Warm Thoughts
By: Bethlauria
**
"The Tooks have a long and noble history," Pippin argued with zealful pride.
"A long history, noble and otherwise," Merry answered automatically, taking a bite of his late-supper apple before turning back to his cousin for the inevitable retort.
Laid out on a bedroll a few feet away, Boromir listened to the hobbits' familiar debate with his eyes closed, feigning sleep. Given his inability to reach the true state of slumber, he was forced to employ the masquerade to escape the concern of his fellows', but a grin at Pippin's wounded pride threatened to expose the game. He snorted inwardly as he fought to squelch it, aware of the irony that he now sought out the hobbits during the fellowship's rest period.
The first days of the journey, he thought he'd go mad at their inane chatter, but that was the war-weary soldier's reaction; men in the field were anything but possessed of cheery optimism or appreciation of simple pleasures. While he might not agree with the reasoning behind this quest, he was soldier enough to follow through on the council's will and his own word; but he knew his opinion on the matter initially colored his attitude and suspicions toward his fellows, making him reticent and aloof.
But after many weeks spent on the road together, the hobbits light hearts and childlike antics drew him out, making him befriend the small creatures and open up to his other companions. In fact, he mourned the point each night when the halflings finally quieted down for sleep, curling around each other like puppies for warmth.
It was then that he could hear it: the ring and its whispers.
It talked in a voice that he could almost mistake for his own. It whispered arguments against the quest, against its destruction. In fact, it often mimicked the words he himself voiced at the council. When he was especially tired and weary or when the fellowship's spirits were down as a whole, he would think the thoughts his own and he'd look at Frodo with a mixture of pity, respect and murderous intent.
It was that same inane chatter that brought him back to himself, though, distracting him from the ring's voice and its lures. When he'd awaken, it'd be as if from a trance, and he'd be convinced in that first lucid moment of the ring's evil intent. That part of him that was still his own was not at all convinced he could hold out against it.
**
"Man of Gondor, awake. Your snores are giving our enemies direction," Aragorn said with an amused grin as he nudged Boromir with his boot tip.
Boromir sprang up to his elbows at the nudge; no batting of eyelids to wake slowly, but a soldier's snap to full awareness once roused. From the look of his fellows as they grinned, he knew their efforts at rousing him had not been easy.
He shook his head slightly and sprang to his feet, wondering how it was that he finally fell into deep sleep - a dreamless sleep at that.
"We didn't have the heart to wake you," Pippin informed from his elbow, holding up a metal disk with a breakfast of sausage and stale bread spread across its top.
Boromir took the offering, but his brows pinched in a frown as he waited further explanation.
"It was generally decided that you needed the winks," Pippin whispered gravelly, as though a great council had convened to take up the matter.
"And why are my fellows so concerned with my sleep that they'd let me miss a watch?"
"Because it's generally observed that you do little of the former, and need strength for the latter," Pippin replied.
Once he followed the references, Boromir's brow sprang up at the hobbit's observation, both in surprise and in ire that his strength was questioned by the company; but Pippin was back to his own plate with lightening speed, having already forgotten his arguments in favor of the mornings sausage.
Boromir's mouth screwed up in annoyance as he lifted his gaze to look about their camp. He noticed that Aragorn had taken his breakfast to a great stone at the camp's edge, which undoubtedly afforded him a broad view of the valley below.
"If council's be formed to discuss my readiness for battle, I'd have hoped I'd be called on to testify," Boromir said as he approached the man. While ire was clear in his tone, so too were a mouthful of sausage and a measure of good humor.
Aragorn sighed before letting his eyes dart to Boromir in greeting. "If a council ever is formed on such an occasion, you will be the first to know." Looking down at the morning's fare, he said, "This council you speak of was nothing more than Pippin's inability to wake you. I was already awake, so I took your watch."
Boromir frowned, knowing there was more to it than that.
Aragorn shrugged. "I'll admit of an equal measure of pity and envy at finding you so deeply asleep. I understand too well the toll of the ring's whispers."
Boromir seized upon the casually dropped admission, asking somewhat desperately, "The ring whispers to you?"
Aragorn turned and looked at him with a sincere and somber eye. "As it does you.and perhaps Gimli. Legolas and Gandalf have greater resistance."
Boromir snorted in disgust as he digested the full import of Aragorn's comment. He responded by spinning his mostly-empty plate into the dirt at his feet. "Because man is the most corruptible, you'd argue." He blustered for a moment, finally taking a step toward his future king to plead his cause. "Why do you not see your own brothers as the noble and proud race they are?"
"It is no condemnation," Aragorn said tiredly. "It is but a fact that man's strength and weakness lies in his passion, and it is on this which the ring preys."
"Hobbits are passionate, but you do not sully their race with suspicion and doubt, but consider it above all others in this quest," Boromir argued, walking away a step to plant his hands at his waist. He shook his head, looking down to the ground as he consciously tried to calm himself.
Aragorn rolled his eyes at the comment. "Yes, they are a passionate folk, but their passions lie in the direction of food and merriment. No, the ring would seek first the warrior who can do its bidding."
