DESCENDING TO DARKNESS
by Soledad
INTRODUCTION(Which you can skip if you know the earlier stories.)
About this story:
Kind readers, 'tis finally it! My long-wind Boromir story arc "Fall Before Temptation" is coming out of the deep hole where it has been sitting in the last half a year or so.
This is Book Seven of the tale, and though it can stand alone perfectly well (I am handling pure LOTR-stuff here, after all), reading the earlier "books" might be helpful, since they all belong together.
Before you start reading, a few warnings:
This is a bookverse story, and aside of a few slight artistic freedoms, I am following book canon rather meticulously. Also, I assume that my readers have read the books – LOTR the very least – and thus possess certain background knowledge.
I used some of the earlier writings of Tolkien, as published by his son, Christopher Tolkien, in the books "The Return of the Shadow" (HoME 6) and "The Treason of Isengard" (HoME 7). Some lines are directly quoted, though not marked individually. This does not make my story an AU, as the added lines are few and the differences minor.
Whatever else seems different from LOTR is due to the fact that I tell the story of the Fellowship from Boromir's POV. He might have seen events from a different angle than the hobbits did.
If you a movie-fan, though, this tale will probably disappoint you. I have been re-reading the books again and again for 20 years, and I do not like the movie at all. Therefore, my own inner images of the main characters differ greatly from the actors who played them (with the possible exceptions of Gandalf and Sam.) No offence intended, but the movie characters just do not look right to me.
Not that I reject everything the movie gave us – I absolutely love how Boromir, my lead hero was portrayed (as you might have noticed by now), and I readily adapted good movie scenes to my stories. Nevertheless, my Boromir, just like the character in the books, has dark hair.
So, if you are a devoted movie-fan, these stories probably aren't the right ones for you.
This much had to be told in advance, for many people automatically identify the characters with the actors. That would not work with my stories.
About GimliGimli is an issue of his own. There had been a rumour before John Rhys-Davies got the part, that Jeffrey Combs (an excellent character actor, known from horror movies and diverse Star Trek-series) would be cast as Gimli. I was excited and couldn't wait for an affirmation – which, of course, never came.
Now, while I have nothing against John Rhys-Davies (I saw him in other roles and he was really good,) quite frankly, I don't care either for his appearance or for his performance in the movie. For me, it was very disturbing to know what a huge man he actually is. I was never persuaded, that he would be a Dwarf. Not for a second.
So, for me, personally, Jeffrey Combs would have made a much more believable Gimli. Therefore please consider that I write my stories with Jeffrey Combs before my eyes, so that the Gimli in my series would be very different from the Gimli in the movie.
I wanted to state this right here, before I start with the adventures of our heroes in Moria. Please accept this as my personal take on the good Dwarf and don't bother me with screams like ''But John Rhys-Davies is soooo Gimli!'', because, truth to be told, I won't care. Just as I don't care when people scream at me because for me Legolas never was and never will be a blond. I made my concept about those very dear characters some twenty-odd years ago, and I won't change it just because someone has made a popular movie.
SOME BACKGROUND FACTS(For those who haven't read the earlier parts.)
In this particular series Boromir arrived in Imladris a couple of weeks before the Council (but this is the only AU-element in it). The whole series was originally based on a premise from Dwimordene's story "From the Other River Bank," in which Boromir was secretly in love with his own brother – a completely unrequited feeling. In that story, Denethor somehow discovered his guilty secret and this was the reason why Boromir was sent to find Imladris. His father also arranged to solve the whole dilemma by marrying him to Éowyn of Rohan.
In the beginning of this series, Boromir, on his way to Imladris, stops in Edoras for a day's rest. Here he learns of the fading of Théoden-King, the disturbingly increasing influence of Wormtongue, as well as of Gríma's stalking of Éowyn. Éowyn, however, does not want Prince Théodred to confront Gríma for her sake, for the weakening influence of the Crown Prince on his father is needed, she says, for more important things. To Boromir's surprise, Éowyn declares herself willing to enter an arranged marriage with him, for the good of both their countries. She also hopes that Boromir will allow her to fight on his side as an equal, as Prince Théodred allows his own wife, Aud of the deep eyes.
