I've got to stop writing chapter titles while I'm tipsy. Anyway, enjoy this update and please let me know what you think, if you have the chance. For whatever reason I really struggled with this chapter, so any feedback, questions, or comments mean a lot. A little external validation goes a long way!
As usual, stay safe out there, and merry early Christmas for those of you who celebrate it. Remember, LOTR is a Christmas movie (it has elves and snow) and don't let anyone tell you different!
Chapter 19: I Curse the Flames Down in Moria
"Dwarf-o-dorf."
"Dwarrowdelf," Gimli corrected me, raising an eyebrow.
"Dworror…dulf?" I tried again helplessly, wincing as Legolas stifled a snort behind me.
"Ah, close enough, lass." The dwarf patted my back indulgently. "I don't suppose your Texas has anything this grand, though, eh?"
I panned my flashlight across the enormous hall, its beam of light barely a pinprick against the vast columns, the half-crumbled statues, the vaulted ceilings that made up the abandoned city. "Definitely not," I said honestly, mustering a weak smile, and Gimli whacked me on the back again, looking pleased.
Our progress had been plodding and unpleasant, but we were slowly making our way through the mines. According to Gandalf, this enormous hall was past the halfway point. I had been studiously avoiding the wizard after our discussion the first night in Moria, fear and shame and anger churning in my stomach. For his part, Gandalf was acting as though nothing had happened at all, though he did seem to be keeping a closer eye on me than usual.
Sam, on the other hand—I glanced over at him as we walked, the cold air of the mines suddenly clammy against my skin. Sam glared at me furiously whenever he had the chance, and he now seemed glued to Frodo's side, as though he thought I'd lunge at the Ringbearer at any given moment.
My betrayal of Sam's trust—God, it must have hit him hard. I remembered the little gestures of kindness he'd shown me: saving dinner for me that night in the mountains, complimenting my sword-work even though I was sure I didn't deserve it, seeking out my company to exchange little stories about our homelands…he'd been a real friend to me.
And I'd thrown it all away.
"That was Bilbo's handkerchief, wasn't it?" Merry asked me, nodding at the square of cloth I was using to wipe furiously at my eyes. A scrolly B was embroidered onto its corner.
I cleared my throat, dashing the last of the tears away. "Sorry—all the dust in here, you know," I said hastily, gesturing around at the stuffy room Gandalf had led us into off the main hall. "But yeah, it was Bilbo's. He found out I didn't have any handkerchiefs, so he gave me one of his, bless his heart. He was so excited that the initial matched, too."
"I miss that dear old hobbit," Merry sighed wistfully. "I wonder if this is at all like his journey through Goblin Town."
"Haven't seen any goblins yet, at least," I offered. He grinned, and I turned away, wondering how quickly his smile would disappear if he knew what I was really thinking: Bilbo's adventures in Goblin Town had ended in his possession of the Ring. Hopefully, my journey through Moria would too.
I watched the others for a long moment. They were gathering around a tomb rising from the far wall of the room. Balin's tomb, I heard one of them say as Gimli burst into wracking sobs, his shoulders shaking. I wanted to comfort him, to ask about Balin's attempt to retake Moria—it sounded fascinating and sad, yet another tale tied to The Hobbit. But instead I stayed apart from the others, feeling that same odd detachment from the rest of them. I wasn't the companion, the friend they thought I was.
Dust motes sparkled in the light from a tiny crack in the mountain's face, high up near the ceiling. The watery sunlight, casting a weak beam down onto the tomb, was almost blinding after days underground.
Suddenly the mines were unbearably stifling. God, how did the dwarves stand it? I had half a mind to try to scrabble madly up the rock wall and make for that sliver of blue sky, to leave the Fellowship and the Ring and the mines far behind me—I needed to breathe free, clear air, to feel the wind on my face!