Boromir turned to look at Aragorn at the argument, all bluster gone as he asked calmly and reasonably, "Then why trust the quest to the likes of you and I? Aren't we fated to succumb to the ring and its charms?"
"Crebain!"
Legolas' hissed warning cut short their debate, directing the fellows' attention to a dark cloud in the sky to their south.
By this point in their journey, the company was well versed in seeking cover to avoid the spies. Sam automatically used dirt to douse the fire, while the rest of the company disappeared among the brush and trees with practiced ease. Boromir and Aragorn were the last to take cover, taking but a moment to glance at each other before making haste.
After several tense minutes, the bird's cries fell away. When Legolas returned to the center of the clearing, the rest of the company took it as their cue to come out from under tree and beside stone.
"Their searches are becoming more frequent. I wonder that they've not picked up our trail, even if they haven't spotted our company directly," Legolas said.
Straightening up from his stopped position beneath a pine, Gandalf said gravelly, "I have no doubt but that they know our approximate location. It cannot be helped.
"Then how can we hope to cross the Redhorn Gate where no bush or tree would hide our path?" Boromir asked. "The road up the mountain will expose us to more than just the elements."
Gandalf turned to look at Caradhras' looming shadow. "Sauron's arm reaches far, but not this far, thank Valor. No, my fear lies in the threat from Isengard." His eyes scanned the snowy peaks as if evaluating a foe before he turned back to his fellows. His tone passing off the danger, he said, "But don't forget you travel yourself with a wizard."
Boromir just looked at him dubiously. "Alas, I had forgotten," he said in a tone that belied his seriousness. "Let us hope your rhymes are up to the task."
Gandalf shot a glare at the man from Gondor, but the fair fellow had already turned away to help Sam collect the cookware around the hastily doused fire.
Sam was muttering about the ruined sausage lying in the dust by the overturned frying pan. Boromir patted the hobbit on the shoulder. "In every war, young hobbit, there are innocent casualties," he said. The remark earned him a small smile from the hobbit; but as Sam gingerly picked up a ruined sausage, his remorse for the lost meal was plain.
"A little dirt never hurt anyone," Pippin chimed in as he crouched by the site. "My folk would never abandon food so callously."
"What then would it take, little one, before it would be given up to the scavengers?" Boromir asked.
"We've got a general rule of thumb," Pippin answered in an educating tone. "It's a measure based in part on where the food is located and the length of time it was.ah.located there. Kind of a complicated calculation."
"Ah, well as long as you have some standard," Boromir said with a twinkle in his eye. "Save it if you will. For myself, I have a rule that speaks to more flavorful seasoning." At that, he clomped Sam on the back again and stood up from bended knee, grabbing the downed pot and a plate to clean and pack.
"Hasn't he ever heard the expression 'Salt of the Earth," Pippin whispered to Sam, gingerly taking a sausage from the ground to wipe a finger load of dirt from its skin.
**
"I will add a word of advice, if I may," Boromir said, addressing the company at large. He'd not been part of the day-to-day council that decided their path, and seemed to accept his exclusion with the same grace as the Prince of Milkwood and heir of Gloin. Given the man's previous reticence, however, Aragorn and Gandalf looked at him in surprise when he thrust himself into their debate.
"I was born under the shadow of the White Mountains and know something of journeys in high places. We shall meet bitter cold, if no worse, before we come down on the other side. It will not help us to keep so secret that we are frozen to death. When we leave here, where there are still a few trees and bushes, each of should carry a faggot of wood, as large as he can bear."
"And Bill could take a bit more, couldn't you, lad?" said Sam. The pony looked at him mournfully.
"Very well," said Gandalf. "But we must not use the wood - not unless it is a choice between fire and death."
Decided on a course of action, the fellows went about their business of collecting wood and packing supplies. While trees and bush were plentiful, dry wood was not, resulting in a delay of a better part of an hour as each fellow collected his share; but all were near finished with their preparations before the noon hour.
Boromir bent down to make a crude satchel with which to carry his faggot. When he was done, he looked up in time to see Merry straighten with his own heavy pack, but it was the hobbit's bare feet that drew his attention. A man would have to be blind not to notice a hobbit's extraordinary feet, but were they really weather roughened enough to withstand the cold of the upper climes?
"Need you fashion some kind of boot for the trek through the pass?
Merry was eye to eye with the squatting Boromir. He followed the man's gaze down to his feet, lifting a foot up to see what had him so enthralled. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he was something at a loss, until he remembered that men had need of stiff leather for protection of foot and hoof. He finally answered, "Have no fear; hobbit feet are hardy. Would that I could fashion some kind of covering for the all of me," he joked, already cold in the late autumn shade.
Boromir nodded, turning to look at the imposing peaks above. He finally stood himself. "Would that we could fashion covering for all of us with the enemies' spies about." Then, with a smile he looked down at his small companion. "Shall we?"
Aragorn and Gandalf took the lead, winding their way out of the scrub into the rocky foothills of the greater peak. As they wound their way upward, all trees fell away, exposing them to the sun's warmth. They went easily on their way, passing what was obviously the snow line from the previous winter with no event.