On his way to Imladris, Boromir has a bloody skirmish with a horde of Orcs and loses his horse near Tharbad. Injured and unconscious, he is found by the Rangers of the North and brought into their refuge among the ruins of that once great city, to the house of their leader –who later turns out to be Halbarad.
Halbarad points him in the right direction to Imladris, but he gets lost in the woods and is at last picked up by a small group of Wood-Elves, led by Legolas. In Imladris, Boromir meets Elladan, Elrond's son. Soon they are involved in an affair, and Elladan falls deeply in love with Boromir, finally entering a one-sided soul-bond. Elladan feels the bond will help him protect Boromir from the Shadow that fell upon his heart during the battle for Osgiliath – and from the lure of the Ring. The binding ceremony is witnessed by Glorfindel and performed through gifting the Shielding Stone – a white jewel set in a silver collar and brought back from Valinor in the First Age – upon Boromir by Elladan. Because of the craft of this Stone and their soul-bond, Elladan and Boromir are now able to farspeak (i.e.: communicate with each other telepathically).
This touching of minds (or souls) develops slowly while the Fellowship goes south with the Ring. It culminates, the morrow after they successfully fight the Wargs, in a full merging of their souls, called "The Joining" by Elves.
Here ends "Book Six: Of Snow and Stone and Wolves," shortly before they set off for Moria.
And now the continuation…
CHAPTER ONE: LOOKING FOR THE PATH
Dedication: for Archet, my good friend and fellow Boromir groupie. Happy birthday, Archet!
Acknowledgement: my heartfelt thanks to Snicklepop who offered to beta-read the story and to clean out my grammar mistakes that are unnumbered. All remaining mistakes are mine alone.
Author's notes:
Here I added a day to their journey, following HoME 6 rather than FOTR, in order to make room for some personal interaction. The description of the Fellowship's path mostly follows FOTR, with a few additions from HoME. There are a few direct quotes, but they are interwoven with my own lines as usual.
Legolas' age is not given by Tolkien anywhere. All speculations about his age are just that: speculations. I made him somewhat older than he usually appears in fanon, but still fairly young for an Elf. Also, there is no canon fact saying that he had been in Moria before. I made up that short incident.
The changeable hair colour of Wood-Elves™ is my invention, too. They have it in all my stories. My Legolas has it from his mother, whom I imagined as a Silvan woman.
All the day they had heard no sound and seen no sign of any living thing. As soon as the light began to fade they started off again, for Gandalf wanted to reach the doors of Moria before the next sunset. A light ran was still falling, but that did not trouble them much – at first. Nevertheless, Boromir was grateful for the long leather coat his status demanded him wear – only the short sleeves of his tunic got soaked instead of all his garments. He had folded his cloak and put it away in his leather bag when the rain started. Now he would have something dry to wrap himself – or mayhap the soaking wet young hobbits – into as soon as they found a place to rest.
Legolas walked at his side. The rain seemed not to bother the Elf at all, though his long, dark hair, bound in one, tight braid, lay like a piece of wet cord upon his back. It looked almost black now, and the part of his clothes that was not made of leather was soaked already.
"What a day!" Legolas commented softly. "As if the heavens themselves would mourn over the folly that directs our steps from peril to certain doom."
"Certain doom would be daring Caradhras again," Boromir replied. "I wonder how anyone can cross the Redhorn Pass at all."
"I have never tried it myself," the Elf shrugged. "Whenever we have to come to Imladris from our home, we cross the Hithaeglir further up in the North, through the High-Pass, which is well-protected by the hard-handed Bardlings. But I have heard that the Lady Arwen often takes the Redhorn Pass on her way to visit her kindred in Lothlórien, and she never ran into serious trouble."
