SEAL ON MY HEART
by Soledad
Disclaimer: see Introduction
Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.
Rating: PG – 13, for rather brutal fighting scenes.
Author's notes:
Summary: The Wargs. Again. Some of the dialogue is taken from The Return of the Shadow" (HoME 6) and "The Treason of Isengard" (HoME 7).
CHAPTER NINE: WOLF MOON
It was late in the afternoon, and the grey light was already again waning fast when we got back to our camp of the previous night. The hobbits were weary and very, very hungry. The mountains were veiled in a deepening dusk full of snow: even there in the foothills snow was falling gently. The birds had vanished.
The labours of the recent morning - not to mention the rather ugly clash with Estel - had obviously taken their toll on my beloved. He must have hit his leg when he stumbled over that hidden stone, for he limped noticeably, and only then did I realize that there was dried blood on his face. How could I have overlooked that he had been hurt, I chastised myself, calling out for Arwen who not only inherited most of our father's healing powers but had been trained as a healer, too.
My sister examined Boromir's face thoroughly. There were several scratches and bruises - none too serious, thank the Valar. The leg looked a lot worse, though; there was an ugly, purple bruise covering half of his calf, already swollen enough that getting his boots back on would be painful. But he could not go on bare-footed in winter, so – after Arwen put some healing cream on his calf – we forced the damaged leg back into its hard leather confinement.
My proud and stubborn lover endured the necessary torture without so much as a flinch. Mayhap the weariness numbed the pain a little, too. Only when Arwen was done and left did he sink into my arms, shivering from a cold that seemed to come more from inside than from outside – though indeed the weather was chilly enough.
We had no fuel for a fire, and made ourselves as warm as we could with all our spare furs and blankets. Gildor asked his horse to lie down on a patch that he had previously cleaned from the snow and built a nest for the hobbits against the warm belly of the faithful beast.
''Bring your Man over here,'' he said to me. ''He spent too much of his strength fighting the snow up the Pass – he must be kept warm. Let him cuddle with the Little Folk, or he shall not be able to go on again in the morning.''
My dear, brick-headed jewel(1) of a Man tried to protest, of course, yet I was in no mood for his stubbornness, so I just swept him from his feet and tucked him in with the hobbits, wrapping him in several blankets like a cocoon. Estel kept giving him dour looks, and I began to get truly upset, for I could not forget that he had been ready to slay Boromir because of that cursed Ring.
Oh, I knew that my beloved was tempted by the Ring. Valar, I was tempted by it, with a lot less to gain and to lose than he had. I believe it lured every single one of us, save perhaps the simple and pure-hearted manservant of the Ringbearer – though I was almost certain that even Samwise would reach out for it if there were no other means to protect his master.
Would I have any use for the powers of the Ring? Oh, very much so, I fear. It could give me the power to become a great Lord of Elves and Men, for am I not the firstborn son of the Elder Line of the Peredhil? The first King of fallen Númenórë, had he not been my own uncle? Even with Estel still living, I could become the High King of Arnor and Gondor. Now that I have chosen the Fate of Men, by ancient law my claim would be stronger than his.
Before Anárion's heirs died out, the Council of Gondor rejected the Heirs of Isildur as Kings. That is why the House of Húrin, the family of the Stewards could never rise to kingship. But my heritage, my very life reaches back long before Anárion. True, I was born after his death by some 130 years, but what does that matter?
I should be the King of Arnor and Gondor – to shake the wayward children of Númenórë out of their stupor and lead them back to the path of their forefathers...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Elladan!" Boromir grabbed the shoulder of his Elf and shook him, not too gently. "Elladan, what is happening to you?"
He sounded seriously concerned – and with right, Elladan admitted reluctantly. Having an unresponsive Elf staring at you with glazed-over eyes could make the bravest of Men feel uncomfortable.
"I am all right, meleth-nîn", he murmured reassuringly. "I just was – deep in thought."
"More like in a trance of some sort, I daresay," Boromir countered, still worried, then he lowered his voice and added. "'Tis the Ring, is it? 'Tis calling to you as well as to everyone else."
"Aye, it does," Elladan sighed. "Mayhap Gildor is the only one capable of resisting its lure - because of his deep hatred towards its Maker. For him, 'tis a personal quest, one of vengeance. Whenever he looks at the Ring, he sees the mutilated body of Celebrimbor before his inner eye. But we others... we are vulnerable to the fake promises of the Ring."
