A Road Less Traveled
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the plots, places, or characters associated with it. All are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien and no copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter 9: These Dark Paths We Tread
Gimli was nearly an hour and a half into his discourse concerning the grandeur of Dwarvish culture when I began to seriously contemplate committing murder. Granted, the lecture mightn't have been so bad-interesting, even-if I hadn't been so thoroughly exhausted and my mood so utterly foul. Instead, on several separate occasions, I found my fingers twitching with the desire to wrap around the hilt of the hunting knife that now hung from my belt. Or to rip out my own hair, seeing as, at that point, I wasn't particularly picky so long as it might silence the Dwarf for longer than the sparse instant it took him to pause for a breath every now and again. That said, I have to admit that it was incredibly fortuitous that Aragorn insisted on keeping me company (or, rather, on an exceedingly short leash) and that Gimli walked alongside Gandalf at the head of our procession.
Otherwise, goodness only knows what sort of mayhem might have ensued.
Together, the Dwarf and Wizard led the way back to the base of the mountains. There, Gandalf informed us, lay the only route to the western entrance to Khazad-dûm. The road itself, he explained, followed the progression of a stream called the Sirannon, or the Gate-stream as it was named in the Common Tongue, which originated near the cliffs where the Doors of Moria stood.
Despite the Wizard's insistence that he knew the way, however, it soon became painfully apparent as we journeyed onward that something was very much amiss. That is to say, either the local geography had changed drastically of late, or else Gandalf was totally lost because we had yet to locate any indication of a watercourse-not even so much as a damp pebble.
And that particular fact was one that I, naturally, was quick to point out. "He has no idea where he's going, does he?" I asked Aragorn, who, even with his longer stride, kept pace beside me.
"Patience, Lady Kelly," he bade me. "A Wizard's memory is deep. He will recall the way before long."
Aragorn's assertion did little to allay my rising disquiet, and I jerked to halt in the middle of the trail to gawp at the Ranger like the man had taken complete leave of the senses and announced that he planned to abandon his destiny as Gondor's future king to join Sauron in his quest for world domination. "Do you mean to tell me that we're following him blindly on the off chance that he's going to stumble over this Gate-stream-thing eventually?" I scoffed sardonically upon voicing the notion aloud. "Is it just me or does that sound like a really bad idea?"
Unsurprisingly, Aragorn offered no response to my cynicism: Instead, he just gave me that look-the one that made me feel like I was the one who was lost—over his shoulder and continued on down the path.
Well, that's just fan-freaking-tastic. I'm going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. I just know it... Irrespective of that less than cheerful thought (or, perhaps, because of it), I forced my jaw to unclench and hurried to catch up with the son of Arathorn.
Hours passed and, still, we came across no sign of water, let alone something that Gandalf had previously described as a loud, fast-moving current. But, then, just when I began to despair of our ever finding the blasted thing, Gimli-bless his hairy, little heart-cried out with both surprise and relief.
"Look!" he called back to us from where he stood atop a rise some distance ahead. He waved one hand wildly in the air before pointing at something ahead and off to his right.
"Finally," Pippin, who had paused just in front of me, groaned. Too tired to comment after our trek, I could only nod in agreement.
"But what's happened to the water?" asked Merry, voicing the question on everyone's mind when, upon joining Gimli, we all found ourselves staring down into a deep, narrow channel where only the faintest trickle of water snaked its way over the rust-colored stones. Regardless of its currently pitiful state, it was obvious that this was where the Sirannon had once run.
"I know not, Master Meriadoc," answered Gandalf, "though this is, indeed, where the Gate-stream once coursed." He studied the topography for a long moment prior to saying, "There is a path on the near side or, rather, there should be. It will lead us to the Gates, but we must hurry. Time is no longer with us."
So, on we went, picking our way down into the ravine and then along a path that proved rough and winding, for all that it appeared to follow the ancient road between Eregion and the old Dwarf realm. For many miles the track ran, and we pursued it until we were all of us footsore and drained beyond words. Afternoon had begun to fade into evening and the air was cold when we, at last, came to a sharp curve. There the south-veering road shifted suddenly to the east, and, upon rounding the bend, we were faced with a low precipice: What remained of the swift-flowing Sirannon dribbled sluggishly over its edge, falling to moisten the dry, red earth of the streambed.
"This is most strange," murmured Gandalf as he looked up at the paltry stream. Then, louder, he said, "Even so, there is no mistaking this place. This is all that remains of the Stair Falls."
"Well, then, if that's not a sorry sight and no mistake," observed Sam as he, too, peered at the remnant of the cascade.
"Indeed it is, Samwise," agreed the Wizard. He took a few steps forward as though to afford himself a closer look and "hmm-ed" deeply. "In any case, it appears that neither my long memory nor my sense of direction has yet failed me." Here he cast a sly glance in my direction, and I had the grace to flush in embarrassment when it became clear that my earlier inquiries to Aragorn had, in fact, been overheard.
Grimacing, I muttered a sheepish, "Oops," as I ran a hand over my hair and ducked my head in an attempt to soothe my heated cheeks. I heard Boromir chuckle while Aragorn gave me a commiserating pat on the shoulder, though a quick peek from the corner of my eye exposed the Ranger's valiant attempt to keep a straight face. Still blushing, I offered him a faint smile and a helpless shrug.
Gandalf, for his part, saw none of this interaction. Instead, he stood, gazing thoughtfully at the cliff's face. "If I remember rightly, there is a flight of steps cut into the rock at this side," he told us. "It made a shorter road for those journeying in haste. The main track winds round left and climbs several loops up to level ground at the top. I should like to find the stairs and see what has become of the valley above."
Of course, after that there was nothing for it, but to search for the stairs, even though the majority of us were exhausted and the light waned. Luckily, we located the stone steps swiftly and without much difficulty, and Gandalf, accompanied only by Frodo and Gimli, ventured up them while the remainder of our party awaited them below with our supplies and the baggage pony.