"The Mountains are less malevolent during other seasons," said Aragorn, obviously having overheard their conversation, and moved closer to them. "And I am certain that the snowstorm was sent to us with the very purpose of making the way impassable. Sauron has many ways to set hindrances before us."
"And yet you led us into snow and near-death," Boromir commented, suppressing his involuntary shiver. Why the Ranger felt the need to name the Enemy at every chance, he still failed to understand. Names held power in them, and the naming of evil could summon evil. Aragorn gave him a sour look.
"So I did," he agreed, somewhat reluctantly. "For I underestimated his strength and hoped that we might slip through in the last moment, as snowstorms are uncommon in the Mountains this early in winter. Apparently, I was wrong."
This earned Boromir's grudging respect. Admitting a mistake, and a grave one at that, was not an easy thing to do for a leader of Men, yet it was necessary. Seeing that Aragorn was able to do so, gave him some hope. Mayhap the Ranger would prove to be an able ruler, after all. Assuming, however, that the Council of Gondor would accept his claim – which was by no means certain.
Boromir knew that his father would not support someone from the northern line. The Lord Denethor was very much like his ancestor, Pelendur, who had successfully kept the last King of Arnor from claiming the throne of Gondor. Boromir sighed inwardly – this meant that his own thoughts on this matter would be important in the upcoming discussion. It helped but little that he still was of two minds about the whole thing. Anyway, the Ranger would have to prove his worthiness thoroughly and repeatedly if he wanted Boromir's support.
They fell into silence again. Aragorn lengthened his already long strides to catch up with Frodo and Sam, in case they needed help with the stumbling pony, while Boromir kept an eye on the younger hobbits. Legolas fell back to keep watching their backs – he felt uncommonly tense, and sought some comfort in being alone.
Gimli now walked ahead by the wizard's side, so eager was he to come to Moria, and the longer his strong, short legs stomped upon the rock beneath his feet, the more eager, the more full of new strength he seemed. It was as if the strength of his forefathers, none less than Durin the Deathless among them, had filled his heart and his limbs through the very bone of the Earth. Though he was young for a Dwarf (his round face and his slightly upturned nose making him look even younger), there was an ancient look about him now, that he had become one with the rock under is feet, the fire of Dwarven generations long past shining in his round, deeply dark eyes.
Along with Gandalf he led the Company back towards the Mountains, for they planned to come towards Moria up the course of the Sirannon – a stream that ran out from the foot of the hills not far from where the hidden Doors had stood.
But it seemed that they must have gone astray in the dark, for it was a black night under an overcast sky – so dark indeed, that even Legolas had difficulty seeing. In any case, they did not strike the stream, and after half a night of wandering and floundering, the hobbits grow weary and began to stumble and slip on the wet stones.
After a while Legolas caught up to the wizard.
"There is no use looking for a lost path in the night, Mithrandir," he said quietly. "Nor can the hobbits go on much longer. Let us find a resting place and wait for the dawn to break; by first light we shall see whether we have truly lost our bearings or else the land has changed in recent years."
Boromir expected an outburst of protest from the wizard, for well did they all know that Gandalf was fretted by their delay. But to his surprise the old man agreed, sounding tired and dispirited for the first time since they set off from Imladris.
"We all can use a few hours' rest," Gandalf sighed. "And if rest we must, it is better to do it while going on is nigh impossible anyway. Mayhap we shall have more luck in the morn. Your eyes can see in almost complete darkness, Legolas. Can you find us a somewhat protected place for the rest of the night?"
"We passed some sort of cave only moments ago," the Elf replied, clearly undisturbed by the rain streaming down his face. "More a shallow hole in the rock, in truth, but it might serve as cramped quarters."