Boromir gave him a piercing look. "What did it promise to you?" he asked quietly.
Elladan sighed. How could he put the intricately-woven tapestry of temptations the Ring had whispered to him into mere words? To be honest, he did not understand why he had found those whispers so tempting in the first place. He was not Gildor – never in his whole life had he yearned for power... until now.
But in a sudden moment of clarity he finally understood where the true promise of power was hidden.
Power could mean the chance to make differences. To change laws and customs and to become the Lord of Fate – that of his own and that of those who were dear to him.
"You", he replied slowly, humbled by the realization. "At the very end, 'twas you that the Ring promised me."
"But you have me already," said Boromir with a frown. Elladan gave him a pained smile.
"Yet how long am I allowed to keep you?" the Elf asked. "I just came to understand that there are not many things I would be reluctant to give up for that chance... if there are any, should temptation become too strong. I am only a mortal now, after all..."
'Twas meant as a joke, of course, but Boromir felt not like jesting.
"You speak foolishly, Elf," he grumbled, keeping his voice low, for he did not want to wake the exhausted Halflings. "Mortal or not, in the heart of your heart you still are who you have ever been: the firstborn of Elrond Half-Elven, whose grandfather is the evening star. I know not what you see in me, and I fear I shall never understand it, but I know that you would never succumb to darkness."
"I wish I was this sure of myself," Elladan sighed and – stepping gracefully over the softly snoring Sam – slid down between him and Gildor's horse, gathering him in his arms once again. "Try to rest now, beloved. 'Twill be hard enough to go on in the morning."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The night was long. No-one dared to fell asleep, save the hobbits who simply were no longer able to fight their utter exhaustion. Boromir sat on the cold floor, leaning against Elladan's chest, the two hobbits cuddled against his sides. Elladan had told him to seek some sleep, for he would need all his remaining strength soon, but he was not able to do so. His injured leg was throbbing with pain and his head hurt too. So he tried to be as comfortable as possible, wrapped in Elladan's arms and hugging the little ones to himself, while his restless mind could not help but follow the others from their company.
Gandalf sat alone, pulling his heavy cloak tightly around himself, and so did Gimli, though he sought out the company of the ponies to keep himself warm. To Boromir's surprise, Aragorn, too was seated by himself, for the lady Arwen kept Gildor's company this time. When he strained his ears, he could even hear their low voices, though he understood little to naught from their conversation, for they were talking in the Ancient Tongue of Elves that he was not fluent in (unlike his scholarly brother).
''There is something I have wanted to ask you ever since my Choosing Ceremony,'' Arwen said quietly enough that not even Aragorn would hear it; this was between her and Gildor alone. ''Why is it that there seems to be such bitterness, nigh hatred, between you and Father? Glorfindel told me that you both were living in Gil-galad's court in your youth. How is it that you were never friends?''
''Oh, but we were,'' Gildor replied. '''Tis my fault that we are friends no more. I hurt your father badly – and more. He might have forgiven me, yet I doubt that he shall ever forget.''
Arwen looked at him in surprise.
'''Tis not often that the proud Lord of Edhellond admits a mistake,'' she said. Gildor gave her a bitter grin.
''Yea, my pride. 'Twas the root of all that went wrong in my whole life. For had I not been obsessed by the wish to become King and the Heir of Gil-galad, things between Elrond and I might have turned out very differently. Yet at that time I was certain that I would need heirs in order to gain kingship and threw away something precious...''
Arwen's eyes grew impossibly wide. ''Father and you?'' she whispered. Gildor nodded.
''For a short while, yea; your mother was not even born back then. We were both rather... infatuated. Had he been born a female, we might even have bound.''
''You could have bound with him, regardless of his gender,'' Arwen pointed out mildly. Gildor sighed.
''I know that now. But I was very young at that time, barely over four hundred, and though my parents allowed me the freedoms of the Sindar, the teachings of Valinor still were too strong in my mind. A King had to be properly married, and according to the customs of my mother's people that meant to be married to a female. And I wanted to become King one day very badly.''
''Do you still want it?'' Arwen asked, still shocked a little by the brutal honesty of her former lover. Gildor shrugged.