Between the upward trek, layered clothing, and warm sunshine, none of the company could complain of cold. In fact, the men were actually sweating freely and wondering now at the need for their layered clothing.
When they passed around a low cliff, Gandalf stopped to examine the pass ahead. As his eyes followed the craggy peaks of Caradhras, he looked anything but pleased at their easy passage. The path now held patches of thin snow and ice, but they were easily maneuvered around and caused no hardship - nothing like they feared or might have expected.
Winding ever upward, it was clear that their path would wind around Caradhras to the south; but as they hiked, it also became clear that the pass was actually a great channel between two imposing walls of rock.
As the sun completed its trek across the sky, they moved into the shadow cast by the great peak, and the climbers finally grew chilled as they parted from the sun's direct rays. No one considered stopping to rest; all had set the pinnacle of Caradhras as their marker. Once they entered into the narrow channel that sliced through the edge of the mountain, the path leveled out, making their hike much easier; although they felt dwarfed by the pale gray granite, which rose ever higher on either side of them.
Boromir in particular scanned either side of the channel's long, unbroken expanse, feeling jittery and nervous. "I don't like this," he muttered, drawing Gimli's attention.
"The dwarves have many tales of the wrath of Caradhras. I hope she understands the nature of our quest, and thus shows us some pity."
"Doubtful," Boromir snorted. "It seems more likely that we're being lured into a trap from which there would be no escape."
Gimli took a deep breath, letting his eyes scan up the sheer cliffs on either side. "I mean not to give offense, young man, but I hope you're just caught up with the legends of the mountain and are not foreshadowing our own dark demise."
Boromir didn't answer but continued to watch.
After another hour of walking, he realized the light was failing. Caught in the chasm, there was no method by which they could mark the time; but as near as he could tell, dusk should not yet be upon them. Stopping to look straight up to that part of the sky still visible above the great cliffs above them, he noticed dark clouds moving past, the blue ski hidden beneath their moisture soaked billows. "A storm is brewing," he announced, causing the rest of the company to stop and look at the signs for themselves.
"Then we need to make haste," Aragorn concluded, looking back grimly along the fellowship's line. All looked travel weary and cold, but none complained when he turned forward to continue the trek.
The company trudged along as darkness fell. While no new snow hampered their efforts, a bitter wind whistled through the channel in concentrated bursts, cutting through the carefully structured layers of clothing and stealing away whatever warmth that had built up between the folds.
As they moved onward, the wind grew more constant, causing them to lean forward into it to make any headway. The hobbits had the worst of it, being so slight of frame; they were eventually forced to hold hands in a chain back from Sam and Bill. Even so, Pippin's feet blew out from under him, and he was blown like a leaf back down the path, knocking first into Gimli and then into the rock that was Boromir - who kept hold of him thereafter.
When the first snow fell, it abandoned flakes and pelted instead with ice, crusting beards and lashes. It didn't take long for the storm to grow in stature and the snow to start blowing at them with blinding force.
The hobbits were left to shuffle along, their faces almost completely covered by their cloaks, making little progress worth continuing. Boromir finally picked Pippin up when he saw him sway in exhaustion. When he felt Pippin's cold, dead weight, he shouted to the line's leaders, "This will be the death of the hobbits!"
Aragorn stopped and looked to Gandalf. The climb up Caradhras was Aragorn's choice, making him leader upon its slopes. In spite of his dread of Moria, he was starting to doubt the path. He met the wizard's eyes before turning back to his fellows. "The Sky is widening now. Once the channel opens, we'll find shelter," he shouted over the shrill voice of the wind.
"Shelter," Sam muttered doubtfully. His eyes darted about the channel and then up the rocky peaks where the wind could be seen wearing away its cold, hard surface.
The company continued, finally rounding a rocky outcropping that marked the end of the narrow channel. Aragorn immediately headed around it, scanning the landscape for cave or cover from the shrill wind. The going was slow; the snow had piled quite high where there was room for it to drift. The fellows followed Aragorn as he made his way around a jumble of boulders. They were apparently a part of the crumbled cliff. Right at this jumble of rocks, the mountain seemed to turn in on itself, the boulders and granite creating a horseshoe shaped area. It was getting snow from above, but little of the harsh wind they'd been battling.
"We'll stop here to take what rest we can while the worst of the storm passes over," Aragorn decreed.
The hobbits looked about doubtfully, thinking their own scan of the area must have missed some obvious merit. They finally moved deeply into the alcove to sit with their backs against a big bolder. Bill automatically moved to stand before them, shielding them from the bitter gale, if not the snow.
Boromir looked about, glad to be out of the narrow channel; but the hobbits, to his eye, seemed to be sinking into the white stuff.
"Might it not be time for a fire?" he asked in frustration, both at the bone-chilling cold and the need to ask the question.
"It would be announcing our presence," Gandalf muttered, but more to himself than in any real objection to Boromir's question.
"Better alive and marked, then hidden to all but the scavengers."
Gandalf thought on the comment for a moment before nodding his agreement. "Make your fire"
In answer, Boromir swung the satchel down from his shoulder, opening its fold so that the wood would land at his feet. Gimli had already proven himself the most adept at fire starting, so the dwarf grunted once and sank to his knees before the wood. After several minutes of trying to strike a spark in the wet and windy storm, he looked up at Boromir with a scowl.