Restlessly, I looked away, and a flicker of movement caught my eye. "Pippin, you took my flashlight again?" I ran to the hobbit, who was shining the beam of light down a crumbling well in the corner of the room, seemingly oblivious to the ghoulish skeleton balanced on the lip of the hole, not two feet from him, rotting wisps of clothing hanging off its bones. Pippin blinked up at me guiltily, and I scowled. "Damn it, you can't keep going through my stuff, I have some really—well, dangerous things in my bag, okay?"
If anything, that made Pippin's eyes light up more, and I groaned. The last thing I needed was for him to get his hands on my pistol or flare gun, waving them around Yosemite Sam-style and getting someone hurt. "Just give that back, will you?" I snapped, lunging for the flashlight.
"Hold off, I want to see what's down here!" he protested, leaping away from me, flashlight still in hand. In his haste, his elbow went through the skeleton's desiccated ribcage, and an instant later both skeleton and flashlight went crashing down the mouth of the well. Pippin gave a squeak of alarm, and I found myself yanking on the back of his shirt to keep him from going the same way.
"Sorry!" Pippin exclaimed. "I only wanted to—"
His words were drowned out by the cacophonous sounds of the flashlight and old bones still clattering down the well, which was much deeper than I'd expected. The sounds echoed so loudly, and for so long, that I began to feel the rumble of their fall in my feet.
"Fool of a Took!" Gandalf was storming toward us. "And you, Beatrice Smith—confound the foolishness of mortals! Throw yourselves in next time if you cannot keep those magical artifacts in hand!"
"I'm sorry," I stammered.
"Sorry, Bee," Pippin muttered again as the wizard huffed and turned away, now exchanging terse words with Strider and Gimli. "Your magic torch thing…"
"It's alright," I sighed, my anger dissipating. I could hardly blame him for being curious about modern technology. Still, just to be safe, I fetched my bag and tucked my pistol safely in one of my pockets, just in case he decided to rifle through my things again. "It was just cheap plastic, not magic," I added. "The batteries would've gone out sooner or later anyway."
"What's plastic? And what are batteries?" Pippin asked. "What do you mean they'd have gone out?"
I hesitated. "It's hard to explain. Just, for the love of Pete, stop digging through my stuff, okay?"
"Who's Pete?"
Before I could admit that I had absolutely no idea who Pete was, a rumble shook the ground again, as though those old bones were still falling, falling—but that was impossible, wasn't it?
Then it happened again, more of a boom than a rumble now, repeating in an unsettling rhythm in the ground, the walls, even the arched ceiling.
And then we heard them—wild yells and the scrabbling of countless feet, all while the drumbeat went on, louder than ever, boom, doom-boom, boom—
"Goblins," Gandalf said, motioning for us to draw our swords. I swallowed and obeyed.
Strider and Boromir hurried to barricade the entrance. "They have a cave troll," Boromir informed us dryly, peering through a crack in the wooden doors.
"A what?" I choked. I should have known. There were trolls in The Hobbit, after all—although I was pretty sure we wouldn't be able to turn this one to stone.
We stepped as far from the doors as possible, our backs nearly pressing against Balin's tomb. I readjusted my grip on my sword hilt, my palms clammy. "The troll shall break through first," Boromir said to me, not taking his eyes off the door. "Keep well out of its path, and stay behind us when you can."
I nodded faintly. In that moment, I felt as though someone had opened Nathan's copy of The Lord of the Rings and glued in a page from another book entirely, a dull, foolish book about a frightened, weak-hearted girl who had no business being in a tale like this—
Then the doors burst open, and we were under attack.
Even with Boromir's warning, I barely managed to leap out of the way as the troll lunged forward, smashing into Balin's tomb hard enough to crack the stone. By the time I'd scrabbled away from the troll, dozens of goblins had poured through the doors, shrieking and stamping and brandishing wicked blades—and then one was leaping at me, its sword swinging at my chest. Without thinking I wrenched my blade up to meet it, and the force of the contact jarred up my arm and into my bones, rattling my teeth. The goblin's blade met mine again, then again, pushing me back, and I stumbled.