I can't speak for the others, but I, for one, was thankful for the breather, brief though I knew it would be: I doubt that I've ever been so weary as I was at that moment. My back and shoulders ached from having carried my backpack for so long and so far, and I was fairly certain that the blisters on my feet had blisters of their own. Not to mention, I felt as if I were one giant bruise, what with having practically tumbled down a mountainside a time or ten.
Slipping off my pack and stretching my tired limbs, I released a grateful sigh before sinking to the ground for a rest. During our march, we had halted only briefly, and, thereupon, taken a hasty meal, but that had been hours before and my rumbling stomach demanded that I put something in it before it revolted entirely. Digging around in my bag until I unearthed the bright green package of trail mix from beneath my first aid kit and spare yoga pants, I set about "appeasing the beast," in a manner of speaking.
I'd eaten only a handful of my snack, though, when I suddenly became aware of someone's keen gaze, and a surreptitious glance to my left revealed Merry and Pippin watching me with avid curiosity and not a little hunger. This frank study went on for several moments during which I pretended not to notice their scrutiny and waited for one of them to indulge his interest.
Per usual, Pippin cracked first. "What's that?" he asked, head tilted quizzically.
"Trail mix," I replied, popping an almond into my mouth.
"Is it good?" he pressed.
I shrugged. "I like it." I looked down at the still mostly full packet in my hand and, before thinking better of it, asked, "Would you like some?"
Of course, the Hobbit nodded and accepted the bag eagerly. "Why," he began after poking through it, "this 'trail mix' is very much like the dried fruit and tree meats we were given in Rivendell." He withdrew a handful and examined it more closely. "Except for this. What is it?" Between his thumb and forefinger, he pinched a chunk of chocolate.
"It's called chocolate," I explained and, when he looked askance, I pursed my lips prior to attempting to describe the substance. "It's a sweet made mostly from milk, sugar, and cocoa. There are a couple of different kinds, I think. That's 'dark' chocolate and it uses much less milk and sugar than the other types." Tipping my chin towards the piece he held, I said, " Now, you better eat that before it melts and makes a mess."
After inspecting the treat for only a brief second longer, he followed my suggestion, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed before breaking into a broad grin. "It is sweet!" was his emphatic exclamation. "A bit bitter perhaps, but rich." He then proceeded to pick through the mix in search of the confection.
Good grief, I reflected wryly as I watched him. I've created a monster.
"Don't be such a glutton, Pip!" Merry interjected as he attempted to snatch the bag from his cousin's clutches. "I am quite sure Miss Kelly would like to keep some of that for later." Granted, this knowledge didn't deter him from seizing up a great handful of the concoction as well.
My spirits very much improved, I merely laughed at their squabbling and received the pouch back from a thoroughly chastened Pippin. None of our other companions, I noticed, made any move to try the foodstuff and I wondered if their reticence was due to the fare itself or the one who offered it.
Oh, for the love of Pete, Kel, I was quick to censure myself. You're getting paranoid. Regardless, the thought was enough to wipe the smile from my face and eradicate any good feeling that I had managed to summon courtesy of Merry and Pippin's antics.
At any rate, I was very much relieved to see Gandalf, Frodo, and Gimli descend the stairs some twenty minutes later. By that point in the evening, the sun hung low on the horizon, leaving the winter sky ablaze in varying hues of brilliant orange and lavender. A light wind stirred as the Wizard, Hobbit, and Dwarf came to a halt before us.
"We have discovered what has become of the Sirannon and its falls," stated Gandalf as Frodo joined the other Hobbits and Gimli made his way over to Boromir and Legolas. "The stream has become blocked and all the valley above is filled."
And so it was, I observed when I reached the top of the slope after an arduous climb that left my calves burning and my lungs heaving. Standing between Aragorn and Boromir with my hands braced on my knees, I struggled to regain my breath-only to bite back a multitude of unpleasant remarks when I straightened and found myself looking out over the dark, still surface of the lake that now consumed the vale. Neither the sinking sun nor the twilit sky above reflected upon its ominous face: The sight was odd and unnerving, and I wanted nothing to do with it or what lie beyond it. Unfortunately, I knew I had no choice because Gandalf seemed Hell-bent on our making our way through Moria.
"We must head for the cliffs. There we should find the entrance to the Mines," said the Istar after surveying our newest obstacle with a thoughtful frown. And quite the obstacle it was, for, though the lake itself was not terribly wide (being only perhaps two or three furlongs at its widest point), to the south, it stretched far beyond my meager sight in the failing light and appeared to be rather deep. There would be no crossing it without a vessel of some sort: We would have to go around.
"And if the entrance cannot be found?" Boromir asked. "What then?"
"I dare not consider the alternative, son of Denethor," countered Gandalf grimly before he gestured to the northward valley wall and said, "Come. We shall see if we can skirt the water's edge." With that, he set off down the path towards the lakeshore while the rest of us exchanged uneasy glances.
"I have a really bad feeling about this," I muttered, peering nervously at the mist that hovered over the dark mere. "A really bad feeling."
"Indeed," agreed Aragorn, just as softly.
Nevertheless, he proceeded after the Wizard and the others swiftly followed suit, abandoning me to watch the strangely tranquil water for a few minutes more while the feeling of foreboding in my stomach threatened to rise up and choke me. "Breathe, Kel," I whispered to myself and swallowed harshly when said breath caught in my throat. "Just brea—"
"Miss Kelly!" Pippin's clear voice suddenly rang out in the distance. Head snapping up, I discovered that he and Merry had paused to wait for me some ways down the path: The rest of the group had since vanished into the growing gloom of twilight. "Gandalf says to 'hurry, or we shall leave you behind!'"