Boromir in turn looked to see how his fellows were faring. The hobbits were huddled together as they awaited Gimli, but Boromir realized they hadn't moved in some time, He went over and shook them awake, plucking one from the end and dusting off the wet snow. He turned back to his companions hoping between them they could figure out some plan.
There was little visibility outside their little cove, so there was no option in going onward - they'd likely plummet off the path into a chasm and never be heard from again. If they remained, however, they'd certainly turn into icicles without a fire. That image brought to mind one of his brother's tales, the story of Pirscha and his house of ice.
"We can build a shelter," he exclaimed, depositing Pippin on his cousin's lap as he enthusiastically knelt down in the snow. He used his great arms to sweep the snow nearest him into a small mound.
"Out of snow?" Aragorn asked.
"Out of snow," Boromir confirmed in excitement. "It can hold heat when sculpted into a shelter."
Aragorn looked to Gimli and they both knelt down beside Boromir to start shifting the snowy landscape to their own ends.
**
With the shelter of the snow walls, and a ceiling fashioned of Boromir's shield and sword and Legolas' cloak, the company was finally able to start a fire.
"But how can a city be made out of ice?" Pippin asked doubtfully.
"Ice can be carved through both brute force and heat. In the northern climbs, melting would be slow. Legend has it that Pirscha even had an ice replica of his favorite hound fashioned to meet visitors at his door."
"What manner of creature was this Pirscha? That he was able to work this kind of magic?"
Boromir hazarded a glance to Gandalf. "I hear tell he was a wizard much like our friend here, although not so drab." A snort could be plainly heard over Boromir's dissertation. "He had robes of silver that some supposed were made out of ice and flake, a long flowing beard and pointed blue hat.
"It does sound like Gandalf," Frodo mused.
Sam was silent all through Boromir's long tale, leaning back in a cranny with his arms folded over his chest. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said in mild admonishment, "But our wizard doesn't go in for a lot of nonsense.ice houses," he said, shaking his head at the idea. "The inhabitants would freeze to death, sure as we're going to when we run out of wood."
"Samwise Gamgee," Frodo said, turning to him. "The Gaffer would have your head to hear your moaning and groaning."
"I'm sorry Master Frodo, but the last thing I want to hear when I've got my back up against a block of ice is a story of some more. Tales of hot cocoa and warm beds would be more to my liking."
Boromir put his hands up in supplication. "My apologies, little one. Your point is well taken: we can at least think warm thoughts."
"What happened to this wizard?" Pippin asked with evident excitement. "Might we trip over his doorway on the way down the mountain?"
"I've heard several tales, all from men coming out of cold climbs, that tell of carved faces in snow peaks and whispers among their granite walls - both from the Misty mountains and the White mountains both. My brother believes Pirscha still haunts the high reaches. For myself, I think Pirscha is a creature from legend and lore.
Pippin nodded glumly, clearly disappointed. Merry, on the other hand, was using his fire-warmed finger to rub a channel into the wall of snow at his side, noting how he was slowly melting a groove.
"'Tis time at least some of us got some rest," Aragorn ordered, sounding very much like a reproachful father.
"Is there a point to a watch?" Gimli asked, his rumbled baritone echoing in the small confines.
"I think not. The snow will obscure any possible tracking, but we'll have a tough march through it on the morrow."
As the company mapped out sleeping arrangements within the limited keep, Aragorn muttered to Boromir, "You're more of a story teller than I'd have given you credit, Man of Gondor."
Boromir shrugged, explaining, "I have a little brother." Then, in a whispered tone, "Be glad I didn't tell tales of the snow sloth."
"Snow sloth?" Pippin asked hopefully.
**
"That's all well and good, but I've got some business to attend to on the outside," Gimli declared, breaking up Aragorn and Gandalf's debate when he stood up within the limited confines of their shelter, his head brushing the cloak stretched across its top.
It wasn't until he headed for the slight opening where the snow wall met the boulder that the company understood how much snow had fallen. Gimli just gazed upward for several long moments before heaving a heavy sigh. He spent several minutes struggling up the snowy embankment. Once scaled, he ducked his head back into the shelter. "It's half way up the wall," he rumbled. "The snow drifts to the top ere the other side."
Realizing the weight of snow that must be pressing on their walls, all frowned as they considered them. To their eyes, the focused scrutiny created the illusion of the walls slowly closing in on them.
Legolas stood up, but remained hunched over to avoid taking down their roof. "I'll scout the area," he volunteered.
None of the others argued with him, recognizing the elf's prowess at moving over the snow rather than through it. The elf easily scampered up the incline and was immediately away upon reaching the open expanse of snow.
"We'll be buried alive," Pippin whispered, his eyes darting about their walls of packed snow.
No one answered him, although Gandalf shifted his long frame where he sat, looking very pensive.
After several minutes, Legolas reappeared. "Dawn is breaking, and with it the storm I think."
Everyone drew a collective sigh of relief.
"But that is not the end to the tale," he was quick to add. "The snow may be too high to forge, and the path is completely covered."
