Chapter 136

The Final March

We stayed the night in the ruins of Osgiliath. The plan was to cross the Anduin in the morning, as that was probably going to take all day. The orcs had built makeshift bridges that looked relatively sturdy, but no one thought it was a good idea to march the Mûmakil over them, so they would swim across, because apparently Mûmakil – and elephants, as Peter informed me – are perfectly capable of swimming.

You learn something new every day.

The bridges were not very narrow – they had after all been built with the intended purpose of marching a gigantic army over them – but Boromir estimated that it would still take us most of the day to get everyone and everything across. Since he had moved armies before, I reckoned that he probably knew what he was talking about. Everyone else agreed, so he definitely did know what he was talking about.

I hadn't seen much of Faramir since the whole show in the throne room with the fake Ring and the palantír. He kept himself rather separate from the rest of us. I saw him from a distance, taking acting to the next level. Without great spectacle he managed to make himself appear as someone with great authority – not that much of a stretch since he had plenty of that anyway – who was high above everyone else and therefore stood mostly alone, and not necessarily from choice. Those who were in the know made sure to approach him with trepidation and a little fear and those who weren't in the know didn't have any reason to come near him at all. All the people on Teddy knew about the scheme and acted accordingly. They were also the ones surrounding him at night, just to stop anyone who didn't know coming close enough to ruin the entire thing. It must have been horribly lonely for him, but he never faltered and he never once complained.

I used the night to get the sleep I hadn't had the night before. Even Boromir snatched a few hours, but he was up long before I was, just to get everything organised, so that at first light we were all set to cross the river…

Beth

It was a grey day. It had been a gloriously sunny day yesterday – save for the unfortunate business with the black sky over Mordor – but overnight clouds had moved in from the west, not dark enough for rain, but dark enough to promise a grey and gloomy day. Beth felt her spirits draining away just from looking at them.

The sight of the darkness over Mordor in the distance did nothing to lighten her spirits in any way either. It seemed to have stopped at the borders. It hadn't grown anymore overnight, so that was something to be grateful for.

'It is very dark, isn't it?'

Beth had not heard Pippin approach, but then, that was how hobbits worked. You neither heard nor saw them until they were already beside you. It was a hobbit thing.

'It is,' she agreed. She had after all been staring pensively at it for the last five minutes and hadn't been able to come up with any other way to describe it. 'But it seems contained at least, so I think we're good for now.'

Pippin lowered his voice. 'But what about Frodo and Sam and the others?'

Beth had asked herself that question for most of the night. She was asking it still. 'It looks as though it's mainly up in the air, not down at ground level.' She hated how hesitant this sounded, but it was the best she had to offer. 'Even if it was, they have one elf and two dwarves, all of whom can see loads better in the dark than you and I ever could.' I hope to high heaven you know what you're doing, Thráin.

Having said that, she couldn't have done what he did. She didn't know if she'd ever have the nerve to suggest that the burden of the Ring should be shared among the Fellowship to ensure that the principal Ring-bearer made it to the end of the journey with his mind intact. She certainly wouldn't have kidnapped several Mûmakil – what had he been thinking? – or put the bloody Ring – the actual One Ring of Power – on her finger as a bloody diversion.

And yet all of those actions had arguably helped a little along the way. If the Ring hadn't been shared, Frodo would be worse off. If they hadn't had the Mûmakil in the battle for Minas Tirith, loads more people would have died. If he hadn't put the Ring on, the Nazgûl would have stopped Faramir and his men from ever reaching Osgiliath and that would have opened up a whole new can of worms.

Thráin had made a difference in all the right ways. This led to another conclusion: Gandalf was so wrong about him. Yes, Thráin was impulsive, abrasive, reckless and sometimes bordering on the suicidal, but he was the right person in the right place at the right time. She had to trust that this was still the case, that even though she didn't always understand what he was doing or why, that he still made the right calls.

He had done so far.

'They know what they're doing,' she said, finding that she meant it. 'They must be so close now.'

