Malbeth the Seer had foreseen this hour and the dire need that would drive Isildur's Heir to take the Dunharrow road to Paths of the Dead. In waking dreams, he saw a great Shadow grow across the land once again, and he wrote the staves of the Oathbreakers and the Stone of Erech. He even knew from whence the king-in-exile would ride.

From the North.

Aragorn looked at the rising moon on his left hand and caught a glimpse of Legolas' hair. The flaxen silk floated on the wind of their passage like the pale banner of a phantom army. To the left, Gimli stumped along tirelessly despite the weight of his armor and the axes he carried. Behind them, like the tattered train of a funerary shroud, trailed the Dead.

Only the Elf dared look back at what had followed them out of the Dwimorberg. The army that had hidden in the Haunted Mountain since the end of the Second Age seemed no more substantial than cobwebs and frost. However, the Sindar felt the cold, black wave of dread that radiated from the revenants and knew their deadly power.

Gimli faced resolutely forward, putting one iron-shod boot in front of the other with his eyes on Aragorn's back. The Dwarf muttered gruff imprecations under his breath about the sort of folk foolish enough to muck about with the spirit world. He was ashamed of the fear he'd shown under the mountain and glad his companions feigned not to notice.

Across the flat plain, like a pewter shield under the full moon, only one thing broke the featureless expanse. A hill erupted like a blister from the smooth landscape, its sides as regular as an upturned bowl of tarnished silver. Upon its summit was set a stone, half the height of a Man, half-buried in the earth. It was black and polished, a perfect hemisphere brought out of Numenor and set upon this prominence.

Aragorn stood before the Stone of Erech and lifted the Sword Reforged. In a ringing voice, he called upon the Oathbreakers to fulfill their pledge. The Army of the Dead swirled liked fog in the wind and one walked from their misty ranks. The tall figure clad in ancient armor seemed to become more solid as it moved forward, but the Companions could still see the stars through the crowned apparition.

"Have you aught to say to me?" Aragorn challenged.

"You must spill blood to seal your oath," hissed the King of the Dead.

Aragorn brought his blade to his palm, but stopped at the sound of a dry chuckle.

"No, Heir of Isildur," the King said. "Not your blood; the blood of the Sindar, your other allies in this war against the Shadow."

Legolas offered his hand without hesitation, but once again, the revenant was not satisfied.

"Do you think you can solemnize a pact of this sort with a few words?" the phantom laughed. "Did you think it would be so easy, Heir of Isildur?"

"Must I shed Legolas' blood?" Aragorn asked.

"Only a little," the dead King said with a toothy smile. "He will take little harm from it. Just a little blood is all that is needed from him. From you, we will take another tithe."

"And what of me," Gimli blustered. "You laddies have been careful to avoid me."

The King of the Dead turned his moldering head and fixed his phosphorescent gaze on the sturdy figure of the Dwarf. "Be glad we want nothing of you, son of the earth," the ghostly monarch leered. "We have no pacts with Dwarves."

Gimli swelled like a thunderhead, but froze when Aragorn's gloved hand fell on his shoulder. The Dwarf bit back his angry words and took a half-step back. A sidewise glance up at the Elf revealed the hint of a dimple in one smooth cheek.

"Gimli," Aragorn said softly. "I wish you to guard our backs; do you understand?"

The Dwarf nodded and walked around to the other side of the Stone. He planted his feet wide, grasped his battle-ax handle with both hands and stood fast, daring any and all to come at him to their sorrow.

"Now," Aragorn said, facing the dread apparition squarely. "What is it you wish of us?"

"This Stone is an altar, as you know well, Heir of Isildur," the King said. "In the Dark Days, before the coming of the Men of the West, we gathered here in Spring and Autumn. The Witch-King of Angmar served as high priest for the ceremonies to insure fertility for the earth and its creatures. High burned the fires on those nights, a light to rival the stars!"

"I have read of the rites performed here," Aragorn said. "And I will not participate in a blood ritual."

"Then you will still receive our aid," the King said, "but our strength will be a tenth of what you will need. The more successful the rite, the mightier our prowess."

"I do not fear the magic of Men," Legolas murmured at Aragorn's right hand.

Aragorn's eyes closed briefly. He did not mind sacrificing himself for Middle Earth, but he did not wish his Companions to suffer in his cause. It was this quality, more than any other, that set him apart from the Dark Lord he opposed. However, he could not deny his friends their wish to fight beside him.

Aragorn extended Anduril's blade toward the King of the Dead. "Swear on this steel that no harm will come to Legolas," he said.

"There will be a little pain," the King warned, "but it will not last or leave a scar. Does that content you?"

Aragorn's eyes flicked to the Elf's and he made his decision. "We will perform the rite."

The King of the Dead grew taller and taller, his wispy substance expanding until a diaphanous canopy of shredded cloud overhung Man, Elf and Stone. The voice of the oathbreaker whispered in Aragorn and Legolas' minds, telling them what must be done. Dazed as sleepwalkers, the pair turned and faced the half-sunken globe.

Of its own volition, Aragorn's hand reached for the Elf's and pulled Legolas so that his back was to the Stone. Firmly grasping the Sindar's slim hips, the Ranger lifted him to perch on the altar. As his fingers deftly worked the laces of the Elf's leggings, the Man looked up to meet his Companion's eyes.

Legolas gazed calmly back, his features wearing the serene expression of an Elf who walked the dream-road. Aragorn drew breath to speak, but no words issued from his mouth. He knew that he was under a spell of sorts, but the knowledge brought no attendant horror. He continued to undress the Elf to the cadence of a solemn drumbeat that might have been his own heart.