**
End of Part 1
By: Bethlauria
**
"The Tooks have a long and noble history," Pippin argued with zealful pride.
"A long history, noble and otherwise," Merry answered automatically, taking a bite of his late-supper apple before turning back to his cousin for the inevitable retort.
Laid out on a bedroll a few feet away, Boromir listened to the hobbits' familiar debate with his eyes closed, feigning sleep. Given his inability to reach the true state of slumber, he was forced to employ the masquerade to escape the concern of his fellows', but a grin at Pippin's wounded pride threatened to expose the game. He snorted inwardly as he fought to squelch it, aware of the irony that he now sought out the hobbits during the fellowship's rest period.
The first days of the journey, he thought he'd go mad at their inane chatter, but that was the war-weary soldier's reaction; men in the field were anything but possessed of cheery optimism or appreciation of simple pleasures. While he might not agree with the reasoning behind this quest, he was soldier enough to follow through on the council's will and his own word; but he knew his opinion on the matter initially colored his attitude and suspicions toward his fellows, making him reticent and aloof.
But after many weeks spent on the road together, the hobbits light hearts and childlike antics drew him out, making him befriend the small creatures and open up to his other companions. In fact, he mourned the point each night when the halflings finally quieted down for sleep, curling around each other like puppies for warmth.
It was then that he could hear it: the ring and its whispers.
It talked in a voice that he could almost mistake for his own. It whispered arguments against the quest, against its destruction. In fact, it often mimicked the words he himself voiced at the council. When he was especially tired and weary or when the fellowship's spirits were down as a whole, he would think the thoughts his own and he'd look at Frodo with a mixture of pity, respect and murderous intent.
It was that same inane chatter that brought him back to himself, though, distracting him from the ring's voice and its lures. When he'd awaken, it'd be as if from a trance, and he'd be convinced in that first lucid moment of the ring's evil intent. That part of him that was still his own was not at all convinced he could hold out against it.
**
"Man of Gondor, awake. Your snores are giving our enemies direction," Aragorn said with an amused grin as he nudged Boromir with his boot tip.
Boromir sprang up to his elbows at the nudge; no batting of eyelids to wake slowly, but a soldier's snap to full awareness once roused. From the look of his fellows as they grinned, he knew their efforts at rousing him had not been easy.
He shook his head slightly and sprang to his feet, wondering how it was that he finally fell into deep sleep - a dreamless sleep at that.
"We didn't have the heart to wake you," Pippin informed from his elbow, holding up a metal disk with a breakfast of sausage and stale bread spread across its top.
Boromir took the offering, but his brows pinched in a frown as he waited further explanation.
"It was generally decided that you needed the winks," Pippin whispered gravelly, as though a great council had convened to take up the matter.
"And why are my fellows so concerned with my sleep that they'd let me miss a watch?"
"Because it's generally observed that you do little of the former, and need strength for the latter," Pippin replied.
Once he followed the references, Boromir's brow sprang up at the hobbit's observation, both in surprise and in ire that his strength was questioned by the company; but Pippin was back to his own plate with lightening speed, having already forgotten his arguments in favor of the mornings sausage.
Boromir's mouth screwed up in annoyance as he lifted his gaze to look about their camp. He noticed that Aragorn had taken his breakfast to a great stone at the camp's edge, which undoubtedly afforded him a broad view of the valley below.
"If council's be formed to discuss my readiness for battle, I'd have hoped I'd be called on to testify," Boromir said as he approached the man. While ire was clear in his tone, so too were a mouthful of sausage and a measure of good humor.
Aragorn sighed before letting his eyes dart to Boromir in greeting. "If a council ever is formed on such an occasion, you will be the first to know." Looking down at the morning's fare, he said, "This council you speak of was nothing more than Pippin's inability to wake you. I was already awake, so I took your watch."
Boromir frowned, knowing there was more to it than that.
Aragorn shrugged. "I'll admit of an equal measure of pity and envy at finding you so deeply asleep. I understand too well the toll of the ring's whispers."
Boromir seized upon the casually dropped admission, asking somewhat desperately, "The ring whispers to you?"
Aragorn turned and looked at him with a sincere and somber eye. "As it does you.and perhaps Gimli. Legolas and Gandalf have greater resistance."
Boromir snorted in disgust as he digested the full import of Aragorn's comment. He responded by spinning his mostly-empty plate into the dirt at his feet. "Because man is the most corruptible, you'd argue." He blustered for a moment, finally taking a step toward his future king to plead his cause. "Why do you not see your own brothers as the noble and proud race they are?"
"It is no condemnation," Aragorn said tiredly. "It is but a fact that man's strength and weakness lies in his passion, and it is on this which the ring preys."
"Hobbits are passionate, but you do not sully their race with suspicion and doubt, but consider it above all others in this quest," Boromir argued, walking away a step to plant his hands at his waist. He shook his head, looking down to the ground as he consciously tried to calm himself.
Aragorn rolled his eyes at the comment. "Yes, they are a passionate folk, but their passions lie in the direction of food and merriment. No, the ring would seek first the warrior who can do its bidding."