"Sounds good enough… as long as it has a roof, at the very least," said Pippin through chattering teeth. He looked like a dog that had fallen into the river: wet, shaggy and miserable. Legolas gave him a compassionate look.
"It has," he said. "Let us turn back."
And back they turned, after all their struggle, if only for a short way, led by the keen-eyed Elf. And indeed, after some half-blind stumbling they reached the cave. 'Twas not too large as caves go, barely big enough for them all, but at least it was dry inside, even though it became damp soon enough from their wet clothes, the smell of which was strong enough for a pack of soaked wolves. Legolas turned up his nose but said nothing, his discomfort showing only through the fact that he sat as close to the cave entrance as possible.
They dared not light a fire, nor could they do so even if they dared, for there were no trees near. The few pieces of deadwood they might have found would have been dripping wet as well. Boromir helped the younger hobbits wring out their clothes (his big hands making easier work of it than their small ones), then he retrieved his almost-dry cloak from his bag and wrapped them up tightly, so that they could share their body heat. He spread some of the blankets for them upon the naked rock floor and urged them to rest as well as they could, for they would need their strength in the morrow.
"I would not have thought you such a caring person when we first met," Legolas commented softly when the Man took the last empty spot on his side, left free by the others because it was too close to the entrance. Boromir shrugged.
"I was taught to judge the strengths and weaknesses of my troop carefully. The young Halflings are our weakest point – they are a liability, need to be protected."
The Elf watched him with bright eyes and a slight smile.
"Is that all there is?" he asked. Boromir shrugged again.
"Every army is just as strong as its weakest soldier. But nay," he added with a helpless grin. "'Tis not all. I truly grew found of the little ones. I know they are not children – yet they remind me of the days of my youth where children in Minas Tirith were still numerous and their laughter could be heard in all seven rings of the city. It has become so silent lately… silent as a tomb. I wish that laughter to return to my people, and when I hear these young ones laughing and jesting, I almost feel that there still is some hope for us as well."
He paused, casting a thoughtful look at the kneeling Elf, unbraiding his wet hair and running a wooden comb through the dark locks in a detached manner. The long, silken tresses almost touched the ground, thrown forward over his shoulder. Was it only his imagination or had Legolas' hair truly changed its colour since their first meeting?
"What is it like in your home, Legolas?" the Man asked. "I saw no Elf-children in Elrond's house, and when I asked for the reason, I was told that none have been born for many hundreds of years."
"That is true for Imladris," Legolas answered. "Yet Elrond's people and my kin are different, for we of the Silvan folk wish not to leave Middle-earth. Our roots are deep in this soil; also our lives are more perilous than those of Imladris, save Elladan and Elrohir who often seek out grave dangers willingly. Therefore, there still are Elflings in the Greenwood, for we need the new generations to keep the safe numbers of our people, just like Men do. And we grow up more slowly than Man-children. As a rule, we also have large families, for our people die more frequently in battle than all other Elves of this Age. 'Tis not safe to live near Dol Guldur, where the Dark One once dwelt, and where now his Úlairi keep watch."
"Úlairi?" Boromir repeated in askance. Legolas shrugged.
"The ones Men call Nazgûl or Ringwraiths. One of them, whom old lore names Khamûl the Easterling, has been the captain of Dol Guldur ever since Sauron began to stir again, some two thousand years ago."
Boromir winced. "Do you have to always speak His name? 'Tis bad omen, you know."
"Forgive me," the Elf bowed his dark head. "I keep forgetting about your customs. Truth is, we share not your belief that invoking the name would invoke the evil – even less so since 'tis not his true name at all. 'The Abhorred' was he called by the Elves of the Elder Days, yet it is a name given out of dismay, not one of true power."
"You know His true name, then?" asked Boromir, thoroughly surprised by what he just had been told. Legolas nodded.