"As if I were that lucky," I groused, but at least I'd managed to overcome my apprehension for the time being. Adjusting my pack on my shoulders, I cast another brief glance at the lake and rushed to catch up.
"Watch your step," directed Gandalf when we finally reached the lake's northward end and discovered that a shallow creek barred our way. The rill was narrow, green, and twisted its way into the surrounding hills like a snake. Beyond it lay the scant sliver of land that would serve as our path to the Doors.
"Well, now that's just gross," I said, scrunching my nose. The Hobbits, I noted, wore similar expressions of distaste, but none of them hesitated to follow the others into the stagnant water. I sighed and plunged after them, only to pull another disgusted face when the dirty liquid soaked my sneakers and the legs of my jeans. "Oh, eww..."
"Ah, quit your bellyaching, girl," Gimli called back from the head of the line. Completely undeterred by the obstruction, he strode first into the stream and learned that it rose only to his knees at its deepest point. "It's just a bit of water."
"'Just a bit of water,' he says," I snarked under my breath as I picked my way across the slimy beck. "If I catch some kind of bizarre Middle-Earth disease because of this, I'm blaming you, you stupid Dwarf. And, you know what? I'll 'bellyache' if I damned well plea-" Just then, my foot caught the edge of one of the many algae-laden rocks at the bottom of the stream. Arms flailing, I shrieked a curse and fought to regain my balance, all the while fully aware that I was bound for a mouthful of mud and Lord knows what else. Then, just as I lost my battle for equilibrium and resigned myself to ending up face-first in the muck, someone seized the back of my shirt and my string of invective cut off with a strangled 'YERK!' as the material gathered tightly around my neck and arrested any further foul language.
"Careful, mistress," said Boromir before releasing the cloth and stepping deftly around me to make his way to the other side of the brook. Rubbing at my abused throat, I retreated into sullen silence.
Once Sam, the last of our party, led Bill the pony up onto the dry ground on the far side of the stream, we made for the thin strip of land that formed a pathway around the far perimeter of the lake. Here Gandalf began to press our pace for the darkness deepened and great, grey clouds moved in to blot out the last rays of the setting sun. The few stars that managed to peek through glimmered faintly overhead, but they did little in the way of providing light. What's more, with each passing step, the feeling of trepidation that writhed in my stomach swelled until I very nearly jumped out of my skin at the slightest sound or faintest shadow.
And our eerie surroundings didn't help in the slightest: In fact, they were downright creepy. In the shallows along the lakeshore, the great stumps and dead boughs of trees rotted in the mire while the remains of old thickets and even parts of a hedge that had evidently once lined the road from Hollin broke the water's surface. These reminders of a realm long since faded and forgotten made the journey seem that much more lonesome and unsettling, and I shuddered despite my warm cloak.
Nonetheless, there was yet some life left in this desolate place. Close to the cliffs there stood, still strong and thriving, two massive holly trees: Their roots stretched from the rock wall to the water and the trees themselves rose high overhead. And beyond them, the Walls of Moria towered, silent and imperious.
Gandalf waited until all ten of us were gathered around before he spoke. "Here stand the Walls of Moria," he proclaimed, gesturing to the massive expanse of stone that stretched far into the shadows above us.
I have to say that I was less than impressed with his announcement, especially considering the fact that the so-called Walls looked exactly like the face of any other cliff I'd ever seen.
Hence, I couldn't resist commenting.
"Really? How can you tell, Gandalf?" I inquired skeptically as I crossed my arms. "Your spidey-senses tingling?" Needless to say, the look I received from the Wizard in response was sharp, albeit a bit mystified, but he said nothing, preferring to concentrate on the expanse of rock before him while ignoring my query completely.
"We have thus far followed what remains of the Elven-way from Hollin and here that way ends. Holly, as you may recall, was the token of the people of that land and they planted it here to mark the boundary of their domain," explained the Istar. "The West-door was made largely for their use when there was still close friendship between the Dwarves of Moria and the Elves of Eregion."
At that remark, Gimli snorted in disbelief and muttered something in his native tongue to which Gandalf rejoined, "Indeed, Master Dwarf, you need not sound so taken aback. In days of old, yes, the Noldor of Eregion and the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm held great respect for one another, for both peoples shared an immense love of metal-craft and the making of beautiful things." Here Gandalf paused to shake his head and then said, somewhat mournfully, "Those were happier times."
"It was not the fault of the Dwarves that such a friendship waned," stated Gimli haughtily.
"Neither was it that of the Elves," replied Legolas with just as much pride, and I sighed as I braced myself for the argument that was sure to follow: Past experience indicated that two of them could go on for hours, if not intercepted quickly.
Thankfully, Gandalf was swift to intercede, "I have heard the blame placed at the feet of both, but that is neither here nor there, and it is not my place to pass judgment now. I would ask, though, that you forgive the grievances of your respective kith and kin for the moment. Night is nigh upon us and I need your help." As if to signal that he had nothing further to say on the subject of the bad blood between the Firstborn and the Children of Aulë, the Wizard laid his hands against the stone while peering closely at it.
"Dwarf-doors are invisible to all but those who know what to look for," he told us as he brushed his fingers along lines that only he could see. "Sometimes even their own masters cannot find them, if their secrets are lost."
Shocker that, I conluded acerbically: I knew better than to give voice to the quip, however. Tempers had grown progressively shorter over the last hour or so and I had absolutely no desire to expose myself to the wrath of a cranky Istar-previous remarks concerning "spidey-senses" notwithstanding, of course.
Even so, something of my thoughts must have shown on my face because Aragorn shot me a warning glance that plainly said "not a word." I offered him an innocent smile in return, but, judging from the raised brow and stern set of his mouth, the son of Arathorn wasn't fooled in the least.
"Come," he directed and gestured for me to follow him. "Help me with the baggage."
"What?" I asked, nonplussed. "Why?"