Pippin nodded solemnly. He was here on his own. Merry, still suffering the aftereffects of stabbing a Nazgûl from behind – not a walk in the park, as Beth could testify – had remained in the healers' care in Minas Tirith. He could walk around on his own, but he tired quickly, so it seemed kinder to let him recover his strength in peace.

Beth placed a hand on his shoulder. 'They'll get it done,' she promised. 'Just you wait and see.' It was a major plot point after all. It could not go wrong.

Except it could.

She tried not to think too hard on that.

'Who are you riding with?' she asked to distract him as much as herself.

'Aragorn,' he replied. 'I would ride with you, but…' He grinned.

'Folca and I do not get along very well just yet,' Beth agreed. Though it seemed her working relationship with her horse had much improved since she had told him in no uncertain terms who was boss. Of course he couldn't understand her threat to turn him into stew, but the tone must have spoken volumes; he'd obeyed all her commands ever since. Of course he still glowered in her direction and there had been a number of snorts that spoke of his complete derision for her and everything she did, but they knew where they stood with one another now. Beth counted it a win.

Pippin grinned and disappeared, leaving Beth alone. She wasn't due to cross for a while yet, so she sat on a piece of rock that the orcs had hurled into the city the last time she was here to watch the proceedings. Out of habit she'd taken her camera with her and recorded as much as she saw. The Mûmakil had crossed and were already on the other side, but most of the men were only now making ready to go.

Beth took note of the small elvish regiment among them as well. She hadn't seen much of them for a bit, but it was shocking to see just how few of them there were left. Yes, of course, a good number of them were recovering in Rohan and a few dozen were in Minas Tirith also recovering, but so many of them had died since they came to the gates of the Hornburg. They had been two thousand then. There were four hundred of them here at the absolute most.

What a waste. What an absolute bloody waste of lives.

The people were battered and bruised and still standing. So was the city they were in, only Beth would perhaps not use the word standing to describe it. Most of the buildings had been reduced to rubble in that final assault. It hadn't looked good even before, but now? If one wall remained of an entire house it was much. Nothing, absolutely nothing, had a roof. Last night she'd looked for the house where Faramir had revealed his plan to Boromir and her in the hopes of finding shelter for the night there. She'd got turned around four times because the streets had been completely erased during the bombardment. When she had finally located the house in question, it was to find that not one bit remained of it. In fact, there was a hole in the ground where it had been.

She became aware of someone next to her and was not at all surprised to find that it was Gandalf. She hadn't seen much of him lately either, except from afar. Without fail he was busy giving orders or organising people, so she let him get on with it. Up close he looked desperately tired.

'How are you?' she asked, cursing the words even as they fell out of her mouth. 'Is your nose all right?' Even now she only had to close her eyes to remember her father breaking it. He really hadn't held back on that one.

'Quite all right,' he said. He definitely was not even remotely amused by the way that had turned out.

Silence fell.

As always, this made her want to fill up the air with words so that it wouldn't be so horribly uncomfortable. 'I know that this, my family showing up here and using the magic box as a taxi, really wasn't your idea, but do you mind?' Technically he could probably put a stop to it if he so chose.

Gandalf pondered his answer for a while. 'Travel between the worlds was never meant to be, Elizabeth.'

'No, but then you went ahead and instigated it anyway,' she pointed out. When it came to rule-breaking, he started it. Beth only made the best of a pretty shitty situation he caused. 'I mean, Kate seemed convinced that you'd been to England and then you took her away. And then one of Elrond's sons…'

'Elrohir,' Gandalf interjected.

Beth stored that information away for future reference and then carried on as if she had not been interrupted at all: 'Elrohir came to England on your behalf to select me for the job and you took me away at his recommendation. The only thing my family did was use the way you provided to make the best of it.' She knew she was getting defensive, but that didn't mean she didn't raise a few very good points in the process.

He didn't deny them. 'You are right.' He even managed a smile. 'Travel between the worlds is not meant to be, but it exists now. But I would have a promise from you, Elizabeth.'

The fact that he was not apparently planning on taking this away from her made her weak with relief, so she blurted out 'Name it,' before she thought it through.

'This gift will remain within your family,' Gandalf said. 'This is not for everyone. If you ever suspect that it is misused, you will destroy the box.'