Boromir turned to look at Aragorn at the argument, all bluster gone as he asked calmly and reasonably, "Then why trust the quest to the likes of you and I? Aren't we fated to succumb to the ring and its charms?"
"Crebain!"
Legolas' hissed warning cut short their debate, directing the fellows' attention to a dark cloud in the sky to their south.
By this point in their journey, the company was well versed in seeking cover to avoid the spies. Sam automatically used dirt to douse the fire, while the rest of the company disappeared among the brush and trees with practiced ease. Boromir and Aragorn were the last to take cover, taking but a moment to glance at each other before making haste.
After several tense minutes, the bird's cries fell away. When Legolas returned to the center of the clearing, the rest of the company took it as their cue to come out from under tree and beside stone.
"Their searches are becoming more frequent. I wonder that they've not picked up our trail, even if they haven't spotted our company directly," Legolas said.
Straightening up from his stopped position beneath a pine, Gandalf said gravelly, "I have no doubt but that they know our approximate location. It cannot be helped.
"Then how can we hope to cross the Redhorn Gate where no bush or tree would hide our path?" Boromir asked. "The road up the mountain will expose us to more than just the elements."
Gandalf turned to look at Caradhras' looming shadow. "Sauron's arm reaches far, but not this far, thank Valor. No, my fear lies in the threat from Isengard." His eyes scanned the snowy peaks as if evaluating a foe before he turned back to his fellows. His tone passing off the danger, he said, "But don't forget you travel yourself with a wizard."
Boromir just looked at him dubiously. "Alas, I had forgotten," he said in a tone that belied his seriousness. "Let us hope your rhymes are up to the task."
Gandalf shot a glare at the man from Gondor, but the fair fellow had already turned away to help Sam collect the cookware around the hastily doused fire.
Sam was muttering about the ruined sausage lying in the dust by the overturned frying pan. Boromir patted the hobbit on the shoulder. "In every war, young hobbit, there are innocent casualties," he said. The remark earned him a small smile from the hobbit; but as Sam gingerly picked up a ruined sausage, his remorse for the lost meal was plain.
"A little dirt never hurt anyone," Pippin chimed in as he crouched by the site. "My folk would never abandon food so callously."
"What then would it take, little one, before it would be given up to the scavengers?" Boromir asked.
"We've got a general rule of thumb," Pippin answered in an educating tone. "It's a measure based in part on where the food is located and the length of time it was.ah.located there. Kind of a complicated calculation."
"Ah, well as long as you have some standard," Boromir said with a twinkle in his eye. "Save it if you will. For myself, I have a rule that speaks to more flavorful seasoning." At that, he clomped Sam on the back again and stood up from bended knee, grabbing the downed pot and a plate to clean and pack.
"Hasn't he ever heard the expression 'Salt of the Earth," Pippin whispered to Sam, gingerly taking a sausage from the ground to wipe a finger load of dirt from its skin.
**
"I will add a word of advice, if I may," Boromir said, addressing the company at large. He'd not been part of the day-to-day council that decided their path, and seemed to accept his exclusion with the same grace as the Prince of Milkwood and heir of Gloin. Given the man's previous reticence, however, Aragorn and Gandalf looked at him in surprise when he thrust himself into their debate.
"I was born under the shadow of the White Mountains and know something of journeys in high places. We shall meet bitter cold, if no worse, before we come down on the other side. It will not help us to keep so secret that we are frozen to death. When we leave here, where there are still a few trees and bushes, each of should carry a faggot of wood, as large as he can bear."
"And Bill could take a bit more, couldn't you, lad?" said Sam. The pony looked at him mournfully.
"Very well," said Gandalf. "But we must not use the wood - not unless it is a choice between fire and death."
Decided on a course of action, the fellows went about their business of collecting wood and packing supplies. While trees and bush were plentiful, dry wood was not, resulting in a delay of a better part of an hour as each fellow collected his share; but all were near finished with their preparations before the noon hour.
Boromir bent down to make a crude satchel with which to carry his faggot. When he was done, he looked up in time to see Merry straighten with his own heavy pack, but it was the hobbit's bare feet that drew his attention. A man would have to be blind not to notice a hobbit's extraordinary feet, but were they really weather roughened enough to withstand the cold of the upper climes?
"Need you fashion some kind of boot for the trek through the pass?
Merry was eye to eye with the squatting Boromir. He followed the man's gaze down to his feet, lifting a foot up to see what had him so enthralled. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he was something at a loss, until he remembered that men had need of stiff leather for protection of foot and hoof. He finally answered, "Have no fear; hobbit feet are hardy. Would that I could fashion some kind of covering for the all of me," he joked, already cold in the late autumn shade.
Boromir nodded, turning to look at the imposing peaks above. He finally stood himself. "Would that we could fashion covering for all of us with the enemies' spies about." Then, with a smile he looked down at his small companion. "Shall we?"
Aragorn and Gandalf took the lead, winding their way out of the scrub into the rocky foothills of the greater peak. As they wound their way upward, all trees fell away, exposing them to the sun's warmth. They went easily on their way, passing what was obviously the snow line from the previous winter with no event.
Between the upward trek, layered clothing, and warm sunshine, none of the company could complain of cold. In fact, the men were actually sweating freely and wondering now at the need for their layered clothing.