It was Gandalf who answered me, although he didn't so much as glance my way when he said, "Because, as useful as Bill the pony has proven, we cannot take him into the Mines. It is a dark and dangerous road through Moria, and there are places along the path too narrow and steep for such a beast to pass safely."
"But, Mr. Gandalf, we can't leave poor old Bill behind!" cried an appalled Samwise Gamgee, who stood at the pony's side with the animal's reins clutched tightly in one white-knuckled fist. "There's wolves...and goblins and...and all sorts of horrible things out there! He'll be eaten for sure!"
"I am sorry, Samwise," said Gandalf kindly, "but I fear that when the Doors open there will be no dragging your Bill across the threshold and into the dark."
As I listened to him quarrel with Gandalf over the fate of the pony, I felt my heart break a little for the sandy-haired Hobbit. He was obviously very attached, but, to tell you the truth, I thought the creature was getting the better end of the deal. Heck, I envied the beast his freedom: That is to say, he wasn't about to walk into the "Black Pit" to face all manner of creepy, crawling critters.
"You needn't worry, Sam," Aragorn assured the dejected Shireling as he and I set to removing the pony's burden of supplies. "He knows the way home." Despite their intent, the words did little to comfort Sam. Rather, he hung his head and quickly made his way over to the other Hobbits, who met him with compassionate smiles, gentle pats on the back, and shoulder squeezes.
"Yes, but do not allow him to leave just yet," called out Gandalf. "We may have need of him should there prove no way into the Mines."
As per Gandalf's instructions, Aragorn made sure to picket the pony to prevent him from wandering away while the rest of us made short work of distributing the provisions. Most of the winter weather gear we put aside as Gandalf assured us that we would not need it once inside the Mines. The rest we divided amongst ourselves, each of us taking a share of rations, a bedroll, a blanket, and a water skin. My pack was considerably heavier once I accepted my portion of the provisions, and Boromir chuckled in amusement when I grunted upon lifting the overstuffed bag.
"Oh, hush," I grumbled at him, but there was little bite to it: I hadn't the energy. Instead, I turned my attention to the silent and motionless Gandalf, who still stared at the wall of stone before him as if its vacant facade contained the secrets of the universe.
For want of anything else to do, I watched the Wizard for a time, but I soon found my gaze wandering elsewhere-namely to Aragorn, who prowled restlessly along the lake's edge. Noting the tense set of his shoulders, I rose from my seat upon an upturned boulder and made my way to his side when he paused to gaze out over the lake.
"What's up?" I asked only to receive a blank look in response. Sighing inaudibly because it was neither the first nor would it be the last time my manner of speech flummoxed one of my companions, I elaborated, "Is something wrong?"
His eyes returned to the unmoving water. "This lake," he answered, "it has an ill look about it."
"I know," I replied, wrapping my arms around myself as if the action would chase away the foreboding that haunted me. "It's creepy as heck. Water shouldn't be that still." Aragorn merely "hmm-ed" in agreement, so I continued, "Doesn't help that I keep feeling like I'm being watched."
That last statement earned me a keen side-eye, but, before the Ranger could reply, an exclamation of triumph burst out from behind us. Turning, both the son of Arathorn and I discovered that Gandalf had, at last, made some progress in finding the entrance to the Mines. The Wizard stood in the shadow between the great holly trees, running his hands back and forth across the smooth face of the cliff while muttering under his breath. Perhaps thinking that we would continue on soon in light of Gandalf's find, Aragorn cast me another glance, one that clearly asked if I planned to come along and, when I nodded, he moved to rejoin the others.
As I made to follow after him, however, I tossed one last wary look over my shoulder at the ominous pool and then froze, my eyes widening in alarm when I saw something break the glass-like surface. Half a second it was there, then gone, and left not so much as a ripple in its wake. Hardly daring to breath, I stood, stock-still, and watched the water for any further signs of movement. There were none, though, and, after several long moments, I shook my head and berated myself for imagining things.
See, paranoid, I decided with a mental sneer. It was probably just a fish or something. I knew better, of course, but I held out hope that, perhaps, the Fates might spare us, just this once.
"Miss Kelly?" inquired Merry when I resumed my perch on the boulder, unease coiling in my stomach. Something of my discomfiture must have shown on my face because the Hobbit then asked, "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Merry," I replied with a smile that I'm sure looked just as forced as it felt. "Just tired. It's been a long day."
"And 'tis bound to get longer, lass," Gimli broke in, "but look now. Gandalf has found the Doors."
Sure enough, just as I turned in the direction in which the Dwarf gestured, the full light of the moon struck the blank expanse of gray wall. At first, I saw nothing save smooth, dark stone and I tossed Gandalf a dubious glance. Then, suddenly, sinuous lines of luminous silver began to wind their way up and across the stone, twisting and twining, until they coalesced into the outline of a pair of massive doors.
Well, what do you know? I pondered as I regarded them in stark resignation: At that point in the proceedings, I felt rather like I headed towards my own execution. This foreknowledge thing is for the birds.
"Ithildin," murmured the Istar, trailing his fingers across the glittering lines before glancing up at the sky and the moon that shone overhead. "It mirrors only starlight and moonlight."
"Look!" Pippin cried suddenly, and I jerked out of my examination of the images upon the doors to stare at the Hobbit. "There! Above the Doors: There are letters."
Indeed, there were: At the apex of the doorway, there was carved an arc of interwoven letters—Elvish script, if the flowing nature of the characters was any indication—below which was etched the blurred outline of an anvil and hammer surmounted by a crown with seven stars. Underneath these images were engraved two trees (holly, I recognized after a moment of study), both of which bore a likeness of the crescent moon. And, in the center of it all, there gleamed a star with many rays.
"What does the writing say?" queried Frodo as he squinted up at the script with an expression of intense concentration. "I thought I knew the elf-letters, but I cannot read these."