The creature bared a mouthful of sharp teeth at me—it was laughing—and suddenly its body fell limp to the ground, its severed head rolling in the opposite direction. Strider stood in its place, black blood dripping from his blade. He nodded once, making sure I was alright, before turning to face another wave of goblins descending upon us. I braced myself, knuckles white on the hilt of my sword, and then the troll was lunging in our direction again, scattering the goblins like bowling pins, and we leapt back just in time.
Now there were goblins everywhere, screams and clanging swords and utter chaos—I had no idea battle would be this loud.
"Still standing, eh?" Suddenly Merry was beside me, flinging a rock at one of the goblins a few yards away. One of its companions gave a shriek of fury, and was abruptly cut off by a blade buried in its back. Sam, wrenching his sword free, looked stunned at his own success. Merry gave him a whoop of encouragement.
"Where's your sword, Merry?" I cried as the hobbit bent to pick up another rock to throw, but before he could answer we leapt back, three goblins descending on us from over the ruin of Balin's tomb. Merry ducked behind me, hurling another rock as Sam and I raised our blades against the remaining two.
"Dropped it," Merry admitted, though he looked rather pleased with himself—the goblin he'd struck hadn't gotten up again.
"You dropped it?" Sam exclaimed, sweat beading on his round face as we were forced another step back. "Trust a Brandybuck—" One of the remaining goblins sliced at his head, and Sam dived low, slashing at the creature's feet. The goblin stumbled back, then collapsed in a sudden heap, an arrow protruding from its eye: Legolas, I assumed, though I couldn't even tell where the arrow had come from. I didn't dare take my eyes off the last goblin bearing down on us.
It sneered as it blocked my sword again, then again, the wall behind us growing nearer and nearer—soon we'd be backed into the corner entirely.
"Sorry, Sam, but you know how battle is, eh?" Merry offered weakly, dodging a swipe from the goblin's sword and pressing himself nearer to the wall.
Despite his offhand tone, the desperation in his voice was clear, and it spurred me onward. I couldn't—wouldn't—let anything happen to them. With all the raw talent borne of two months of practice, I swung my blade at the goblin harder than ever—and with the smallest twist of its blade, my sword went clattering across the ground. The creature cackled gleefully, then stumbled back—Merry had lobbed another rock, hitting it square between the eyes as easily as he'd hit Legolas with a snowball days earlier. The goblin shrieked in pain and clutched its bleeding head.
Not wasting a moment, I dived for my sword, ran forward, and stabbed it below the ribs. The spurt of blood through its piecemeal armor, the horrible softness of the blade through its flesh, the squelching sound of tearing skin all nearly made me drop my sword again. Struggling not to retch, I yanked on the blade to dislodge it, the goblin's body flopping over the hilt. With a disgusted face, Sam helped heave the creature off my blade. The three of us stood there a moment, panting.
"Thanks, y'all," I said breathlessly.
Sam returned my smile for only a moment. Then his expression became guarded, and he took a step back. I faltered—it had been so easy, fighting side-by-side, to forget what I intended to do once we made it out of Moria, to forget that I'd lost any right to call Sam my friend. I shook my head, suddenly disgusted with myself.
"Merry, where'd your sword get to?" I said shortly, glancing around at the others. Most of the goblins seemed to have been killed or driven away, but the troll was still doing its best to smash everything within its reach. Merry shook his head and pointed at the troll's feet—he must have dropped his blade in the midst of the fray, where Legolas was now shooting arrow after arrow at the cave troll, which was swatting uselessly at him with enormous fists. "Guess your sword'll have to wait," I conceded.
If only we could take down the troll. Legolas's arrows decorated its lumpy skin, which must be incredibly tough. I wonder…
"Cover me for a sec, will y'all?" I said, unbuttoning my pocket and pulling out the pistol I'd taken from Saruman's hoard. Six shots. Would it work? Was the troll's hide bulletproof as well as arrow-proof?
"Hurry up, Miss Bee, whatever you're up to," Sam fretted as Merry threw another rock at an approaching goblin with a satisfying thud.
