Note:
We finally reach Mordor!
This section was going to be really short! And then it ended up – not…
Nelwen had known that Mordor would be grim; had read of its barren wastes, its air thick with sulphur and ash, its sky forever blackened by clouds. But there was something to be said for seeing it with her own two eyes. With the forests of Ithilien barely visible behind her, Nelwen tried to brace herself for a punishing climb through ashen peaks and pock-marked gullies. She could hear neither the calling of birds nor the chittering of insects, only the sound of thunder, coming not as distinct claps but a constant, burbling rumble. Other than her travelling companions, the only living thing she could see was the brambles, leafless and gnarled. They clawed at booted feet, as if trying to warn her against continuing any further.
They had only been climbing through the mountains for a few hours, and it would still be some time before they reached Mordor in earnest, but Nelwen was already feeling the affects of Mordor upon her. The Ring was feeling heavier, the chain around her neck biting mercilessly in flesh. Occasionally she scratched at the chain in a vain effort to alleviate the stinging but instead she only worried the flesh into bleeding.
The trio continued up the rocky slopes of Ephel Duath, treading carefully err unstable rocks sent them tumbling into the numerous crags that scarred the mountains. When they were high enough up the mountains that nothing living grew, Nelwen found herself peculiarly pining for the brambles.
Nelwen and Annamir had been quiet for some time, idle chatter seeming somewhat inappropriate in such a dismal place.
"Do you know what was nice?" Nelwen asked at length, earning a sidelong glance from Annamir. "Lothlorien – Lothlorien was nice. Golden leaves that sparkled in the late evening sun, deep green grass underfoot, gentle streams that shone like glass. We should have stayed there."
Annamir nodded, face pensive as if giving Nelwen's comment serious, academic thought.
"Amon Hen was nice," she said after a long pause.
Nelwen's face crinkled in confusion. "You got shot."
"Yeah but before I got shot it was very pretty."
Nelwen laughed, shaking her head in dismay at her ridiculous friend. Annamir only grinned in return.
After nearly a day of walking, they came across an exposed ridge and Smeagol started jumping and beckoning the women closer. "Look!" he said, pointing over the ridge, "the Dead City; very nasty place."
The two women peered tentatively over the curtain of stone to the ancient city just below. A great tower thrust angrily into the blackened sky, the districts of the city arranged around it like spokes on a wheel. The wall surrounding the city was tall and grey, streaked with black as if the stone itself was weeping.
Nelwen cocked her head like a curious dog. "It's kind of pretty," she commented absent-mindedly.
"Are you fucking nuts? It's bloody grim!"
"There's a tragic elegance to it," Nel insisted. "The tall, sleak lines. It must have been a grand place indeed before it was claimed by the Nazgul."
Minas Ithil had been built by Isildur to be his seat for ruling over the fief of Ithilien. It had been a beautiful city, noble in its symmetry, dominated by its striking pale tower that appeared almost like silver when silhouetted against night skies. It had been called the Tower of the Rising Moon. Nelwen wished she'd had the opportunity to see it in all its kingly glory.
But the city was now cloaked in a foreboding mantle, its silvery radiance now dimmed, and the trio was keen not to linger. Following Smeagol's lead, the women quickly clambered over the crest of the ridge and started scurrying down to the path that would take them past the condemned city.
"Come quick – they will see us!" Smeagol whispered with desperate intensity, leading them toward a narrow path that cut through the rocks and up into a seemingly endless staircase.
Slinking passed the gateway to Minas Morgul, the three companions were suddenly sent toppling to the ground when the earth gave a mighty shudder and a great pillar of sickly, pale light burst from the imposing tower and into the black above. The whole ground trembled beneath their prone bodies and Nelwen noted with a sickening lurch of her stomach that the doors were opening, that a horde of booted feet was marching towards them. Annamir and Smeagol immediately scrambled for cover but Nelwen sat strangely transfixed by the luminous beam of light.
Her hand started slowly stroking up her chest before ducking into her tunic in search of the Ring. The Ring would protect her! The Ring would hide her from the approaching army! She desperately sought out the feel of cool, comfortable metal.
"No!" came a rough voice, and Nelwen looked over her shoulder to see Annamir kneeling at her back, looking at her with a fierce expression. When Nel's hand didn't immediately retreat from its hunt for the Ring, Anna brusquely pushed her hand under Nelwen's tunic and took her hand in her own. She entwined their fingers, gave Nel's hand an insistent squeeze, and pulled her friend from the ground. Following the ranger on curiously unsteady feet, Nelwen trailed after her to the nearby cover before falling bonelessly to the floor.
Nelwen curled in on herself, still gripping fiercely to Anna's hand. From the rumble of the ground, the pound of marching feet, Nelwen knew that the orcs must be marching past their hiding spot but she dared not move to peak out from their cover. "The light must be a signal," murmured Annamir at her side, "the final battle for Gondor has begun." Annamir spoke with such soft mourning that Nelwen wasn't sure whether she was talking to her or offering some prayer into the stifling air.
They sat like that for a time, huddled and miserable, their joined hands like a lifeline between them, until Smeagol began to insist that they continue. The longer they tarried, the more likely their discovery. Wordlessly, the two women pulled themselves from the ground and followed Smeagol toward the crooked steps hewn carelessly into the rocks above them. Even though the path was narrow, the ground constantly shifting between their feet, the women never let go of each other as they ascended the mountains away from the Dead City.