Every fibre of her being was all set to protest this in the strongest possible terms, because honestly what did he think of her? That she was going to try and run a tourist business for Lord of the Rings fans out of Minas Tirith? Surely he knew that she was not like that? Surely he had seen enough of her family to know that they weren't like that either?

Then common sense caught up with her and she had a bit of a think. It was actually a very reasonable request. He hadn't asked anything wildly outlandish. And she could picture just what might happen if that box ever fell into the wrong hands. The last thing she wanted was to have Minas Tirith overrun not by orcs, but by a horde of squealing fans desperate for Aragorn's autograph.

So she nodded. 'Fair enough,' she said. 'I promise. But it won't come to that, you know,' she added. 'We'll be careful with it.'

Gandalf accepted that with a nod.

Before he could add any more demands, Beth changed the topic by indicating Mordor. 'Have you seen anything of our friends?' she asked. 'Or the eagles?'

He shook his head. 'They have passed beyond my gaze,' he replied and just like that, there was an old and tired man beside her, who had borne too many burdens for far too long.

That reminded her. 'Saruman was wrong, you know,' she said. She remembered thinking this shortly after the confrontation with the erstwhile white wizard, but didn't think she had ever relayed this thought to Gandalf. It occurred to her now that he might need to hear it. 'You know, when he said that the greatest harm comes to those you love.'

The exact phrasing had included the word professes, the ones he professes to love, which suggested a guile in Gandalf's dealings with those closest to him that Beth had not seen in him at all. She tactfully edited it out.

Gandalf only nodded his acknowledgement, for once uncertain where she was going with this.

'Well, he was wrong,' she said emphatically. It had been too long since she had properly used her words, but this was important, so she made the effort: 'Yes, the people you care about are usually the first ones in the line of fire, but I don't think that's necessarily your fault. It's just that you surround yourself with the best and brightest, who go out in the world and do noble and dangerous and stupid things to help others. And in the course of their duties they get hurt, because the world is not a kind place.' Feeling like this speech was getting a little away from her despite her best intentions, she brought it to a close: 'The only thing you do is nudge us out of our doors. Everything that happens after is our own choice. Frodo volunteered for this at the Council. You didn't make him. Hell, the rest of the hobbits practically demanded to get involved and were quite offended when people tried to stop them. Besides, Thráin also volunteered and you don't even like him.'

He had very little to say to that, but he was smiling again. 'And you, Elizabeth Andrews, do you count yourself among the best and brightest?'

Well, that was not how she meant it. 'I… ehm…' No. Or rather, that would have been her immediate answer several weeks ago, when she was feeling so useless and so powerless, when nothing went quite the way she wanted it to. She settled on: 'I am not sure, but I think I might be headed in that general direction.'

Gandalf suppressed a chuckle. 'Do no underestimate yourself.'

'I don't, I think.' On the whole she hadn't done all that much, but maybe she had done just enough and that would suffice. 'I'm not one of the little people anymore, but neither have I become too big.'

The wizard disagreed with her there. 'I believe you confuse big with the best and brightest. Even the very smallest can be among those.'

Fair point. 'Well, in that case I am not sure what I am.' Wasn't that the story of the quest in a nutshell? 'Right, I should be going. I need to have a conversation with my horse before we set out.'

Gandalf raised an eyebrow in a way that said decisively more than a thousand words, which Beth ignored. She suspected that Folca was far more intelligent than any horse had any right to be and, not to put too fine a point on it, he was an unadulterated snob, extremely picky when it came to riders except when he needed one to get the hell out of a sticky situation. He had character, this one.

And she didn't much care for it.

Someone had been so kind as to saddle him. Beth had tried to do it once herself on the road to Osgiliath from Rohan and he'd stood on her toes, which was very probably not an accident. Seeing as how he was her primary method of getting around in this world it stood to reason that she would see rather a lot of him and this was not how she intended to continue dealing with him.

