Here is the next chapter! Thank you to the reviewers.
January 4th, T.A. 3019
Gandalf was seriously reconsidering thinking that the Elves versus Dwarves debate was not a major concern.
It was a very major concern right now, as far as he or anyone within a 100 yard radius of them, in other words, the Fellowship were concerned. A very major concern because those two- occasionally four- infuriating creatures simply refused to back down. Any faint hopes of the Elves using their ancient wisdom to restrain themselves or the Dwarf using his iron determination to stop himself had soon faded, seeing as they all seemed to be using these assets to think of the best insults to hurl in each other's directions. It was annoying, to say the least. Every member of the Fellowship was extremely tired of hearing the greatnesses and downfalls of each race painted in detail, and had they been offered either to shut up all living beings on Middle-earth belonging to the races of Elves of Dwarves or to throw down Sauron forever, they would have been hard-pressed to choose.
"Pointy-eared arrogant elflings!"
"Excuse me? We are more more than ten times your age, Master Dwarf. Perhaps we ought to make allowances for your tender age of immaturity, but we are not elflings."
You could practically hear the Company grinding their teeth.
"Immaturity? I am a Dwarven warrior, well into my adulthood, well-respected and a son of Glóin. You shall not get away with such petty, untrue insults! You act like elflings in any case!"
Elladan's lips were pressed tightly together in a commendable show of self-control. His twin, however, appeared to have no such restraints, and immediately retorted something about stupidity, pride, and the general incompetence of the Dwarven race, while Legolas smirkedj. "Your father was a thief, a gold-slave!"
Gimli's face turned an interesting shade of red. Sam rather imagined it might be quite near to the colour of a volcano erupting, and he edged closer to Frodo, staring apprehensively at Gimli as if awaiting an explosion.
And explode he did.
Amongst the Dwarven curses and incomprehensible snorts, they picked up the idea of Thranduil's 'conceit, rather like to a puffed-up bullfrog, his audacity and foolishness, and his utter stupidity in attempting to imprison Glóin of the Lonely Mountain'.
"Mithrandir." Aragorn stepped to Gandalf's side, a weary look on his face. They were all tired, uncomfortable, sore, and with four loudly arguing beings on their hands, ready to scream. "Perhaps we ought to stop for the night. The hobbits are tired, and we have made good progress." And hopefully they will stop arguing long enough for us to sleep. Gandalf nodded, hopeful as well. It had been five days since he gave up trying to tell them to stop, four days since he had given up all hope of Elves and Dwarves ever making friends, and three since he began praying to Ilúvatar for them to suddenly be struck dumb.
"We will stop soon for the night. There is a copse a little further on that will suit our purposes, and there we may rest and replenish our strength, and enjoy a quiet night." The last two words were very deliberately emphasised, with a dark look at each perpetrator. The Elves bowed their heads, easily accepting his reproof, but he had the feeling they would start again at first light tomorrow. Gimli didn't even have the grace to look acquiescing.
It would be a very long journey.
The Fellowship was down-hearted, he could see. It had been seven days since they set out from Imladris, and the initial adrenaline was wearing off, especially for Frodo and Sam. Now most of all did he wish for the presence of Merry and Pippin, no matter how aggravating he found that young Took, for Frodo in particular needed cheering. Sam did his best, but the antics of their young cousins were hard to replicate, and then there was the matter of simply missing them.
Frodo had been immensely relieved to find that Elladan and Elrohir would accompany them, instead of his cousins, but Gandalf had not missed the flicker in his eyes that denoted sorrow. Frodo loved those two rascals, for some strange reason, and though he was adamant that it was for the best that they would be safe, the melancholy in his heart had not been missed by anyone.
Gandalf would not have willingly dragged those two infuriating, beautifully innocent young ones so far from home either, would have kept them safe and sound and far away from war and strife and all that came with these times, if not for his confounded heart. He straightened, bones creaking, and once again cursed whichever of the Valar it had been who had decided what a good idea it was for the Maiar to counter Sauron in the guises of old men with all the ailments that went with them. And whichever one it was who had somehow manipulated the situation such that he, of all of them, had to be the one going on this ill-fated Quest!
A well-deserved reward, shall we say, for your long and extensive research in the Hobbit branch, he could nearly hear Manwë saying, mirth colouring that voice and with the occasional chuckle from Nienna and Irmo thrown in for good measure.* Inwardly, he glared darkly at the images of them that his tired mind had conjured, idly wondering if the guise had begun to change the being, and he really was beginning to imagine things like some doddery old man.
On the other hand, there was always the possibility that the Valar themselves had put those thoughts in.
