The Fellowship is afraid. I know so; their eyes are wandering and nervous, showing the pain in each and every one of them. For Gandalf, Mithrandir, and he of other names have fallen in the Mines of Moria.
My feelings toward this - this thing is mixed. I am sorrowful and angry, bemused and afraid. Have I not told him to beware if he was to pass through the Mines of Moria? I have been there once, and passed through, but just barely. I should have known. I would not have let Gandalf go. Yet in my heart I know that it would have been no different.
Even now the Fellowship looks at me, wanting me to make a choice, a decision that would decide the road we would walk on. Legolas gives a hopeful, trusting look that tells me he knows I will do well, and I am grateful to him. The hobbits are talking amongst themselves, in hushed tones, rather than in the excited shout or laugh they usually talk in. Gimli is polishing his axe, avoiding Haldir's or Legolas' face, as he does not like Elves.
And Boromir? He looks at me with scorn, daring me. He is proud - and his pride had been hurt when Legolas revealed I to be of Isildur's heir. I understand why. His father is the Steward of Gondor. If I claimed my throne, what would happen to him? Yet he... He hates me... He fears me for what I am.
I fear myself for what I am...
Pippin, probably the youngest and the least experienced of our Fellowship, had started it all, yet I feel no anger toward him. He looks so scared now, so alone... He was only curious when he had dropped that stone and bucket into the deep, dark chasm where we had rested some nights ago. We had hoped for the best; wishing that the Enemy would not be aroused by this new noise. We had been creeping in the darkness without attracting attention.. Until then.
There had been drums; drums in the deep. I had heard the same so many years ago, when I had passed through Khazad-Dum for the first time. It had seemed a nightmare reoccuring, and the Orcs crowded after us. The first few skirmishes were fine, but what haunts me the most - after the incident of the Barlog - was with the cave trolls.
Cave trolls are not an Enemy you would want to face alone. I, myself, have only fought them a couple of times. The Enemy sent two at us now, and despite all our flashes of swords and bravery we could not overcome them. Without Legolas we would have been dead, and I am grateful toward him. More than once in the past he has saved my neck. However, before Legolas could kill the other one of the two, it had gotten Frodo.
I had been knocked out by the same troll, and it was only after Legolas slew the monster I came around. It was then I saw Frodo, a spear in his chest and looking for all the world dead.
I felt so confused then. So the Ring-Bearer was dead. What did I do with the Ring? What did we all? I felt I was tempted back then. With that Ring I could restore the cities, including the city of Gondor. Maybe then I would not fall into the shadows as Isildur had, and claim my throne. With that Ring I would gain power, and destroy the Dark Lord of Mordor. And what of Frodo?
I had crept toward him, half of me wishing he was alive and fine, half of me - the half tempted by the Ring - not so. When Frodo bewilderdly opened his eyes, I was both shocked, overjoyed, and the temptation of the Ring was gone. How could Frodo have survived? Tending to his wounds, I muttered, "You should be dead! That spear would have skewered a wild boar!"
Gandalf smiled - in his special vague, mysterious way all Istari smile, I suppose - and said, "I think there is more to this hobbit than meets the eye."
Indeed Frodo was more than he seemed. He revealed that he was wearing a chain of mithril. Never had I seen armor so beautiful: white and sparkling, and as the tales said, hard as dragon-scales and light as a feather. I guessed that Frodo had recieved this treasure from Bilbo, who had given his sword, Sting, to him as well. I knew of Bilbo's role in the slaying of Smaug and more besides. Frodo indeed said that Bilbo had given it to him, and the other hobbits said they had guessed so.
It was time to move on, however. The drums still chased us.
We ran for the bridges - they would alone take us to the exit of this hell. Before we could reach it, however, the Orcs surrounded us, snarling. But I wasn't very afraid, or even concious... Getting the Ring-Bearer alive and across was the main point, with the others if I could. It was then that the drums stopped, and the Orcs froze.
They scurried away like black ants, and as we turned around, we could see fiery entails coming from a deep, unknown chamber. Gandalf stared down the hall, and we, the Fellowship, stood alone in the midst, with only the red light and Gandalf's light from his staff lighting us.
"What is this new deviliry?" Boromir muttered, glancing around nervously. He was a proud man, a man of Gondor. He did not accept me, for he was the son of the Steward and I of Isildur's line. But then, I think, I was closer to him. We all were. We were the Fellowship of the Ring.
Gandalf did not respond for a moment. I looked at him. At first glance he appeared an old man, troubled, but he had a strong, wise side to him, that was hidden away. He had guided me for a long time, and I followed it. He never had seemed afraid to me. Never. Until now.
There were rumbles now, along the hallway. Gandalf closed his eyes, as if to concentrate, and then reopened them. He whispered - "A Barlog - a demon of the ancient world." Valar. A Barlog. Lord Glorfindel, a mighty warrior who I knew, had fought one once. He had barely won.
The Barlog was still hidden behind the pillars, but we could all hear its growls.
I glanced over at Legolas. His deep blue eyes were troubled and full with fear. He too, knew of the tale of Glorfindel and the fight with the Barlog.
Gandalf saw us hesitate and freeze. "This foe is beyond any of you," he said, turning and running, motioning for us to follow. "Run!"