'Oh, good, you're ready,' she said, sizing him up with the same long-suffering look he always bestowed on her. She glanced around to see that she was alone – because people might question her sanity if they witnessed her talking to her horse – and then planted her hands on her hips. 'Right, this is me laying down the law, so you had better listen to me well. I've had it with your arrogant attitude, so it ends today. I'll have no more snobbish antics from you, no more sneakily stepping on my toes, no more cheeky snorts and long-suffering stares. You're going to behave from now on or some days from now I'll treat the camp to delicious horse stew. And if you think I am not that fond of walking, you can think again. I'd rather walk than have to deal with your diva behaviour. Am I understood?'

Folca lowered his head.

'That's the spirit,' Beth said. She did feel mildly foolish for actually talking to him as if he could understand her, but this seemed to have worked, because he stood absolutely still as she mounted up. Not only that, but he also moved when she told him to, so on the whole the thing was probably a success.

I may not be the best and brightest, she thought as she steered Folca onto the bridge. But I am actually pretty bloody good.

Thráin

'Almost there,' Legolas announced.

Not that he needed to, because it was plain for all with eyes to see. True, they didn't see as much as they would have had the skies been clear or even as overcast as Sauron made them anyway, but Thráin was not completely blind in here either. He was made to live underground and his Maker had given him the eyesight that made it easier for him to see in the places deep below the surface.

He assumed this remark was for the benefit of the hobbits and so said nothing about it.

'About time,' Gimli grumbled.

It was the first time he had spoken since the beginning of the march and they had all noticed. Thráin carried the barrel, while Legolas carried Frodo, who had the Ring. Sam, slightly better now than he had been, supported Gimli, while everyone gracefully pretended that Gimli did not need the help.

Truth be told, they all needed the help. More than once in recent hours had Thráin thought that they were not going to make it. All of them had tripped and fallen in recent hours. Gimli had the most trouble getting back up again, but that did not mean that it was easy for any of the others.

At breakfast – or what passed for breakfast anyway – none of them had any appetite. He had forced a few bites down his throat and then had to stop lest he brought it all back up again. Even now he was still nauseous. The thought of eating at all made him want to empty the contents of his stomach at the side of the road. Frodo had actually done exactly that and he had been feverish ever since. Or maybe that was the constant heat of the land. Who could tell for sure?

We won't make it.

The Ring was tightening the noose, strengthening its hold on them in any way that it could. It weakens our bodies because it cannot take our minds. It was all good and well to know this, but that would not enable them to make it to the Crack of Doom alive.

'Is it just me or is it very hot?' Sam asked. Sweat ran in little streams down his face.

'It is very hot,' Thráin agreed. Mount Doom was very near and the temperature had been steadily rising all day, more so with every step they set in that direction. Thráin had stripped down to tunic and breeches, his armour in his pack. It didn't help much. Worse, the heat made him dizzy and unfocused. Or perhaps that was the Ring. He could no longer tell them apart. And that was not a good sign.

What wasn't a good sign either was how heavy the barrel on his back had become. There was not that much water left in it and certainly not enough to justify the strain on his muscles. If anything, it felt as though it increased in weight with every step he set. Twice already had he gone down because the load was too heavy.

Maker save us all.

They couldn't falter this close to their goal. Faramir chose to sacrifice himself so that we could see this done, he reminded himself. Thoren has drawn Sauron's troops out of our way so that we may triumph. He could not let those sacrifices be in vain, so he growled his defiance and kept on walking. One foot before the other. And again. And again.

He set himself goals. Ten steps. Even toddlers could do ten steps. It was easy. Every fool could take ten steps, so he did ten steps, counting every single one. Then he started over, forcing all else from his mind. Yet his feet were made of lead and the barrel made of solid rock. The air was close and hot and entirely unbreathable.

Every fool can do ten steps, he told himself.

For a while this worked. It didn't work particularly well, even more so because the road – as in so far it was a road at all – became ever harder to tread. Mount Doom had often erupted in years past and it had left the road badly damaged. This wasn't the main road either. They'd be too visible there, so the Fellowship, well used to treading the most difficult paths, had resorted to a small track that had almost disappeared. Legolas was now the only one who could still see it and even he did not find that easy.

Sam fell once and very nearly didn't get up again. Then Gimli did and it required Sam and Thráin to drag him up again, by which time Thráin had hardly any strength left himself. He was a dwarf, for Durin's… Mahal's sake. This should not affect him so and yet it did.