"You cannot read them," explained Gandalf, "because the words are written in the elven-tongue of the West of Middle-Earth in the Elder Days: There are few now in the shadowed east who remember it."
"Can you read them?" came the curious question from Pippin.
"Of course, I can," said Gandalf, sounding rather affronted that the Hobbit even had to ask. "All the same, they do not say anything of importance to us. They say only that these are the 'Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.'"
Unable to stop myself at Gandalf's assertion that we had no need for that last phrase, I released a huff of air in dry amusement, but said nothing.
"And what does that mean? 'Speak, friend, and enter'?" queried Merry, who, just as all the others, save perhaps Gandalf, was oblivious to the reason for my laughter.
Gimli answered him. "Exactly that, Master Hobbit," he declared. "If you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open."
"Yes," acceded Gandalf, though he seemed to speak more so to himself than to rest of us. "Likely these doors are governed by words." Then, louder, he continued, "Some dwarf-gates will open only at special times, or for particular persons, while others yet call for lock and keys, even when all necessary times and words are known. Or any combination of the three." He glanced down at Gimli, who had moved to stand at his side as if the Dwarf's presence alone would make the Doors open. "You know well of such doors, do you not, Gimli, son of Gloin, who was a member of the company of Thorin Oakenshield?"
Some of the excitement that had held Gimli captive since our decision to brave the Mines faded from his face. "Aye, I do," he answered somberly. "It is a grim tale for the fate that befell Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and his sister-sons. They were my kin." He then proceeded to clam up, even as Merry and Pippin turned inquisitive eyes on him.
"What happened to them?" asked Pippin after scrutinizing the Dwarf for several moments, but Gimli refused to speak any more on the subject of the once King under the Mountain: He did, however, cast the young Hobbit a surly scowl that just dared him to ask any further questions.
"They died," murmured Frodo and, when Pippin turned curiously to his fellow Shireling, the dark-haired Hobbit went on, "Uncle Bilbo told me about them once. Thorin was descended from Durin, called the Deathless. He and his Company set out to reclaim the lost kingdom of Erebor from the dragon Smaug."
Merry harrumphed. "Cousin Bilbo never mentioned his name in any of the stories." I smirked slightly at the note of resentment in his voice: Evidently, Bilbo had left out a great many details concerning his adventures in the east. "He only ever called him the Dwarf-King."
Gandalf turned away from the outline of the Doors and looked at Merry. "I daresay it likely pained him to mention Thorin-or his nephews, for that matter-at all," said the Wizard. "Bilbo became quite close to the Company over the course of their journey to the Mountain; no less so with Durin's heirs."
"But what does that have to do with these doors?" asked Pippin.
The Istar shot him an irritable frown, but explained anyway. "Before his Company set off on their quest to regain the Mountain, I offered to Thorin Oakenshield a gift of a map and key," he recounted, "both of which were given to me by his father—by Thrain. The map contained mention of a secret entrance—a back door, if you will—to Erebor's lower halls. A fortunate thing, too, as the Mountain, you see, could not be accessed by means of the Front Gates for that was the way the dragon used whenever he chose to leave his hoard. Any who entered there quickly found themselves at the mercy of a fire drake."
"As to the question of what this tale has to do with these doors: The Secret Door required not only a special key—the one I mentioned giving to Thorin—but, also, could only be opened at a specific time. 'By the last light of Durin's Day,' to be precise." Gandalf then gave the wall before him a sharp rap with the end of his staff before saying, "Opening these doors, however, will prove a much easier task, I believe. We need only say the password."
I could keep silent no longer. "Which is?" I inquired drolly as I reclined fully in my seat, my hands clasped behind my head and ankles crossed as I stretched out on the flat surface of the stone beneath me. Per usual, Gandalf ignored me and, instead, focused all of his attention on the Doors once more. I, meanwhile, simply rolled my eyes and settled in for what I knew would be a long wait.
In truth, there was actually very little I could do in our present circumstances. That is to say, I could have told them the password and gotten us into Moria the moment we discovered the entrance, but Gandalf had forbidden me from just that sort of interference and I would abide by his commands—for the time being, anyway.
I might have been feeling just the slightest bit petty as well, but that's neither here nor there.
Therefore, I held my peace, even as Gandalf tried phrase after phrase, word after word, in a multitude of languages; some ranging from flowing Elvish dialects to the strange, growling speech of the Dwarves to coarse Mannish tongues and none of which proved of any use. When the Wizard had, at last, run out of possibilities, he threw his hands up in exasperation and moved to sit on the massive root of one of the holly trees, grumbling under his breath all the while.
Wary of the Wizard's increasing frustration, I exchanged a quick look with Boromir who leaned with crossed arms against tree opposite Gandalf's. Finding no help from that quarter, I turned back to the old Istar as he griped, "I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Men, Elves and Orcs and, yet, none have sufficed. I do not understand."
"What are you going to do then?" piped up Pippin, asking the question that was on all of our minds, though the bold little Halfling was the only one brave (or foolish, depending on how one looked at it) enough to pose it aloud.
I only barely managed to conceal my sympathetic wince when the Wizard leapt to his feet. "'What am I going to do?'" he echoed the inquiry in swiftly rising irritation. "Smash your head against these doors, Peregrin Took, and, if that does not shatter them and I am given a reprieve from foolish questions, I will attempt to find the opening words." With that, Gandalf subsided with a huff and a thoroughly subdued Pippin slunk away in embarrassment.
For my part, I glared at Gandalf for his harsh reaction and got to my feet. I patted the drooping Hobbit on the shoulder as I passed by him and caught the flash of his appreciative grin from the corner of eye. By that point, Gandalf was beyond vexed, and I likely should have been a bit more concerned for my own safety when I made my way over to him and inquired with far more sass than was probably appropriate considering the circumstances, "Is this one of those aforementioned 'dire situations'?"