God, I hated guns—I didn't know why I was so squeamish about them. But then, now that I'd stabbed a living creature in the stomach with a sword, my apprehensions had admittedly shifted somewhat.
The troll was maybe thirty feet away, still preoccupied with Legolas's arrows. Taking a deep breath, I switched the safety off, took aim between the troll's broad shoulders, and squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the gunshot echoed like a thunderclap off the cavern walls. Everything seemed to freeze for a moment, then all heads turned to the source of the sound—including the troll's. It looked entirely unharmed—it seemed my shot had gone wide, despite the size of the target. With an earsplitting roar, the creature rounded on me. Cursing under my breath, I took aim again and fired three more shots in quick succession, two of which hit their mark. The troll bellowed wildly, stumbling to its knees so heavily that the ground shook. Before it could get up again, Legolas had fired two arrows at its throat, and it collapsed to the ground, unmoving.
At this turn of events, the goblins seemed to lose heart—the few left standing tore away from the Fellowship and disappeared the way they'd come.
Hands trembling, I turned the safety back on, ran to our bags (now slightly trampled), and stuffed the pistol out of sight again, suddenly eager to be away from it. I returned my sword to its sheath, too, blanching at the black stains on the blade. I'd have to clean it.
When I approached the others, they were deep in conversation with Frodo, who had fended off a vicious stab wound by virtue of Bilbo's mithril shirt. "You are full of surprises, master hobbit," Gimli was saying, patting Frodo's shoulder appreciatively.
"And speaking of surprises," Gandalf added dryly, "that is quite the weapon you carry, Beatrice."
Boromir nodded in agreement, looking impressed and rather taken aback. "You are a sorceress indeed."
"It's not magic—I told y'all about guns before, remember?" I said defensively.
"Why didn't you use that thing earlier, Bee?" Pippin asked. "You could have killed all the goblins in a snap! Not to mention the troll and those wolves the other day—"
"I don't have enough ammo," I said. "That is—it only has two shots left," I amended at his confused expression. "Besides, Legolas is the one who killed the troll in the end."
The elf shrugged. "As I am feeling generous, I shall let you share the victory, Beatrice."
Strider frowned. "Your weapon was a loud one, if nothing else. I fear it may have drawn a great deal of unwanted attention. We should get moving. Frodo, are you certain you are well enough to walk?"
"Really, Strider, I'm right as rain," the hobbit began faintly, but he broke off. More shrieking sounds were trailing from far down the corridor, and now a reddish tinge was cast across the stone walls, as though a bonfire had been lit in an adjacent room. A wave of heat swept over us, faint at first, but growing stronger. Had the goblins set a fire? Were they going to burn us alive?
"Hurry!" Gandalf cried, and we gathered our belongings and ran.
Thankfully, the wizard seemed to know where to go, and we fled through winding corridors and down staircases so steep and narrow that my stomach flipped—it looked like there weren't any OSHA handrail regulations in Moria.
At last our path opened onto another broad hall. We paused, gasping for air—why was the air so hot? I glanced back; the corridor we'd come from was now gleaming with a sickly light, bright enough that I wondered briefly if the roof had collapsed behind us and let a streak of sunlight in. As whatever it was approached, fires swelled from deep fissures in the stone floor at the far ends of the hall, like a candle stoked by an enormous breath.
"Gandalf?" Strider turned to the wizard, who stood as though meditating, facing the approaching flame with eyes closed and brow furrowed. "What is it?"
At last Gandalf turned to the rest of us. "A Balrog," he said softly, the word rolling like drumbeats in the sweltering air. "A demon of the ancient world."
Boromir's hand flew to his sword again, but the wizard shook his head. "Your weapons are no more use here. Now hurry—to the bridge of Khazad-dum."
We turned and ran on, but I barely was paying attention to my surroundings. A demon? Maybe the word didn't have a direct equivalent in English, I decided. Goblins I could wrap my head around. Trolls too. But demons? I shook my head as we passed yet another corridor, the flames behind us growing so strong that the air seemed to crackle.
