The great bell tolls out the warning. The men shake the sleep from their tired eyes and reach for their weapons. Archers inspect the supply of arrows in their quivers. Those who kept the vigil curse the dark for hiding their enemy in its cloying cloak.
I blink again as sunlight pierces my vision, holding a firm hand against Frodo's shoulder's as he stumbles in the wake of the imprints left by those up ahead. The long, even hollows notifying others that Gandalf the Grey is here. The small, wide prints complete with toes that Merry, Sam and Pippin have made. The deep, stubborn gauges that Boromir's boots have carved in the snow. The nothingness, the spaces of uninterrupted snow where only Legolas Greenleaf can have stepped without leaving a trace of his presence, his light Elven shoes almost dancing over the icy landscape.
Brave warriors united in their common goal formed columns and rows across the battlements, stretching bows taut, gripping sword hilts with grim determination. They are here because they have to be here, because it is their sworn duty to complete, or die in the carrying out of their roles here tonight.
Down there, where the road began at Hollin and led up, up the mountain pass to Minas Manlos, standing like a beacon in the darkness below it, a pillar of silvery stone and light.
Snarls and guttural, unworldly noises came from the foot of mighty Caradhras. The soldiers seemed unnerved by the sounds, as if they recognised them from an ancient time long since past, when evil could be heard in every dark menacing monosyllable.
Gandalf pauses briefly to adjust the rim of his conical hat over his eyes to shield them from the now unforgiving sun overhead, taunting us with its presence as we emerge from the vanishing mist of our breaths. What a tower of strength he is, always a kind word to the hobbits, an occasional harsh rebuke for Pippin, but only occasional, a strong command to follow. A wiser or better leader we could not have had. I know this much; I myself would have hesitated in setting forth from Rivendell if not under his guidance.
Their leader rises up from the darkness, his silvered hair and powerful countenance in sharp contrast, but his heart and his sword are as one. Ready for battle. He would lead these men to glorious victory or glorious death. Yet his desire is for the former.
Can I be a leader of men? A leader to unite and command, to fight for and to love? Suddenly it is as if that weight has landed on my shoulders again, and I am all too quickly a beast of burden.
Can I do this? I have the power, this I have been told, but do I have the skill and determination to wield it for right and good? I am Isildur's heir.
You are Isildur's heir, not Isildur himself.
It is as if she's speaking those words now, in my ear.
The men seem thoughtful, lost in dreams and memories. Loved ones, wives, mothers, sisters, children. All of them pause as if listening to some hushed internal voice only they can hear. All transported somewhere far away, far from the icy winds and harsh cries from the dark hordes below.
Legolas leaps lightly across the tracks left by Gandalf, his slender form dancing across the Istari-formed path. Long have I lived among Elves, and yet I cannot help but still feel like a child in their midst. What are my trials and achievements to their lifetimes of unspeakable joy and inescapable sorrow? If all the Fair folk leave Middle-Earth, then, and only then will I know the true meaning of a world without beauty, without song.
The fair captain of the guard speaks comfortingly to his troops, parading the ranks, offering words of advice and encouragement to those less learned in the ways of battle. His long, fairs lock stream out from beneath his burnished helm. So knowing for one so young in appearance. He rallies the troops for the first onslaught of fire.
Frodo scrambles bravely onwards as the ascent steepens. The Shire-folk are a marvellous people indeed, defying all preconceptions that their appearance (particularly their size) forms. Small, yes, but tough and hardy. And no strangers to well lit fires, a good tale and a full pipe. Certainly no strangers to hearty food and drink, in particular, and for reasons I cannot fathom; mushrooms and, as Merry would say, "nice, crispy bacon".
Just thinking about them makes me smile inspite of myself. The world would be a dull place without them too, no doubt, without their cheerful natures, ever ready humour, and-
And their utmost significance. They, perhaps above all other peoples, are those we wish to protect. The Ringbearer holds the fate of countless peoples on a chain round his neck. May his resilience hold.
The darting sounds of arrows shoot through the heady atmosphere. Then, as if from nowhere, the clash of steel on steel, the cries of drawn swords, the thudding of bodies and the clatter of shields as men are swept aside by the terror os Sauron's forces. The black hordes have breached the lower floors and march eagerly to the battlements, others have scaled the almost impregnable walls to attack those at the top.
In the midst of the madness, a small figure runs breathlessly to the bell tower at the peak of Minas Mãnlos, his tiny form overshadowed and unnoticed by those around him. He reaches the great bell, and throwing his weight into his action, grabs the rope and pulls violently with all his strength.
Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong.
The bell tolls out the cry for assistance, proclaiming its cause over the lands, its message heard by all and sundry across Middle-Earth. The Tower of the Unmarred Snow calls for aid.
The young boy's actions have alerted other forces. It is likely that he has saved them all from disaster and death.
Frodo slips again in the snow and tumbles, head over heels down the slope to rest at my feet. I help him rise as he dusts himself energetically to rid his clothes of the clinging cold and wet of the snow.
He grasps at his neck and I can only watch as the whole of his small frame tenses before me. I follow his line of vision and behold what has ensnared the hobbit with fear.
Boromir kneels down slowly and deliberately, and when he straightens I can see the Ring shining at the end of the silver chain he holds in his gloved hand.
A lone soldier leaves his rank and slip down the stairs of the tower, down towards the throbbing beat of the orcs ramming the last door which leads up to the highest battlements. It would seem that he goes to his doom by facing them alone.
Boromir is talking and his words chill me to the bone, yes, more than the air around us. I reach slowly for the hilt of my sword, and grind my teeth quietly as my fingers wrap around the long handle.
No. Please no. Not one of our own, so soon seduced by the power of the Ring. Not a weak link in the chain we have forged to protect Frodo and aid the destruction of the Ring. Not Boromir. Please, not Boromir.
"Boromir".
The soldier sheaths his sword, and in one treacherous movement, withdraws the heavy bolt and opens the doors to Mordor's army to murder and pillage what is left of the Tower's valiant troops. He has betrayed them, and now there he lies, cut down by the entering mass, the price for his treachery paid with blood.
"Boromir!" The warning leaves my lips. "Give the Ring to Frodo".
He smiles, the smile of an errant child caught in the midst of something they should not have been doing, half apologetic, half humorously, as if to question my concern over something-
So small. Such a little thing.
The tower lay silent in the cold morning, stained with the blood of the faithful and the treacherous, all honour and greatness robbed from the dead as Mordor took the tower for its own before the darkness of the begrimed and gore ridden snow. Where once brave men trod, now darkness and finally, no trace of existence remains.
He returns the Ring and ruffles Frodo's hair in a gesture of reassurance and affection before replacing his shield on his back and trudging up the mountain. Again the sunlight bounces off the domed centre.
But this time I am not blinded, and do not blink.
I loosen my grip on the hilt.
I continue up the pass, leaving only the marks of my step and the tatters of my faith in Men behind me.
•••