When they passed around a low cliff, Gandalf stopped to examine the pass ahead. As his eyes followed the craggy peaks of Caradhras, he looked anything but pleased at their easy passage. The path now held patches of thin snow and ice, but they were easily maneuvered around and caused no hardship - nothing like they feared or might have expected.
Winding ever upward, it was clear that their path would wind around Caradhras to the south; but as they hiked, it also became clear that the pass was actually a great channel between two imposing walls of rock.
As the sun completed its trek across the sky, they moved into the shadow cast by the great peak, and the climbers finally grew chilled as they parted from the sun's direct rays. No one considered stopping to rest; all had set the pinnacle of Caradhras as their marker. Once they entered into the narrow channel that sliced through the edge of the mountain, the path leveled out, making their hike much easier; although they felt dwarfed by the pale gray granite, which rose ever higher on either side of them.
Boromir in particular scanned either side of the channel's long, unbroken expanse, feeling jittery and nervous. "I don't like this," he muttered, drawing Gimli's attention.
"The dwarves have many tales of the wrath of Caradhras. I hope she understands the nature of our quest, and thus shows us some pity."
"Doubtful," Boromir snorted. "It seems more likely that we're being lured into a trap from which there would be no escape."
Gimli took a deep breath, letting his eyes scan up the sheer cliffs on either side. "I mean not to give offense, young man, but I hope you're just caught up with the legends of the mountain and are not foreshadowing our own dark demise."
Boromir didn't answer but continued to watch.
After another hour of walking, he realized the light was failing. Caught in the chasm, there was no method by which they could mark the time; but as near as he could tell, dusk should not yet be upon them. Stopping to look straight up to that part of the sky still visible above the great cliffs above them, he noticed dark clouds moving past, the blue ski hidden beneath their moisture soaked billows. "A storm is brewing," he announced, causing the rest of the company to stop and look at the signs for themselves.
"Then we need to make haste," Aragorn concluded, looking back grimly along the fellowship's line. All looked travel weary and cold, but none complained when he turned forward to continue the trek.
The company trudged along as darkness fell. While no new snow hampered their efforts, a bitter wind whistled through the channel in concentrated bursts, cutting through the carefully structured layers of clothing and stealing away whatever warmth that had built up between the folds.
As they moved onward, the wind grew more constant, causing them to lean forward into it to make any headway. The hobbits had the worst of it, being so slight of frame; they were eventually forced to hold hands in a chain back from Sam and Bill. Even so, Pippin's feet blew out from under him, and he was blown like a leaf back down the path, knocking first into Gimli and then into the rock that was Boromir - who kept hold of him thereafter.
When the first snow fell, it abandoned flakes and pelted instead with ice, crusting beards and lashes. It didn't take long for the storm to grow in stature and the snow to start blowing at them with blinding force.
The hobbits were left to shuffle along, their faces almost completely covered by their cloaks, making little progress worth continuing. Boromir finally picked Pippin up when he saw him sway in exhaustion. When he felt Pippin's cold, dead weight, he shouted to the line's leaders, "This will be the death of the hobbits!"
Aragorn stopped and looked to Gandalf. The climb up Caradhras was Aragorn's choice, making him leader upon its slopes. In spite of his dread of Moria, he was starting to doubt the path. He met the wizard's eyes before turning back to his fellows. "The Sky is widening now. Once the channel opens, we'll find shelter," he shouted over the shrill voice of the wind.
"Shelter," Sam muttered doubtfully. His eyes darted about the channel and then up the rocky peaks where the wind could be seen wearing away its cold, hard surface.
The company continued, finally rounding a rocky outcropping that marked the end of the narrow channel. Aragorn immediately headed around it, scanning the landscape for cave or cover from the shrill wind. The going was slow; the snow had piled quite high where there was room for it to drift. The fellows followed Aragorn as he made his way around a jumble of boulders. They were apparently a part of the crumbled cliff. Right at this jumble of rocks, the mountain seemed to turn in on itself, the boulders and granite creating a horseshoe shaped area. It was getting snow from above, but little of the harsh wind they'd been battling.
"We'll stop here to take what rest we can while the worst of the storm passes over," Aragorn decreed.
The hobbits looked about doubtfully, thinking their own scan of the area must have missed some obvious merit. They finally moved deeply into the alcove to sit with their backs against a big bolder. Bill automatically moved to stand before them, shielding them from the bitter gale, if not the snow.
Boromir looked about, glad to be out of the narrow channel; but the hobbits, to his eye, seemed to be sinking into the white stuff.
"Might it not be time for a fire?" he asked in frustration, both at the bone-chilling cold and the need to ask the question.
"It would be announcing our presence," Gandalf muttered, but more to himself than in any real objection to Boromir's question.
"Better alive and marked, then hidden to all but the scavengers."
Gandalf thought on the comment for a moment before nodding his agreement. "Make your fire"
In answer, Boromir swung the satchel down from his shoulder, opening its fold so that the wood would land at his feet. Gimli had already proven himself the most adept at fire starting, so the dwarf grunted once and sank to his knees before the wood. After several minutes of trying to strike a spark in the wet and windy storm, he looked up at Boromir with a scowl.