And run we did. "Quickly!" Gandalf all sheperded us. Even at this time he seemed to know what exactly to do. I admired him for that.
We ran for the Bridge. The whole event is blurry to me, yet I remember Boromir almost falling and Legolas preventing him. I also remember a bridge which was falling, and Frood and I being the last to cross, making it just barely. But what I remember most is Gandalf's eyes and what he said to me, before we crossed the Bridge.
His clear blue-black eyes were troubled, and they shone with something I had not seen in them before - fear. He was leaning against one of the pillars as he took a last look to check for the others, and he now looked tired and weary - a lot older he now seemed. "Gandalf," I said, troubled myself.
"Lead them on, Aragorn!" he said, his voice urgent. "The Bridge is near!"
I hesitated. What did he mean by this?
"Do as I say," Gandalf shouted over the noise. "Swords are no more use here!"
After crossing a bridge with a gap, Gandalf turned to the Fellowship once more. "Over the bridge! Fly!" We ran over the Bridge of Khazad-Dum, but Gandalf did not follow. In stead he halted in the middle of it, looking back.
Gandalf was to face the Barlog.
The Barlog had the body of a man, and horns on its head. It held a whip and a sword, both fiery and shining reddish-black with the heat, and its eyes were two white flames of madness. This was madness.Gandalf could not face the Barlog alone! "You cannot pass!" he shouted at the beast, raising his staff.
The rest of us watched, dumbstruck. "Gandalf!" Frodo shouted, trying to warn him. The rest of us did not speak. We froze there, despite the dangers that came flying at us. I knew it was no good. Stubborn Istar. Why couldn't he come to safety for once? Why couldn't he run?
"I am the servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor! The Dark Fire will not avail to you, Flame of Udun!" Gandalf grew dark and terrible just then, and a circle of pure, white light encircled him. He was mighty and powerful, and he was going to fight the Barlog.
The Barlog seemed to take out its fiery sword, and crashed it down on the Wizard. "Gandalf!" Frodo shouted once more. He was hoping that Gandalf would come back. I myself ran forward.
Gandalf withheld, clenching his teeth and holding with his Elvish sword, Glamdring, and staff. "Go back into the Shadows!" he bellowed once more. "You... Shall... Not... Pass!" Even as he spoke the Barlog took out a fiery, thin flame and used it as a whip, swinging it around.
Gandalf then did the most unthinkable thing: he used his own staff against the Bridge that was holding him and the Barlog from the Chasm. Blue, magical sparks of energy danced around him and the Bridge and the Barlog. The Barlog, unaware of this fact, lept onto the Bridge.
The Bridge cracked.
The Barlog fell first, emitting a loud, shrieking growl.The Wizard turned around to us, relief in his eyes. He should not have relaxed. The Barlog's whip grabbed his foot, tripping him and forcing him down. Gandalf was holding onto the edge of the bridge that had not cracked.
"Gandalf!" Frodo screamed. It was from the heart, and it shook me to hear it. He tried to run for Gandalf's hand, but Boromir held him back. It might have seemed cruel, but he was keeping Frodo from the same doom.
Gandalf grasped vainly for the Bridge. He looked at all of us deeply, and then stopped struggling. "Flee, you fools!" he whispered, and then dropped into the Chasm below.
Gandalf had fallen.
Why had he sacrificed himself? He could have ran for the exit as well. But he had to take the extreme. Bitter thoughts ran in me. Why?
He was - had been - the leader. He had cared for us all. That was why he had let the rest of us go, and lept into his own doom as he destroyed the Barlog as well.
He had been the guide. He had guided each and every one of us. In the end he guided himself into his doom.
It wasn't fair. Nothing was fair. Everything was fair. Fairness didn't exist in this world.
That was why he had told me, "Lead them on, Aragorn!" and "Swords are no more use here!" He was warning me beforehand. Warning me that he wouldn't survive, that I or any other of the Fellowship were to interfere.
How could I lead the Fellowship on? There were long distances to go and dangers to weave through and meet. I couldn't. I can't. It was just like with the throne of Gondor. I would fail. What if I failed? What would happen then?
But then Gandalf had shown me how. He had shown me how to lead. And I would. I would lead - and eventually even claim my throne - and if death took me, it would have been the best of me. I would help to destroy the One Ring. He had guided me enough. With his knowledge and strength - and my own - I would prevail. I would save the city of Gondor, help to destroy the Ring... And become King of Gondor. But before all that, I would help the Fellowship.
I would lead this Fellowship on.
For Gandalf.
Author's Note:... Some people have been asking why have I named this story "Gospels." Gospels, which you would know if you are Christian, like me, consists of the first four books of the Bible (New Testament): Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. They tell of the birth of Jesus and his life, thus they are the story of his life, adding up to his betrayal.
This story is of Gandalf's fall in the Mines of Moria, and how his supposed death affected the Fellowship. Like the Gospels of the Bible, they are told from the person's viewpoint, or what the person knows what happened/what he wishes to speak of. Indeed you will discover in my "Gospels" that none of the Fellowship talks of the whole story, but hints on some parts and go into details on one part. The other parts - the other people of the Fellowship tell, and the Fellowship collabrate to tell the whole story. Thus it is fitting to name this story "Gospels," in my own opinion.