He nearly growled at the thought, but hastily reined it in as a couple of looks, ranging from skeptical to scared, were directed his way from the Fellowship. At least they were being relatively quiet, perhaps there was the chance for a quiet-
No one ever truly understood what happened then. Gimli insisted that Legolas tripped, and Legolas insisted that Elladan had pushed him onto Gimli thus tripping Elrohir, Elladan insisted that Gimli had tripped, pushing Legolas, who tripped Elrohir, who fell onto Gimli who had just gotten up, who then fell onto Legolas, whose flailing arms caught both twins. Elrohir's account of the event was so convoluted that none could follow, or even wanted to, seeing as a full-blown argument had just erupted. True, as seasoned, cautious warriors, all their voices were too low to attract undue attention, but certainly loud enough to interfere with the Fellowship's sleep.
Now you could definitely hear the teeth grinding.
It would be a very, very long journey.
"Mithrandir."
Gandalf sighed, the slightest movement of hunched shoulders that might have gone unnoticed, had not the eyes trained on him been elven- or trained by elves. He knew they must continue their debate over which route to take, and decide once and for all soon, but really, all he wanted to do this night was smoke his pipe in peace.
With a sigh, he turned to the three who stood shoulder to shoulder before him, in an impressive display of solidarity and determination. They were not about to back down.
And that is yet another reason why those two hobbits should have come along, he growled to himself. At least Aragorn wouldn't have backups. The next moment he berated himself, for this was no jesting matter. And yet perhaps I jest for that very reason, so as not to think of the more serious implications of Elrond's decision...
"Mithrandir!" Elladan's call was the perfect example of Elven words, pitched low and yet somehow with an inordinate amount of deliberate patience and I-am-an-Elf-why-am-I-talking-to-you superiority. Not that it was terribly effective on a Maia, but perhaps it just came naturally.
Sometimes he agreed with Gimli.
"Mithrandir..."
"Ah, yes." He looked at the three of them and sighed again. "I suppose you haven't come over for a nice chat or the pleasure of my company."
"Regrettably not."
"All right," He said finally. "Let us stop delaying. We must decide, soon. The route over Caradhras will be extremely difficult, if not impossible. The other way, on the other hand, is perilous, but a better chance, or so I see it..."
"Moria is a name of doom."
"Aye, that it is. But perhaps we will find we have no choice. Suppose we attempt to cross Caradhras, only to be blocked? We will have wasted precious days."
"Better precious days than precious lives."
"Aragorn, would you please stop speaking like an Elf!"
"To speak as such is an honour." Elrohir interjected.
"Back to the topic at hand..." Shadows loomed in Aragorn's eyes, shadows which Gandalf did not like at all. "I know you have traversed Moria before, and I will follow you, should you insist, for you are our leader. Yet my heart speaks against it."
And so does mine, Gandalf thought wearily. In fact, his heart, his mind, and his simple common sense all rebelled violently at the thought of going into Moria, as would those of any sane person. Unfortunately, not only was their sanity questionable, it seemed they would have no choice. He far preferred the idea of Caradhras, no matter its reputation, yet what would happen if some evil force (something whispered Curunír inside of him, or could it be that the Dark Lord had truly grown so powerful as to reach them here?) truly could block the passes? It would be a useless risk, for the cold was not to be underestimated.
On the other hand, neither was the darkness.
"You speak truly that Moria's name is black, Aragorn. Yet it may soon be that we will have no choice, for I would not choose the Gap of Rohan over Moria, no matter how dark that way may be. I have been in Moria, you know this, and I escaped! As did you, if I might remind you. There is hope of coming through the Mines, alive if not unscathed. There are dangers everywhere, and the place to which we go is far more so than anything we might encounter in Moria."
"It would be a close second."
"And it would be unfortunate to die in Moria without the chance to even get to the Black Land."
Gandalf gritted his teeth, wondering whether two hobbits or two elven twins were more annoying. A tie, he decided.
"We need not decide yet." He winced inwardly at his contradiction with earlier statements, but ploughed on. "We have a few more days to debate, before we put this to the Company. During which we may have as many late-night arguments as you wish. Yet I still say Moria, though I do not wish to go any nearer to that place than you. But I believe that trying the passes will be futile. It is winter, after all, and they are formidable on any normal year. This time? We know not what dark forces may contrive against us to prevent us from crossing Caradhras."
"Perhaps for the express purpose of driving us into Moria," added Aragorn darkly.
"Perhaps." Gandalf sighed. "And they will succeed, either way, so we might as well save everyone some time and go straight there."
Elladan's lips twitched. "An extremely practical option."