"The dark name he was given after submitting to his Master I know, yea. 'Tis an old custom to teach it those chosen to rule our people, for it is believed that you only can destroy an enemy when you know his true name. But I doubt that there is anyone on Earth who would still remember the name by which he was called before his fall – unless Mithrandir does."
"Or Curunír," Boromir added grimly. Which earned him another nod.
"True. Yet now that Curunír has allied himself with Mordor, we cannot count on his help anymore. Mithrandir is our last, best hope to see this Quest completed."
"My father has little trust in Mithrandir," Boromir said. "And neither have I, to tell the truth. But my brother admired him greatly, and Faramir is no fool, even though the trickery of the wizard might blind him at times."
"You are sorely mislead if you think ill of Mithrandir," warned Legolas. "He is not unerring, 'tis true, and he is quick to anger also, yet never in the two thousand years since I first met him in Elrond's house have his goals been aught but noble."
"I think of him no better or no worse than he thinks of me," Boromir replied, unexpected bitterness welling up in his heart. "He thought the rumours that he always wished Faramir were the heir of our father – for he found my brother more apt to his hand – would not reach my ears? Well, they did. I know well what I am in his eyes: a mere hindrance in the way of his friend, the Ranger. Little does he care for the people of Minas Tirith who have kept the Darkness at bay through all those long and dread years; and, even less for my longfathers who served Anárion's city with blood, strength and love."
"I know but little of Mithrandir's deeds or wanderings, for he never visited our realm until almost eighty years ago," said Legolas thoughtfully. "Still, I seem to remember that he used to be on friendly terms with your grandfather, or so Aragorn says."
"And made Ecthelion turn against his own son in favour of a stranger," answered Boromir, in a near-hostile manner. "Nay, Legolas, your wizard friend is no friend of mine, or that of my family… or our people."
Legolas sighed and began to re-braid his hair, his long, nimble fingers glowing barely visibly in the darkness. His dealings with the Lakemen and the people of Dale had taught him better than to fight with mortal stubbornness. He was quiet 'til he finished his task – then he turned his bright eyes to Boromir again.
"Watch your heart carefully, Son of Gondor," he said. "For you are hoarding so much bitterness in it that I fear for you when we descend into the Black Pit."
"For me… or for yourself?" Boromir asked quietly. The Elf shrugged again – a movement that could be more felt than actually seen in the darkness.
"The thought makes me uncomfortable," Legolas admitted. "Yet I have already been there and come out just fine. You, however, should rest now, for it will be a long and perilous way through the Mines."
Boromir saw the wisdom in the Elf's advice and leaned back against the rock wall to rest as well as he could. It took not long 'til his bone-deep weariness overwhelmed him and he fell in dreamless sleep like a stone into a dark well.
When they woke in the next morrow, they were somewhat comforted by a change in the weather: the clouds had broken and the rain had stopped. The sun came out in gleams, and there were no birds in the sky or other ominous signs. After a short and frugal breakfast they still steered straight back towards the Mountains, but both Gandalf and Aragorn were much puzzled by their failure to find the stream where they looked to find it, only a few miles southwards from their start.
The morning was passing towards noon, and still they wandered and scrambled in a barren country of red stones, shivering in their damp clothes. Boromir was more comfortable in his dry tunic, but he felt the weight of his mail shirt and his big shield keenly. Not for the first time did he think of his lost horse with yearning. Narothal, a well-trained warhorse of Rohan, would carry his and his armour's weight with ease. He watched the tireless Dwarf with envy; the heavy armour seemed not to bother Gimli at all.
On the contrary, he was pressing on ahead, driven by the deep longing to see the glorious underground city of his forefathers – and mayhap to meet his long-lost cousin again. On and on he stomped, his short legs carrying him easily over the stony ground all the others found difficult at best. But again, it was said that Dwarves drained their strength from the stone as they walked upon it, and it certainly seemed true for the son of Glóin.
Suddenly he held back and called back to Gandalf who was following him at a short distance.