"There!" Gimli cried, pointing to a narrow bridge. It stretched over a black gulf that could have stretched down into the center of the earth, and my stomach flipped. I had half a mind to ask if there was any other way we could go instead, when the flames roared to new heights behind us, and I turned around to see the Balrog.
I had seen a good deal of magic since coming to Middle Earth, from Gandalf's spinning smoke rings to Saruman's palantír and his conjured storm over Orthanc, but my brain rebelled at what I was seeing now. It couldn't be real.
It couldn't be.
Wings of fire, large enough to blanket the entirety of the cavern in black plumes of smoke; enormous, clawed feet; a horned head that seemed to have been ripped from Greek myth, grotesquely distorted by the waves of heat bending the air in its path. A demon—a demon—had this happened in the movie? It couldn't have, because how could I have slept through something like this?
"Beatrice!" I jumped as Boromir grasped my arm, pulling me away from where I stood, petrified. "Across the bridge—quickly!"
My vision had tunneled at the sight of the creature, and I felt the ground beneath me sway as I turned to follow the others. The bridge was narrow, horrifically narrow—blackness was rising up from the chasm, threatening to swallow up the bridge and all of us with it, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe—then Boromir was pulling me forward again, and we fell in line with the rest of the Fellowship, running, running, until at last we reached the other side. I let out a gasp of relief, my lungs struggling to function—but Gandalf had halted halfway across the bridge, keeping the demon at bay.
He struck his staff onto the narrow walkway, emitting a beam of light so searing that I flinched away, my eyes squeezed shut. Then he was roaring commands at the demon, sounding more like a wizard than he ever had. With a swing of his staff, the ground beneath our feet rumbled. The bridge collapsed, first underneath the demon's feet, then under the wizard's.
And Gandalf fell.
I stood stunned for a long moment, and then someone was tugging on my arm again and we were running. More stairs passed under our feet, a hall flew by, and suddenly—at long last—we were outside.
A gust of icy wind whipped at my braided hair, and I gasped for breath, my heart still lodged in my throat. My mind was struggling to make sense of what had happened—the battle, the demon, the flight across the bridge, and Gandalf—I pressed my face into my hands, and felt someone patting my shoulder. Gimli nodded bleakly as I opened my eyes and motioned for me to follow. The others were making their way, slow and shell-shocked, away from the exit and out onto the rocky plains surrounding the mountains.
I blinked up at the clear sky, bluer than I remembered—had it always been this blue? The sunlight stung at my eyes, blinding after so long in the darkness. Gandalf would never see it again, I realized.
Gandalf was gone—just like that. Had this been part of the original plot, or was the Fellowship on a new, much worse road than it was meant to be? I put my head in my hands again. I hadn't even been sure if they'd gone through Moria in the movie at all, I knew so little of the original story. I supposed there was no point now in speculating about what might have been. Gandalf was gone.
And now what?
As though from outside my own mind, a thought crept towards me. It'll be easier to take the Ring without Gandalf in the way.
I inhaled sharply, bile rising in my throat. No! It was a terrible thing to think, and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the idea away.
Again, as though from far off, it wormed its way back. Think of it: the way is so clear now. No more obstacles. You'll be back in your own home. You can see your mom again—how worried she must be. And your friends too. Don't you miss them?
The voice was wheedling, persuasive, overwhelming. With a sigh I relented, allowing myself to imagine it once again, more vividly than ever: unlocking the door to my apartment, sinking down onto my lime-green sofa, and chatting with my friends. Talking and laughing about work, about family, about rent payments and speeding tickets and promotions and dates and all the random little aspects of routine human life, the good and bad and dull. Then falling asleep in my own bed, safe and warm—
The image changed. Now I saw myself tossing and turning, unable to sleep as I wondered, uselessly, what had become of my friends in Middle Earth. Wringing my hands at my desk at work, biting my nails to the quick at the thought of the rest of the Fellowship left wandering in the wilderness, at the mercy of Saruman and his weaponry.