"Agreed. Now, perhaps we can move on from playing word games and discuss our options fairly and objectively and in an unbiased light. Caradhras would seem safer, shall we say, than Moria, and yet our path over is not guaranteed. In fact, the chances of crossing successfully are considerably lower than our chances of crossing Moria and emerging relatively intact. No one can say what stirs in the darkness of Moria, what may have awoken there. It is hazardous, it is hard, and yet it seems our best choice."
"I thought we were not being biased."
Gandalf let out a breath. "Yes. We are not. And so I say that Moria holds danger far greater and older than Caradhras, in the deep places where the Dwarves did not dig. I have no wish to face that, I cannot say that we will all pass through alive, but there is a good chance that the Ring-bearer, at least, with a few companions, will."
"That may well be, but can we afford the loss of part of the Company? Our greatest hope may be in stealth, but our greatest light is in fellowship. We cannot lose both our guides, which is very possible." Elrohir looked pointedly at Aragorn and Gandalf. "Elladan and I have not travelled to the realms of Men, or those beyond Lothlórien. The Ring-bearer, as he so aptly put it at the Council, does not know the way." **
Argue and debate and disagree and discuss...
Boromir shifted on the ground- the hard, scratchy, uncomfortable ground- for about the thousandth time. He was getting very annoyed, with himself and with the ground. He was a weathered soldier, not some weak greenhorn! He had slept in far worse conditions, in far worse places before!
He finally gave up trying to delude himself that he was merely restless. He was, but that would not keep him from sleep. No, the reason for his discontent was the group of four currently murmuring to each other at the edge of the clearing. How was he supposed to sleep knowing that as he did, others were debating their- and his- course? He might not have the wisdom of centuries as did the Elves, might not have the advantage of being Isildur's Heir, or the power of a Maia, but he was a well-respected captain of Gondor, and he certainly had the right to know what was going on, and provide some input. What could wizards and Elves and a Man raised amongst Elves know of the countries to the South? The greatness of Gondor and the valour of Rohan were lost on such beings, he thought morosely.
He had been uncomfortable with the very idea of this Quest from the start, not only with the odd assortment of people he had to travel with, but with the goal of their Company. He supposed the Wise knew best, but sometimes- most times- it seemed pure folly, to throw away such a weapon! And to bestow it upon such a one! He liked Frodo, he honestly did, and he admired the hobbit's gentle spirit and quiet courage, but it was for that very reason the good-hearted hobbit should not have to bear the power of the One! Hobbits had no need for the Ring, they lived in peace and comfort far away from Mordor.
But Gondor! What could Gondor do with such a thing! They needed aid, desperately, and though he had been too proud to admit it to Aragorn, the Sword that was Broken would have been an almighty gift. But the One! That would be greater. Aragorn could wield it, yet he would not. Elrond, Gandalf, all those High Elves and their wise talk, they were wasting the chance that could turn the tide of this War! Yet if they would not, why not he? He could see it.
He could wield it.
He turned on his side, frowning. Perhaps. And yet, he was not so foolish as to say that he knew better than they. Perhaps they were right, after all. He was but one voice, after all. It was better to bide his time, and think it over. He should not act now, so early in the Quest. He would like to learn more about his companions first, in any case.
He had spent his whole life in Gondor, amongst Men, and now was in a Fellowship of nine of which only one other than he was human. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Those Elves, now. They were strange beings, so silent and distant and inexplicably sad, although at times they could act like children, merry and jesting. He simply could not understand them, and it irked him. Yet they had never been anything but courteous and considerate, although always with this sort of aura that all but screamed superiority. His pride revolted strongly at that, but he had managed to keep his temper in check so far, and he would continue doing so.
The wizard. He was not so foreign as the rest, for he used to come to Minas Tirith, riding up with grey cloak flying to consult with his father. He and Faramir were fascinated with him, and had begged for story after story, about lands that lay far away, and perils that seemed far away, of dragons and gold and swords and adventures. But he had grown up, and he had no need for stories anymore.
The Dwarf... Well, at least he was mortal, like him. And Erebor had not been exactly peaceful for a long time, from what he knew about it, so perhaps Gimli would understand the strain, the black, sinking grief of watching your home decay, be eaten up by the ever-growing shadow day by day. Perhaps Gimli would be a comrade.
"Can't sleep?" Said Dwarf's low, rough voice interrupted his thoughts, and he stirred slightly, wondering whether to answer.
"Aye, Master Dwarf. And you?"
"I would, but I cannot when they stand there calmly deciding our fate! Perhaps they do know this land better than we, but we deserve a say, as well." The Dwarf frowned. "I only wonder that that spoiled princeling is not there."