Needless to say, I received an absolutely lethal scowl for my trouble, but no further comment.
"Well?" I continued to press as I put my hands on my hips and cocked a brow.
"Be silent, Miss Day, and allow me to think," snapped the Wizard in response.
"Perhaps there is something else we must do," suggested Frodo quietly as he, too, approached the Doors. He placed a hand flat against the stone and looked up to study the glowing runes. "Are you certain that these doors do not require a key of some sort or that they can even be opened from the outside at all?"
"Do you doubt me, Frodo Baggins?" asked Gandalf tartly.
Frodo shook his head. "Of course not, my friend, but I fear that mayhap something has changed since last you ventured here."
Gandalf opened his mouth-gearing up to deliver yet another scathing diatribe, no doubt-but never had the opportunity for as soon as he began to speak, he found himself cut off by a long, lonesome howl that was then followed by a series of others and all of which sounded entirely too close for comfort. Night had fallen fully by then and the stars twinkled coldly overhead: Trapped between the dark lake and the Walls, we were, to borrow a trite and, yet, unpleasantly applicable phrase, "sitting ducks."
"That was a wolf," I pointed out, somewhat stupidly, I'll admit, but accurate, nonetheless. Yeah, and now would be a great time for that password, I decided with mild panic. I even caught my hand straying to the knife at my hip: The idea of drawing it, though, I quickly discarded because, really, what did I know about actually using the thing effectively? Thoroughly spooked by the thought of being attacked by wolves again, I considered simply shouting out the password and dealing with the fallout from Gandalf later. Something, however, held me back—most likely the notion of Gandalf skinning me alive.
Instead, I returned to Aragorn's side. If nothing else, I felt safe in his presence, although I would vehemently deny it should anyone ever ask.
"Aye," agreed Gimli as he rose from his seat on the ground and drew one of a pair of small axes from his belt. He came to stand beside Aragorn and me. "More than one from the sound of it. Wretched beasts."
"Yes, and soon they will be upon us and we will have nowhere to flee! We should never have come here!" rumbled Boromir suddenly as he pushed away from tree upon which he leaned.
"And where would you have had us go, son of Denethor?" was Gandalf's scathing demand, and Boromir turned to glower at him. "Already, we have felt the wrath of Caradhas and know that the south is being watched. What would you have us do?"
To this question, the Gondorian captain had no answer and he lapsed into moody silence even as more wolfish howls rent the air, closer now, and Bill the pony shivered in fright. Sam tried to comfort him, but he jerked at his tether and Legolas moved to assist the Hobbit before the beast managed to escape.
"Do not let him run away!" ordered Boromir as he watched the Elven Prince attempt to settle the agitated animal. "It seems we shall have need of him still, if the wolves do not find us first."
"We're blinded by your optimism, Boromir," I sniped and, beside me, Aragorn frowned.
"We cannot linger here much longer, Wizard," continued the Gondorian lord: He paid little regard to the concerned glances cast his way courtesy of Merry and Pippin, and I noted that Aragorn's countenance hardened even further. Boromir noticed neither the Shirelings' worry nor the Ranger's growing tension. "Night has fallen and we have wolves at our backs!"
Bristling, Gandalf snapped, "I am doing all that I can, Master Boromir!"
With these words, Boromir's face twisted into such an expression of disgust that I shifted closer to Aragorn: Something in that look made me terribly nervous and, in the back of my mind, I wondered if perhaps the Ring had already begun to affect him. Did that evil thing whisper in his mind even now? Could he feel its pull? Or did he even recognize the fact that a darker force was at play? Prior to that moment, I hadn't noticed any erratic behavior on his part—nothing that might indicate any sort of madness brought about by the Ring. But, then again, maybe he had thus far managed to temper any unsavory thoughts and he simply could no longer do so, what with the stress of the flight from Caradhas, the first wolf attack, and now our being hunted once again. Perhaps he had begun to crack under the strain? Even after having spent a fair amount of time in his presence, I couldn't claim to know the Steward's son particularly well, but I still hoped that he could and would stand firm against the influence of the Dark Lord's trifle.
"There is time yet," argued Boromir. "We can turn back and make our way south. Then take the east road to my city."
Gandalf glowered. "We have discussed this before, Lord Boromir. The southern route takes us too close to Isengard. We have no hope of passage that way."
Boromir scoffed. "What, then, will we do, Wizard?" he retorted, his tone harsh and rising. Merry and Pippin ducked their heads and eased away until they huddled behind Legolas and Gimli: They were obviously frightened of this new incarnation of the Steward's son. As it was, the younger Hobbits idolized him and often followed the warrior about, peppering him with questions about swordplay and such. He, in turn, seemed to enjoy their company and was more than happy to teach them the way of the blade. They called him friend, but, at the present moment, he must appear a terrifying caricature of the man they had come to know in recent weeks. "Linger here until there are no roads open to us? Remain until there is no hope for escape?"
Shifting my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other as I listened, I crossed my arms and bit my lip: I dearly wished to say something—anything—to break the mounting hostilities. However, just as I opened my mouth to speak-to shout the password to open the Doors, Gandalf's warnings be damned—a quiet murmur brought an abrupt end to any further bickering.
"A riddle," whispered Frodo to himself before he chuckled ruefully, the sound ripe with the sort of embarrassment that one only feels upon the realization of something that should have been obvious all along. Smiling faintly, he turned to Gandalf and repeated louder, "It's a riddle!"
Having been ripped so unexpectedly from his brewing confrontation with Boromir by the Ring Bearer's voice, Gandalf looked at Frodo for a long moment before a sharp bark of laughter escaped the Wizard. Chortling himself at the Hobbit's cleverness, he tilted his head. "A riddle, you say?"