"Tharkûn!" he said, using the name the Dwarves had given the wizard when they stumbled over him for the first time. "Look at this!"
Gandalf hurried up to the knoll on which the Dwarf was standing. The others followed him, and looking down they saw below a narrow watercourse in a deep channel. It was empty and silent, and hardly a trickle of water flowed among the brown and red-stained stones of its bed; but on the near side there was a path, much broken and decayed, that wound its way among the broken walls and once white paving stones of an ancient road.
"Ah! Here it is at last!" said Gandalf. Boromir gave him an irritated look.
"What is here?" he asked sourly. "I cannot see aught but a dried-out river bed and a ruined pathway."
"This is where the stream ran, at least when I was here the last time," the wizard answered. "Unless I am sorely mistaken, that is."
"You are not," said Aragorn. "It was here. Sirannon, the Gate-stream, they used to call it; at least that is what Gildor Inglorion, who had visited Moria in his youth several times, told me."
"That is true," the wizard nodded. "But what happened to the water, I cannot guess; it used to be swift and noisy. Come! We must hurry on. We are late."
We all were footsore and tired, save mayhap the Elf and the eager Dwarf; but we trudged doggedly along the rough and winding track for many miles nonetheless. Anor turned from the noon and began to go west. We made a brief halt when the Halflings declared that they needed to eat ere going any further. But, after a hasty meal we went on again, much to the dismay of young Meriadoc. I had the feeling that it was not the weariness that made him so reluctant to keep going, but his deep fear of the horrors of the Black Pit. Legolas seemed to share his reluctance.
This did somewhat surprise me, for if I learnt aught on our journey, I surely learnt that our Elf was not easy to panic. Growing up among the Orcs and Giant Spiders of Mirkwood, under the shadow of Dol Guldur, fighting Wargs from the tender age of twelve, one is not frightened so easily. I wondered what dreadful things might dwell in the dark depths of the Dwarrowdelf, things that even the fearless Prince of Mirkwood shivered at the mere thought of.
I fell back when we set off again to ask him about it. After all, he had been in the mines before, and I would bite my tongue off ere I asked the Ranger.
"I cannot tell you what they are," he answered after a time so long that I had already given up on an answer. "Under the feet of the Mountains there dwell ancient creatures, strong and dark. They are older, much older than even Elves or Orcs. None of us can guess for how long they have lain hidden, gnawing on the roots of the world. Some of them had been there before the Awakening of the Elves, or so our oldest legends say. I saw them not, but I could feel them moving deep under even the deepest mines of the Dwarves… some of them slowly as roots move under the Earth, some of them quick as spreading fire."
"Do you believe that there still might be Dwarves in Moria?" I asked. He shrugged.
"That I cannot say, either. I entered the Black Pit long before the Dwarves returned to their ancient dwellings. But I do hope that at least some of them are still alive. I am no friend of Dwarves, but I did like Old Balin. He was a friendly fellow as Dwarves go, and I ran into him a few times in Dale."
Hearing this surprised me a little, for like most people, I thought that Elves and Dwarves had little love for each other, and the way Legolas and Gimli treated each other during our quest seemed to prove the veracity of my belief. Yet every time I thought I figured out the way the Prince of Mirkwood's mind worked, he surprised me once more.
"What were you doing in Moria?" I asked, for that question had bothered me ever since I heard of his visit in the Mines for the first time. "I thought Elves disliked closed spaces – especially Wood-Elves."
"We do," he agreed amiably. "But there are times when one must choose between discomfort and certain death. I led a hunting party in Southern Mirkwood and we ran into trouble. Fleeing through the eastern gate of Moria was our only chance to survive. But we did not go through the mines – we lurked near the Eastern Gate 'til help arrived and the Wargs were driven away."
"How long….?" I trailed off, but Legolas understood my meaning.
"Four days," he said. "Those were the longest four days in my whole life – and I have a long life already, at least as Men count time."