Boromir bit back a chuckle at hearing the Elf prince so described, and lowered his voice dramatically. "Ah, that must be because he needs his beauty sleep!"
The Dwarf snorted into his hand, and looked at Boromir with a new appreciation. "Now I see that you have a sense of humour, what do you think of our course? We may not be included on their discussions, but we may debate it apart. What say you?"
"Agreed. I believe they intend to cross Caradhras, but I do not think that is the best idea. It would be better by far to go by the Gap of Rohan, then make our way to my city. From there, we may perhaps strike out for Mordor with better provisions, fresh and well-rested."
"That does seem plausible, but I would propose another road: the Mines of Moria! Why not go through the Mines? It will be hard to find the way, 'tis true, but Gandalf has been there before, I gather. He can lead us through! If the snow denies us Caradhras and Saruman denies us the Gap, why not Moria?"
A shiver went through Boromir at the mention of Moria, though he had not much knowledge of the place. But what he had heard was enough to strike terror in the hearts of the boldest Men. Moria... "I would not advise taking the road through the Mines, if there was any other choice. It would be a dark, uncertain road."
"Ah, but you are wrong! Well, Moria will be dangerous, but so too will all roads in these dark times. If we go through, we may yet chance to meet Balin and his people, who would accomodate us and strengthen us, I am sure! And to look upon the great halls of Dwarrowdelf, of Khazad-dûm! It would be a sight beyond your imagination, Boromir, great though the White City must be. The ancient halls of the Dwarfs, built in times of long ago when the world was unchanged. The work of the children of Mahal does not disappear, long though the years may be as they wear on!"
The pride in the Dwarf's voice moved Boromir, for often had he spoken of Minas Tirith in such a way. "It must be great indeed, Gimli, and to see it would be an honour. I hope that some day, perhaps I will see these halls, and you may yet see the White City of Gondor. It is grand in its own way, and bears the legacy and memory of great days long ago, of the courage and honour of Men! It was built long ago, Gimli, by my distant ancestors, Elendil the Tall, founder of Gondor and Arnor, who led the last of the Faithful Númenóreans to Middle-earth, he was a great Man!"
"Indeed he must have been! But let me tell you of Durin the Deathless, first child of Mahal, who founded the greatest of all our halls: Khazad-dûm, which you will see should we go through the Mines! Khazad-dûm has been ruled by his descendants, for many long ages." Gimli sighed, sorrow appearing on his face. "But Durin's Bane awoke in the depths of the Mines, and it has been empty of Dwarfs for too long. But it may be that Balin, my kinsman, is there, somewhere, searching and rebuilding the ancient home of Dwarves..."
Thus they spoke as the night wore on, of their cities, their prides, of Gondor and Moria, of the ancient achievements of their peoples. And Boromir could not but think that perhaps Gimli would be not just a comrade, but a friend.
Their journey was largely silent, punctuated by brief words of politeness, before small talk drained away and silence fell once more.
Idhrenion did not know all of what had happened between the four halflings, the night before the Fellowship left, but he could guess, from the clenched fists and tear tracks and red eyes. He himself could well understand the pain of being left behind- the worst of any fate was to sit in safety and await news of your loved ones! These perian might be small, but he could see that great hearts beat within them, and the grief in their eyes belied the youth of their faces.
No one so young should know that grief.
The grief of loving and losing, of waiting and weeping, of knowing that all the prayers that you sent to Ilúvatar might be in vain, and all you would see of those you loved would be their corpses. If you were lucky.
He was young amongst the Eldar, not having reached his six hundredth year. But growing up in these dark times was done fast and hard and unceremoniously, and he had seen more than enough bloodshed to last him the rest of his immortal life.
That these young ones, who could not be even forty, perhaps not even thirty, and who looked for all their courage so much like children...
They should never have left their green Shire. They should never have even seen the One. The name of Sauron should never have been more than a vague fear for them. They should never have wanted to know the way to Mordor.
He shut his eyes, but darkness grew everywhere he looked, the back of his own eyelids most of all. He had not the gift- or curse, depending on how you looked at it- of foresight, but a certain elleth he held certain feelings for did, and he could not but remember her words, whispered to him in the quiet hall as they held each other in fear and pain.
The doom of Middle-earth has been set this day.
Perhaps it has, he thought, as chills took him. Perhaps it has.
*Manwë, Nienna and Irmo were three of the Valar.
** "I will take the Ring," he said, "though I do not know the way."
Pg. 264, The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien. Collins Modern Classics 2001 version.