2. The Dead Keep It
For Arandil, who requested drabbles with Elladan and/or Elrohir.
The air is damp under this dark mountain. A chill and angry wind blows, whispering eerie warnings against the rocks. Swirling mist and tangled hair and the smell of dirt and decay. What madness would lead a man here? who would desire to see this place of dust and haze and fear, a dead men's haunt? It is no strange thing that those who venture here return not. Perhaps they die of terror, or of cold, or of madness. Their ghostly voices cry in the blackness of this, their tomb. But if I am afraid, I shall not admit it.
It is dark, black as night, this shadowy mountain. No light enters here. It is shut out by the mountain's perpetual night, driven back by an icy wind. Blinded, we scramble slowly over rocks, finding nonexistent paths through the darkness. The dust chokes and the air chills. A cursed place indeed. Every step echoes off the stone, too loud. Always too loud in this dark. The rushing of the wind cannot drown out the beating of my heart. The mist which blinds my eyes surely is not itself blind. And if I am afraid, I am not the only one.