I swallowed hard. What would happen to the Fellowship if I took the Ring, made it to Isengard, found my way home? Doubtless, Strider and Boromir would continue on to Minas Tirith, and Boromir had described just how dire Gondor's situation was. If they died in the war against Sauron while I was going about my life in Dallas—grabbing Starbucks coffee and sneaking onto Facebook at work—how would I even know? God, how could I stand it, not knowing?
The hobbits would probably make their way back to the Shire, defeated, betrayed. I knew now how dangerous such a long journey would be. What if they were attacked on the road? I would never know if they were safe. What if they made it as far as Rivendell in one piece, only for Amarien and Bilbo to ask them what happened to me? Amarien was probably the best friend I'd ever had—the realization hit me so hard I swayed on my feet. What would she say if she knew I had broken my promise, not only to the Fellowship but to her?
How could home hold any comforts for me when so many people I cared about were in danger?
But this is the only way to get back! The thought was cold, sneering, prickling at my skin. What chance do you think you'd have, going to Minas Tirith? Do you really think you'll find anything there to help you?
"Stop!" I breathed, pressing my fists to my eyes. I won't take it. I won't—
I looked up sharply at the sound of rustling grass. Frodo stood nearby, his bare feet kicking aimlessly at the ground, his face red and eyes glassy. He'd been crying. Like me, he'd wandered, seemingly unawares, from the rest of the group.
"Hey," I said gently, not wanting to startle him.
"Oh. Hello, Bee." Frodo's voice was faint. He looked small—sometimes I forgot just how small hobbits were. "Are you alright?" he asked.
I sighed, suddenly exhausted, and sat down in the dry grass, resting my forearms on my knees. "No, I'm not," I said honestly. "None of us are. I'm…I'm sorry, Frodo. You've known Gandalf for ages. I can't imagine how hard this must be."
He nodded, sitting next to me and looking into the distance. "He was so powerful," Frodo said after a long moment. "Somehow I didn't think he even could die. Silly of me, I suppose."
"Not at all. I know what you mean. I know it's not the same, but…I feel like I've known him since I was a little kid," I admitted. "Ever since I first read about Bilbo's adventures. He was larger than life. And now…" I trailed off helplessly.
Frodo nodded in understanding, tears rolling down his face again. After a moment, he leaned his head against my shoulder, pressing a hand over his eyes. I looked at him.
The golden chain holding the Ring was just visible above his collar, glinting in the watery sunlight. The Ring was closer to me than ever, just like that. My hand twitched at my side. Take it—you'll never have a better chance. The voice was stronger than ever, as though making a last, desperate attempt to convince me—it made no pretense of coming from my own mind now, and I knew with a sudden, horrible certainty that Gandalf had been right. The Ring wanted me to take it.
My whole body seemed to be trembling as I gritted my teeth, reached out my hand—
—and pulled Frodo into a tight hug.
I won't take it. I won't.
I took a deep breath. A path home had just been closed to me forever. I had forced the door shut, despite myself, and the image was so vivid I could practically hear the lock clicking into place. But I took another breath, and another, and at last the trembling in my hands lessened. The air seemed cleaner than it had before—refreshing, renewing, somehow.
"I'm sorry," I said softly. "I'm so sorry." I felt sick—confused, afraid, and unbearably sad—but for the first time in weeks, I was the master of myself again. I let go of Frodo, patting his shoulder awkwardly. "Let's get back to the others, okay?" He nodded listlessly, and we got to our feet.
"Mr. Frodo!" Sam was running up to us, alarm clear on his tear-streaked face. "There you are. You shouldn't go wanderin' off, sir, not with—" He sent me a wary glance. "—er, not with us bein' so close to Moria, and all."
Frodo nodded again and allowed himself to be led away. Sam glared back at me as they walked, and I turned away bleakly.
"Come on," Strider called to us, his voice low and exhausted. "We have a long way to go before nightfall."
Taking a deep breath, I slung my bag over my shoulders. As one, we turned from Moria and began to make our way east.