He said no more, and I knew better than press him for details. There are memories too dreadful to speak of, memories that one chooses to ban into the farthest corner of one's mind. I would have been reluctant to discuss my encounter with the cave trolls as well. So I let the topic rest, and we walked in silence for a while.
Before us the Mountains frowned, as if disapproving of our approach, but our path lay in a deep trough of land, and we could see only the higher shoulders and the far eastward peaks. Legolas narrowed his keen eyes, looking upwards, and there was something near awe on his face – something I would have rather expected from the Dwarf.
"They look so different from this side," he said softly. "So much more majestic. I never grow tired of seeing their naked beauty, no matter how often I get the chance. Most of the time Hithaeglir's peaks are obscured through a thin veil of mist, true to its name."
"How often have you already seen this side of the Mountains?" Suddenly I felt curious, and Legolas smiled.
"Many times. 'Twas nearly two thousand years ago when I first crossed the High Pass, sent by my father, to seek out the advice of the White Council." (1)
The casual remark took my breath away for a moment. I knew that Elves had long lives. Indeed, my own lover was nigh three thousand years old, but somehow Legolas seemed younger to me. The question slipped out of me without a second thought.
"Just how old are you?"
Legolas laughed at that, looking impossibly young once again.
"I was born in the Second Age," he answered in that infuriating Elven fashion that never reveals more than absolutely necessary. "I was a grown Elf during the Last Alliance, though still too young and inexperienced to fight alongside my sires. For an Elf, I still am fairly young," he added with a mischievous glint in those emerald eyes of his.
I shook my head. He was a true mystery for me – an angry, bitter, battle-hardened warrior in one moment, then a merry, mischievous imp in the next. I wondered if I would ever understand him… assuming I would have the opportunity.
In the meantime we came to a sharp bend. There the road, which had been veering southwards between the brink of the channel and a steep fall of the land to the left, turned and went due East again. Rounding the corner we saw before us a low cliff, some five fathoms high, with a broken and jagged top. Over it trickling water dripped, through a white cleft that clearly had been carved out by a fall that had once been strong and full.
For a moment even Gimli seemed full of doubt – and ready to voice his doubt, too.
"Are you certain that we are following the right path, Tharkûn?? For things seem to have changed muchly, compared with the tales of my forefathers."
"Indeed things have changed!" said Mithrandir. "But there is no mistaking the place. There is all that remains of the Stair Falls."
"The Stair Falls?" Gimli repeated in disbelief. Mithrandir nodded with a certainty that left no room for any doubts. The Dwarf sighed and shook his head reluctantly. Just like Legolas, he seemed not easily impressed, nor ready to believe something just because the wizard said so. Which surprised me, truly, for Mithrandir seemed to be as friendly with Dwarves as he was with the Halflings.
"In that case," Gimli said doubtfully. "There has to be a flight of steps out in the rock at their side, if I remember the tales I have been told as a Dwarf-child rightly."
"There was once," Mithrandir replied. "Though the main road wound away left and climbed with several loops up to the level ground at the top. There used to be a shallow valley beyond the Falls right up to the Walls of Moria, and the Sirannon flowed through it with the road beside it."
"And what, do you believe, would we find now that the stream is gone?" Legolas asked softly. Mithrandir shrugged.
"That I cannot say. But we can go and see what things are like now."
With that, on he pressed, the Dwarf on his side all the way long. The Halflings followed them a little hesitantly, and I could not suppress a grin, seeing my King-to-be struggling to help Samwise with the obviously very reluctant pony. Legolas grinned, too, though in a more affectionate way, and gave me a friendly push.
"On with you, Son of Gondor! If I must descend into the Black Pit again, I want to get over it as soon as I can."
About that we were in complete agreement, and so we followed the wizard's lead.
TBC
(1) Around 1050, Third Age, when the Greenwood began darkening again. Not a canon fact.