cyrondir had placed Candaith on his shoulders and held his hands. He hadn’t understood why his father brought him there as they watched the sun crest over the horizon, painting the sky in oranges and reds. It was not until they had gone back inside and were seated at the table for breakfast with Candaith’s mother did he ask why his father had done that.
“A day will come where we will no longer have the chance to watch a sunrise together,” Cyrondir had said. “I wish to not waste the time we have now, my son.”
Candaith could not remember the last time he and his father watched the sunrise together. He wished he could see it one more time.
And Wulfe... Oh, Wulfe.
She was still shouting, calling for him as Halston tried to drag her back. She fought against him, and her wide eyes remained pinned on Candaith. He hated that this was the last she would see of him. More Oath-breakers spilled forth, so Halston twisted Wulfe around and threw her over his shoulder, heading away.
“Candaith!” Wulfe screamed, slamming her hands against Halston’s back.
It was getting harder to focus around the pain, but he knew this: his beloved was getting away. She would be safe, and no Oath-breaker would touch her. That was all that really mattered to Candaith.
He had always known that he could die, and since departing with the Grey Company, he knew those chances were higher. Death had been something he accepted a long time ago. But the deaths of those he loved? He did not like to fathom that. If they could escape this accursed place, then Candaith could die peacefully. He could pass on to the halls of his ancestors and hope that he had made the world better just by being in it. He knew that his world had been made better by those in it.
His father had not left yet. Cyrondir battled the spirits that came at him, his eyes rarely leaving Candaith’s rapidly weakening form. No, no, his father could not stay here. He had to go too. He needed to follow Halston and Wulfe and make it out of here unharmed. Candaith didn’t want him to die here as well.
“Cyrondir!” Halston shouted back at the man.
Candaith looked at his father pleadingly as his vision began to fade. “Go... please...” he croaked, barely audible, but Cyrondir heard him.
His eyes glistened in the torch light as he gazed down at his son. Candaith didn’t know what he was thinking, likely did not want to know, but he looked unbearably sad. His daggers cut through another Oath-breaker, and its shape dissipated. “I am so sorry, my son,” Cyrondir whispered, and then he turned and ran.
Candaith had never felt such immense relief before. He wished he wasn’t alone at the end, but he would not want any of them to stay if it meant their deaths. He forced his eyes to stay open to watch as his friend, father, and beloved escaped down the tunnel. He thought Wulfe might be sobbing now amidst the yelling. It ached to hear, and he hoped she would learn to move on from him. He hoped his father would not blame himself. He hoped his mother would not be angry at his ghost.
The pain had faded. He couldn’t feel much of anything now. It was time then, he figured. But he fought a little longer, just until the ones he loved vanished from his sight.
When they did, Candaith exhaled peacefully, and he did not breathe again.