Frodo nodded. "Yes." He motioned to the message on the stone. "It means 'speak "friend" and enter,' not 'speak, friend, and enter,'" he explained, the distinction in the semantics made apparent by his tone. "What's the Elvish word for 'friend?'"
"Mellon," intoned the Wizard and, just like that, the Doors gave a great groan and began to open. When the gateway loomed wide and dark before us, something that felt very much like relief seemed to settle over the rest of the company. I, on the other hand, gulped as I peered fretfully into the pitch darkness: I knew very well what lay beyond that shadowed doorway and the mere thought of it sent another shiver skittering through me.
"Well, then," said Gandalf with rather a great deal more enthusiasm than any one person should possess in our present position. "Let us make haste and enter."
Despite the command, no one moved. Instead, we all glanced warily at one another as it came to our attention that, upon entering the Mines, we would find ourselves surrounded by nothing more than darkness and stone. I couldn't help but notice that the only member of our company who seemed even remotely pleased about that fact was Gimli, who, as a Dwarf, had been born for such an environment, although even he hesitated somewhat at the ominous maw of a door before us.
All the same, it took only a sharp glance from Gandalf to spring the others into action. With practiced ease, they began to gather up what supplies we'd removed from the pony earlier before swiftly erasing all signs of our presence from that place. Once he finished, Aragorn took an unhappy Sam with him to say goodbye to Bill the pony before they sent the animal on his way. Once the pair returned, Sam gave one last miserable sniff, swiping angrily at his damp cheeks with the back of his hand, before he hoisted his pack onto his shoulders and put on a brave face. Aragorn himself seemed somewhat troubled by the Hobbit's upset: I think that, like me, he disliked seeing any of the little fellows hurt in any way. They were such merry creatures by nature and to see Sam so distraught was disquieting, to say the least.
"Come," said Gandalf sternly, though I saw him cast a rather sympathetic glance (for him, anyway) in Sam's direction, so, perhaps, he was not quiet as unmoved as he initially seemed. "The night grows long and there are wolves at our back. We must make haste." With a short gesture for us to follow, he stepped over the threshold and into the Mines.
The others trailed behind the Wizard after only a second's hesitation, and I found myself with no other choice but to do so as well. Be that as it may, it took me several moments to gather the wherewithal to move my feet. Taking in a deep breath, I released it in a long, slow exhale before I steeled myself and, at last, stepped into the shadows beyond the doors.
However, I'd crept only a short distance down the corridor when I was brought up short, having nearly crashed into Boromir's broad back when he came to a sudden halt in the middle of the passage without any warning whatsoever.
"What the—" I cut off abruptly when I peered around the Gondorian lord's arm and caught sight of what lay before us.
Bones.
Illuminated by the light shining from the strange crystal stop Gandalf's staff, the skeletons of what appeared to be dozens of long dead Dwarves filled the entrance chamber. Alongside them lay dented shields and helms, broken arrows, rusted swords, and an assortment of other ruined weaponry: All were scattered among the desiccated corpses and debris. The remains of many goblins, too, were strewn across the stone floor, though their numbers were fewer, and it took me only a moment to understand what had taken place here in this tiny room.
A massacre…
Swallowing roughly, I took a step out from behind Boromir and surveyed the scene with the grim hope that it was not so awful as it appeared to be at first glance. No such luck: Upon closer examination, I discovered that not all of those Dwarves who had fallen there were clad as warriors or guardsmen as I'd first thought. Granted, it was difficult to tell, considering the fact that what little of their clothing that remained was moth-eaten and dirtied with the dust of years. Even so, I noted more than one body arrayed in what appeared to have been a long dress or in a simple tunic and breeches. Many of these people had most likely been common folk; citizens of the realm of Khazad-dûm who had attempted to flee for their lives in the wake of an Orcish invasion.
Dear God…was the only thing that crossed my mind as I gaped in horror. Truly, there were no words to describe the macabre tableau for I had never seen anything like it—not in reality, anyway, and horror films have the major distinction of the viewer recognizing that what he or she sees on the big screen is only fantasy, no matter how real it appears to be. Not this—this was something else entirely.
What was even worse was that, from somewhere ahead in the gloom, I heard something that sounded very much like a stifled sob. Taking a few steps forward, I saw that Gimli knelt, trembling, on the stone floor. In his hands, he clutched a dented helmet, its surface darkened with age and what I feared had once been blood. At the Dwarf's side stood a solemn Gandalf, and the bright, white light from his staff cast strange shadows among the piles of bones, broken stone, and scattered armor. No one said anything for a long moment: I suspected that no one knew what to say.
But, then, from the corner of my eye, I spied sudden movement and, turning my attention away from the mourning Dwarf, I watched Legolas pluck a shabby, black-shafted arrow from one of the shrunken bodies. "Goblins," he said with a snarl of his lip and tossed the tattered projectile down as if it had burned him. In a flash, he had an arrow of his own drawn and ready.
"All Father protect us," Boromir whispered behind me, and I shot him a startled glance when he whipped the sword from its scabbard at his side, raised his shield, and all but growled, "This is no mine. It's a tomb."
"Out," ordered Gandalf then, and there was brief moment of stunned and confused silence as each of us tried to determine if he was actually serious. "Get out! We cannot go this way."
"But Mister Gandalf, we—" began Sam tentatively, but the Wizard was quick to interrupt.
"We must turn back," he maintained as he began to herd the Hobbits back towards the entrance. "The Mines of Moria are closed to us." A grim-faced Gimli followed, his axes up and at the ready, as Legolas and Boromir prowled after him, their own weapons raised while they gazed warily around the room as if they expected to be attacked any second.