The Elf did nothing to hinder or help the Man in his task, nor did he protest as his flesh was bared to the coolness of the night air. His expression did not change as the Man's hands slid over his smooth skin, pushing back his tunic, pulling down his leggings until he was naked in the moonlight.

Aragorn stepped back a pace and gazed upon the ivory limbs splayed against the ebony stone, the disheveled hair like the tail of comet against the night sky. Eyes that held the constellations in their crystal blue depths beckoned to the Man and Aragorn's blood answered. He was Dunedain; this magic could not harm him.

Aragorn placed his palm deliberately against the Elf's inner thigh and felt the ancient heat flare in him like the fires of Mount Doom. Pushing the long legs farther apart, Aragorn moved between Legolas' thighs.

His Manhood had risen as quickly as his lust, nudging his hard belly as he leaned forward. A red mist fogged his vision even as his sense of touch heightened ten-fold. There was no thought in him but the need to bury his aching rod in the soft flesh of the warm creature spread before him like a tribute of ivory and gold.

The beat of the drum grew louder and was joined by the eerie skirling of pipes as the Man sought the Elf's entrance with the blunt head of his staff. Legolas bent his knees, bracing the soles of his feet against the rock and exposing his nether port. Aragorn seated the copiously weeping tip of his shaft and pushed forward.

As the Ranger entered his most secret desire, he looked up and for a brief moment of clarity became fully aware of what he was doing. The love he had long harbored for the Elf blossomed like an entire forest in Spring, spreading a tide of warmth and joy from the point where they joined.

Legolas rose from his back to clutch at the Man's shoulders, realization lighting his eyes for a moment before the influence of the ancient rite swept him under again. As the fires of creation roared in his blood, the Elf grasped a fistful of Aragorn's hair and drew him into a passionate kiss. The Man thrust forcefully in reaction and a trickle of blood wound its way down the Elf's cleft to drip onto the Stone. Legolas whimpered, but did not flinch, providing solid resistance for the next stroke.

The hollow drumbeat grew faster and the pipes wailed like the voices of doomed lovers as the Heir of Isldur delved ever deeper into the yielding flesh on the altar. Gossamer tendrils from the overarching mist curled about the entwined bodies as the King of the Dead tried spider-like to extend his influence. He waited until the couple was enthralled by physical pleasure to draw upon the power in the Stone to weave his spell.

Even as the King of the Dead released his curse, he recoiled. A burst of light like an exploding star scattered his essence like rags of silk as the soul of the Man united with that of the Elf. The pure, infinite love that they held for one another was intensified by the joining of their bodies and burned away any stain of darkness. Stabbed by a dagger of his own making, the dead King withdrew to gather the wide-flung pieces of his spirit.

The Shadow Army began to murmur like the leaves of a vast forest in a high wind as the will of malice that controlled them fragmented. A new power rose, netting their dissolute souls and welding them once again into a single deadly entity. Waves of potent force rippled through the phantom host increasing their strength with each cycle. The tenuous material of which they were formed seemed to grow more substantial until the colors of their banners and uniforms could be seen under the sickly greenish light they exuded.

Aragorn slid his hands under the Elf's firm buttocks and lifted. Legolas wrapped his arms around the Man's neck and locked his ankles at the small of the Man's back. Aragorn stepped back from the altar and a great cracking noise like a peal of thunder split the night's silence. The couple took no notice; Middle Earth might have crumbled to dust around them and they would not have blinked.

The Army of the Dead roared a chant in time with the unseen drummer as the ghostly pipes reached a pitch beyond human hearing. Aragorn buried his face in the Elf's fragrant neck and lodged his straining arousal deep within the Elf's sheath. Legolas cried out his pleasure to the stars as his seed unfurled in a pearlescent scatter against his belly.

The Man groaned deep in his chest as the Elf's release spilled over triggering his own. Kneading the round buttocks, Aragorn sank his teeth into Legolas' shoulder as his orgasm struck. The Elf moaned, his fingers tightening on the Man's skull as the long staff twitched in his socket and filled him with Aragorn's essence.

The Man opened his eyes and met the Elf's gaze. Legolas smiled and all of Aragorn's doubts flew away like scattered crows. The Shadow had reached out, but it had not touched them. They were whole and untainted and aglow with the awareness of their love for one another.

Gently, the Man kissed the Elf's lips and disengaged from his body. Legolas sighed as Aragorn withdrew, already missing the feel of the Man inside him. The spell of the ritual was fading as Man and Elf donned their garments.

Aragorn directed the Army of the Dead to attend him at Pelargir upon the Anduin and received their reply. Gimli was roused from his trance and the three Companions lay down upon the brow of the hill. All around them were cold, pale watch fires that burned through the night.

By dawn all memory of the ceremony had vanished from the minds of Man and Elf, and they remembered only the pact struck between the King of the Mountain and the Heir of Isildur. Aragorn had secured a mighty ally for Gondor and all the Free People of Middle Earth and they took the road to the coast and the Black Fleet that awaited them there.

Aragorn and Legolas rarely spoke of the meeting with the Oathbreakers and Gimli never told them that he had not been under the same spell that possessed them. Nor did he ever mention that he had turned when the great peal of thunder had rolled out.

Not for love or gold would Gimli Gloin's son ever say aloud what he had seen upon the ancient altar. However . . . the image of noble Aragorn between the lovely Elf's thighs was forever graven upon his memory, the beauty of them and the way they fit together, he would take to his grave.