We will not make it.

Would that he knew if it was his own thought or the Ring's.

'The ground shakes,' Legolas observed, dragging him back to the surface. 'Something works beneath the ground.' He wrinkled his nose. 'Can you feel it?'

Thráin nodded. 'Aye, I can feel it.' He had felt it since this morning when they set off on their march. 'It originates within the mountain that is our destination.'

And it was as much Sauron's doing as it was nature itself, he suspected. This was one of those places where the deep places of the earth touched the world above. They were few and far in between and he suspected that Sauron had his own reasons for keeping it active. After all, it was foolish to assume that Sauron's presence had nothing to do with this activity. All known eruptions could be dated to a time when he was powerful.

Legolas inclined his head. 'There is malice in it,' he said. 'Can you feel that too?'

He shook his head. 'No.' Thráin was a dwarf, not an elf. He was not attuned to the sorcery at work here. The entire land was bent to Sauron's will and none of that was pleasant. It sapped his strength until almost nothing remained.

We will never make it.

'I never thought I would face pure evil,' Legolas mused. Thráin wondered where he found the breath to keep on talking. 'I have seen its agents and fought them wherever they would be found, for such is the duty of every sentient being.'

This phrase he recognised. 'So Elvaethor always says.' No doubt he had been where the fighting was thickest throughout these dark days. Maker keep him safe. It was not his wont to hang back and let others take the risks, an example his king could definitely learn from.

'It was at his side that I learned this,' Legolas agreed, before picking up where he left off. 'Evil's agents I have seen and fought and therefore I thought I knew what it was like. Yet here his presence is everywhere, in the ground we walk on and in the very air that we breathe.'

It was at that. It also pressed down like a heavy weight on his shoulders. Or perhaps that was the barrel. Either way that no longer seemed to matter, because he could no longer walk. He wasn't sure he could even breathe properly. When he closed his eyes, he saw only fire and an eye, wreathed in flame. He tasted ash with every breath he took.

Then Gimli went down again and dragged Sam with him. Neither of them got back up again. He roused himself and found that he could still break his head through the surface. The Ring pressed heavily, but it was only near and he was not touching it. Focus! There were folk who needed his help.

Legolas put down Frodo and lent him a much-needed hand. Sam was easily set right, but Gimli was in a worse shape. His face and clothes were drenched in sweat. He ran a fever as well. The look in his eyes was unclear.

'I can stand!' he insisted even when he swayed on his feet. Legolas and Thráin dragged him onto a rock and made him sit down. Not before time either.

Thráin cast his eyes around their battered little group. Sam took the opportunity to sit down. He wasn't well either. The wounds on his neck did not heal as they should. His fever had mostly gone down, but it was not gone. Then there was Gimli, who had reached the end of his tether. He batted Legolas's hands away when the elf made to have a look at the wound, citing that there was nothing to be done, so to leave it.

And then there was Frodo. Frodo was not ill, but he looked it. He braced himself against the rock he stood nearby, face ashen grey and the Ring dragging him down. It hung on its chain. Even from a little distance he could see how heavy it must be now. Whatever protection the cloak had offered, was almost gone. The fabric had grown thinner and now he could almost see the glint of gold through the weave.

It won't avail us for much longer.

He shook off the last of the Ring-induced fatigue and despair. Someone had to and even Legolas looked despondently around him. They had chosen Thráin to lead them, so lead them he would. That was what it meant to have responsibility. He could not give in, no matter how exhausted he was. That was how his father had led: the first in every attack, the last in every retreat, never asking of others what he had not first done himself. That was what it truly meant to lead.

He crouched at Frodo's side. 'Drink,' he urged him. 'And eat if you can.'

Frodo had his eyes closed. 'I can see him, Thráin,' he said softly. 'Even before my waking eyes.'

'I can see him when I close mine,' Thráin confessed. 'It is all he would have us see, but look, Frodo.' He placed one hand on Frodo's shoulder and with the other pointed ahead. 'We are but a few hours away from the foot of Mount Doom. We have nearly arrived.'