Which might very well be the case, I mused darkly as I trailed behind the Gondorian and Elven warriors. Aragorn remained at my side, his own blade in hand, as we backtracked towards the entrance as swiftly as possible in the creeping darkness. Said darkness seemed to thicken, pressing in on us, and the only things that I could hear were my own heartbeat in my ears and my breath catching whenever I stumbled over a loose stone. Or, rather, what I fervently hoped was only loose stone: The tell tale "crunch" and "snap" led me to believe that whatever I trod upon was somewhat more organic than that, and I cringed whenever one of those crackling "some things" gave beneath my clumsy steps.
"Oh, God," I groaned when I stumbled in the dark and managed to put my foot through the ribcage of a mummified goblin. Ripping free with disgusted haste, I found myself swallowing down rising gorge as I tried to dislodge the bits of mealy bone and dried, black flesh that clung to my jeans. The string of quiet curses that came after would have made sailor blush, but it was either that or completely lose my mind and I know which option I'd prefer. Nonetheless, the noise drew the notice of Aragorn, who gripped my wrist and proceeded to tug me along behind him.
Despite feeling as if I were three years old again, I can't deny my gratitude for the Ranger's sure guidance. As it was, my chest felt tight, my breath shallow, and it vaguely crossed my mind that I might very well teeter on the verge of an honest-to-goodness panic attack. As such, I doubt I would have made it out of the darkness without Aragorn's assistance.
Thankfully, when we, after what felt like hours (even though it had hardly been more than a few minutes at best), emerged into the free air beyond the Doors, I was finally able to take a deep, relieved breath and release some of the anxiety that coiled in my gut. However, the respite at having left the crushing shadows behind was short-lived, and Aragorn had no sooner release his hold on me before turning to make sure that all of our party was present and accounted for when a great shudder ripped through ground under our feet.
Then, in keeping with just how wonderfully the rest of the journey had gone so far, all Hell broke loose.
"MISTER FRODO!" Sam's terrified cry echoed through the vale just as another tremor, this one even worse than the first, rocked the ground.
The seism had me stumbling backwards until I surrendered all semblance of grace and toppled onto my backside. Petrified, I watched as Frodo was hoisted high in the air by what looked like, for all intents and purposes, juiced-up calamari. A wave of frigid, fetid water doused the shore (and me, by way of my sitting there on the ground like a doofus), and I could only gawk in appalled silence, my eyes wide and all limbs locked, as the cavernous maul of the creature emerged from the roiling surface of the lake.
The Watcher…
"ARAGORN!" came the little Hobbit's frightened yelp as he dangled helplessly from one of the beast's tentacles. "ARAGORN!"
"HELP HIM!" came Sam's voice again. "HELP!"
"BACK INTO THE MINES! QUICKLY!" shouted Gandalf as he charged forward alongside Aragorn and the others to save the Ring-Bearer from the Watcher in the Water. "MISS DAY! ON YOUR FEET, YOU LITTLE FOOL!"
Snapping out of my stunned daze at the Wizard's bellow, I tried to scramble back to my feet, slipping and sliding over loose rocks and mud, and then grunted in pain when my foot slid out from under me and I crashed to one knee.
"MISS KELLY!" I heard Pippin shout and I looked up just in time to see one of the great holly trees that guarded the entrance to Moria sail through the air; it having been ripped clear from the ground by the monstrous, serpentine appendage wrapped around its grey-green trunk. I swore and dove away, even as I was showered with dirt and broken stone. Clambering up, I made a mad dash for the open door of the Mines.
"THE MINES! GET INTO THE MINES!" I heard Gandalf roar again from somewhere behind me, but I had no idea where he was in the chaos outside. In fact, I quickly discovered that I had no idea where any of my companions were and I fretted over the thought that I might be left alone in the dark. But, then, something small slammed into me and I found myself knocked onto my back.
"THE HELL—" I yelled, fighting the sodden, wriggling thing that had tackled me. "GET OFF OF ME!"
"Miss Kelly!" exclaimed Pippin desperately and I froze immediately at the sound of his voice. "It's me!"
Gripping what I thought were his shoulders, I gave him a bit of a shake and asked sharply, "Pippin? Where's Merry? Is everyone—" My mouth snapped shut abruptly at the furious, earsplitting roar that reverberated through the cavern. Thundering footsteps followed, and it was all I could do to roll my Hobbit companion and myself out of the way to avoid being run over by the rest of our party as they rushed into the passageway.
"BACK! GET BACK!" Gandalf's voice once again boomed in the darkness before the world seemed to crash down around us. There was a rumble of sound, of boulders crashing together and rock grinding and snapping, as the Watcher thrashed outside and the door to the Mines collapsed in an avalanche of shattered stone.
And, then, there was just silence.
A/N: What's this? A new chapter? Has the world come to an end? No, seriously, it's been far too long since I last updated, and I figure that most people have completely forgotten about this story. I apologize for such a long hiatus, but I haven't had the desire to write in quite some time: In truth, it was all I could do to finish this chapter. I'm hoping that finishing it might help spur me into writing some more, especially if people are still interested. I do feel terrible for leaving everyone who enjoyed this fic just hanging. I always hate when stories are left unfinished and most of my readers likely think that I have abandoned ARLT. I haven't, but RL has been busy and I simply haven't had the appropriate time to dedicate to writing.
Anyhoo, this chapter is somewhat longer, so, hopefully, that might make up a bit for the incredibly long wait. I hope it's up to snuff since I haven't really touched this story in well over a year and, as such, sort of forgot where I was going with the plot. I need to dig out my old outlines and notes to see if I still want to take it in the same direction. We'll just have to see. Also, I'll probably do some more editing on this chapter, though it will likely only be things like fixing typos that I might have missed or changing some of the phrasing. I proofread these things several times before I post them, but I never manage to catch everything and I'm never truly satisfied with some parts.
Oh, and for the sake of this fic, we'll just pretend that the inhabitants of ME have no idea what chocolate is, although I'm fairly sure that the Hobbits would enjoy it.
Cheers,
PlayingAtShadows, aka Wake