Boromir in turn looked to see how his fellows were faring. The hobbits were huddled together as they awaited Gimli, but Boromir realized they hadn't moved in some time, He went over and shook them awake, plucking one from the end and dusting off the wet snow. He turned back to his companions hoping between them they could figure out some plan.
There was little visibility outside their little cove, so there was no option in going onward - they'd likely plummet off the path into a chasm and never be heard from again. If they remained, however, they'd certainly turn into icicles without a fire. That image brought to mind one of his brother's tales, the story of Pirscha and his house of ice.
"We can build a shelter," he exclaimed, depositing Pippin on his cousin's lap as he enthusiastically knelt down in the snow. He used his great arms to sweep the snow nearest him into a small mound.
"Out of snow?" Aragorn asked.
"Out of snow," Boromir confirmed in excitement. "It can hold heat when sculpted into a shelter."
Aragorn looked to Gimli and they both knelt down beside Boromir to start shifting the snowy landscape to their own ends.
**
With the shelter of the snow walls, and a ceiling fashioned of Boromir's shield and sword and Legolas' cloak, the company was finally able to start a fire.
"But how can a city be made out of ice?" Pippin asked doubtfully.
"Ice can be carved through both brute force and heat. In the northern climbs, melting would be slow. Legend has it that Pirscha even had an ice replica of his favorite hound fashioned to meet visitors at his door."
"What manner of creature was this Pirscha? That he was able to work this kind of magic?"
Boromir hazarded a glance to Gandalf. "I hear tell he was a wizard much like our friend here, although not so drab." A snort could be plainly heard over Boromir's dissertation. "He had robes of silver that some supposed were made out of ice and flake, a long flowing beard and pointed blue hat.
"It does sound like Gandalf," Frodo mused.
Sam was silent all through Boromir's long tale, leaning back in a cranny with his arms folded over his chest. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said in mild admonishment, "But our wizard doesn't go in for a lot of nonsense.ice houses," he said, shaking his head at the idea. "The inhabitants would freeze to death, sure as we're going to when we run out of wood."
"Samwise Gamgee," Frodo said, turning to him. "The Gaffer would have your head to hear your moaning and groaning."
"I'm sorry Master Frodo, but the last thing I want to hear when I've got my back up against a block of ice is a story of some more. Tales of hot cocoa and warm beds would be more to my liking."
Boromir put his hands up in supplication. "My apologies, little one. Your point is well taken: we can at least think warm thoughts."
"What happened to this wizard?" Pippin asked with evident excitement. "Might we trip over his doorway on the way down the mountain?"
"I've heard several tales, all from men coming out of cold climbs, that tell of carved faces in snow peaks and whispers among their granite walls - both from the Misty mountains and the White mountains both. My brother believes Pirscha still haunts the high reaches. For myself, I think Pirscha is a creature from legend and lore.
Pippin nodded glumly, clearly disappointed. Merry, on the other hand, was using his fire-warmed finger to rub a channel into the wall of snow at his side, noting how he was slowly melting a groove.
"'Tis time at least some of us got some rest," Aragorn ordered, sounding very much like a reproachful father.
"Is there a point to a watch?" Gimli asked, his rumbled baritone echoing in the small confines.
"I think not. The snow will obscure any possible tracking, but we'll have a tough march through it on the morrow."
As the company mapped out sleeping arrangements within the limited keep, Aragorn muttered to Boromir, "You're more of a story teller than I'd have given you credit, Man of Gondor."
Boromir shrugged, explaining, "I have a little brother." Then, in a whispered tone, "Be glad I didn't tell tales of the snow sloth."
"Snow sloth?" Pippin asked hopefully.
**
"That's all well and good, but I've got some business to attend to on the outside," Gimli declared, breaking up Aragorn and Gandalf's debate when he stood up within the limited confines of their shelter, his head brushing the cloak stretched across its top.
It wasn't until he headed for the slight opening where the snow wall met the boulder that the company understood how much snow had fallen. Gimli just gazed upward for several long moments before heaving a heavy sigh. He spent several minutes struggling up the snowy embankment. Once scaled, he ducked his head back into the shelter. "It's half way up the wall," he rumbled. "The snow drifts to the top ere the other side."
Realizing the weight of snow that must be pressing on their walls, all frowned as they considered them. To their eyes, the focused scrutiny created the illusion of the walls slowly closing in on them.
Legolas stood up, but remained hunched over to avoid taking down their roof. "I'll scout the area," he volunteered.
None of the others argued with him, recognizing the elf's prowess at moving over the snow rather than through it. The elf easily scampered up the incline and was immediately away upon reaching the open expanse of snow.
"We'll be buried alive," Pippin whispered, his eyes darting about their walls of packed snow.
No one answered him, although Gandalf shifted his long frame where he sat, looking very pensive.
After several minutes, Legolas reappeared. "Dawn is breaking, and with it the storm I think."
Everyone drew a collective sigh of relief.
"But that is not the end to the tale," he was quick to add. "The snow may be too high to forge, and the path is completely covered."
**
End of Part 1