We must make it. They had no other choice.

Frodo looked, eyes unseeing at first, but they cleared. Then he nodded. 'I can see it.'

'Then do not lose hope. Do not give in.' What a victory for the Ring that would be. 'Think on this, Frodo. In two days, all of this will be over. The Shadow will vanish as though it never was and all the world will be filled with hope and laughter and life. Trust in that.'

He must, for it did not seem the others felt it. Neither did he feel this himself, but that was irrelevant. He knew it and that was enough to be getting on with.

'I'm not going,' Gimli announced, throwing a spanner in the works. 'I can't walk, my arm feels as though it's about to come off and my vision's all gone off. I'm seeing things that aren't there and that's no good.' He crossed his good arm over his chest to signify his utter resolve not to move.

Just a shame that this decision was not his to make. 'No,' said Thráin. He did not speak loudly, but all heads turned to look at him.

Gimli narrowed his eyes at him. 'I'm no use. I am not going with you any further.'

Thráin had two good arms to cross, which he did. 'You made me your leader against my will,' he said. 'So you will obey me. I am not content to leave you here to certain death. We have come this far. We shall end this journey with all five of us.' An idea popped into his head. 'My father and mother had a saying, a promise, if you will. When it seemed as though one of them would try to undertake something of great importance by themselves, the other would remind the offender of that promise.'

'What was the promise, Mr Thráin?' Sam asked.

'Together or not at all.' He'd heard the phrase tossed around often when he was still a child. As he grew older it occurred less, but perhaps by then his parents had no longer needed it. 'This is the promise that I would hold the Fellowship to. We do not leave our own behind to die on hostile soil.'

Legolas inclined his head. 'Agreed.'

Sam nodded vigorously. 'Agreed, Mr Thráin.'

'So am I,' said Frodo. 'Leaving their own behind is what orcs do.'

Gimli looked from one to the other and found that he was overruled and outnumbered. 'Very well,' he said, taking to being thwarted with just as much grace as his father would have done, which was to say, none whatsoever. 'But don't come crying to me if the orcs catch us up and kill us all because I was weighing you down.'

'Dealing with your father when I only bring your body home is more than my life is worth,' Thráin remarked, although this was most definitely not his main priority. 'You'll oblige me by doing no such thing.'

Legolas regarded him in the manner of one who believed that his companion had misplaced his wits somewhere along the way. Let him look so long as the words had the effect they intended. It appeared as though they did, for Gimli rose to his feet, brow furrowed in concentration. He was unsteady on his feet, but the fact that he was on his feet in the first place gave Thráin hope.

'It does us no good to rest,' Thráin said. They had rested so often and yet gained so little in doing so. 'Mount Doom is not far now. I propose that we muster all our strength and press onwards with all due haste.'

'Time is against us,' Frodo understood.

'Indeed it is.' Every moment they had the Ring weakened them even further, which was why sleeping and sitting down had availed them so little in days past. The sooner they saw this done, the better.

They were so close now.

'Fill up your waterskins,' he said. 'We will leave this barrel behind. It only hinders our progress.' He had no doubt that it was just as heavy for any of the others as it was for him. 'And then we must away.'

Frodo was the one who was first done. He breathed heavily, but he still stood. 'Two days,' he said when Thráin came to stand next to him.

'Two days,' Thráin agreed. Hopefully less than that, but that he could not promise. He could not promise success either, only that in two days it would be decided. Either they triumphed or they failed. They simply did not have the strength to carry on for longer.

'This is a fool's errand,' Legolas observed under his breath. From up close he appeared as tired and worn down as the rest of the Fellowship.

'It was always a fool's errand,' Thráin corrected him. 'And we have always known it to be. Yet we have not shied away before.'

'Very well,' said Legolas. 'Let us be off.'

Thráin hoisted Frodo on his back. Sam claimed that he could walk by himself for a while yet and took up his position next to Gimli. So the Fellowship set off on the last few miles of their journey.


Next time: make or break time. Will they or won't they? Ladies and gentlemen, we have Mount Doom in our sights.

Thank you very much for reading. Reviews, as always, would considerably brighten my day.