''Do I want it? Aye, I very much do. I am the rightful heir of Finrod Felagund, after all. Yet six thousand years in Middle-earth had taught me that I shall never be King. There is no more left for me to rule here, save my small realm in the South, and in the West – there are others, with a stronger claim and in the right position already. High King Finarfin, to name just one of them. So, I have learnt to become less than I had been born to be.''
''Yet back in Lindon, you were still hoping, was it not so?'' asked Arwen. Gildor nodded.
''I was. For that, I turned my back on Elrond, and when Gil-galad made him vice-regent, I challenged him and called him a whore.''
''Father never was the lover of the High King!'' Arwen protested; then she paused for a moment and added hesitantly: ''Was he?''
''I never found out,'' Gildor answered thoughtfully. ''That had been the best-guarded secret in the court of Lindon. I mean, every one knew that there was more between the two of them than just friendship. They loved each other deeply on many different levels, yet they never acted upon it openly.''
''You truly know not?'' Arwen raised a skeptical eyebrow. ''After Mother's departure, my brothers and I often guessed what might have gone between Father and the High King – we did hear a lot of gossip, after all, when our elders thought we were not listening. Some even said they were bound.''
''Gil-galad would never do such thing secretly,'' Gildor shook his head. ''He would have acknowledged such a union publicly, ere he made Elrond his vice-regent. As for them being lovers, mayhap – I see the reason why they kept it a secret... if they were lovers, that is.''
''What reason?'' Arwen inquired. Gildor shrugged.
''There were many young Elves from good Houses watching to find a chink in their armour, so that they might assault Elrond's position in the court. Finding proof that he, indeed, shared the King's bed might have been such a chink.''
''Were you one of them?'' Arwen asked in a tense voice. Gildor shrugged again.
''For a while, yea, I was – and not for power's sake only. I was jealous, too.''
''For a while,'' Arwen repeated. ''What happened that changed your heart?''
''The King sent me to Eregion with an urgent message,'' Gildor answered simply, ''and I fell in love. Or, to be more accurate, I finally came to understand whom I had loved for a long time.''
''Celebrimbor,'' Arwen nodded. ''Another male. How ironic.''
''Is it not?'' Gildor smiled bitterly. ''It took me a long time ere I accepted that there would never be another one for me. I have had lovers, yea, both male and female – I was in need of much comfort after his death, after all – but no-one had ever touched my heart... until I found you.''
Arwen shook her head in sorrow. ''Nay; you might have loved me, but you were not in love with me. We have discussed this before. Many times.''
''And you have never been listening,'' said Gildor. Arwen gave him a curious look.
"Certainly, I have been listening," she replied. "That is why I chose to let you go."
"No, my Lady," Gildor shot back, "you let me go for you feared you could not fight his ghost."
"Could I?" Arwen asked quietly. Gildor shrugged.
"How can I know? You never tried."
"True," Arwen admitted; then, following a sudden urge, she asked: "What was he like?"
"Like fire itself," Gildor answered simply and pulled a fine golden chain from under his tunic. On it a small golden pendant hung, not bigger than the pad of his thumb. He opened the tiny lock and lo! Inside the pendant, molten into clear crystal, was a fragile ring, made of a single, flame-red lock of hair.
Arwen lent closer, not noticing the jealous looks of Aragorn, and caught her breath. Even after all those thousands of years, the lock of hair seemed so alive as if it had captured some of the fire of its long-dead owner.
"I could glimpse him when he was standing up in the uppermost chamber of Minas Elenath(2), looking at the roads," said Gildor softly, closing the pendant again. "His hair shone like a beacon before the golden-gilded shutters of the upper windows. You see, I have no need for the Ring of the One that betrayed and murdered him. I have a ring of my own."
"And you are bound to it just as well," Arwen pointed out.
"'Tis all I have left," Gildor sighed. "I have carried this memento for over four thousand years."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Boromir wiggled uncomfortably. His leg still hurt, and despite Elladan's warming presence, he felt cold. He sighed, listening to the hissing of the wind between the trees and rocks. It filled the cold emptiness of the night with its howling...
Howling?! Suddenly Boromir felt a deep dread overshadowing his heart. He grabbed Elladan's arm that was wrapped around him and shook it sharply.
"Elladan! Listen to the wind!"
A small movement signaled his Elf returning from the strange realm of Elven waking dreams behind him. Then Elladan disengaged himself and – stepping over the still sleeping hobbits again – went over to Gandalf and Aragorn.
"The wind howls with wolf-voices," he said grimly. "It seems the Wargs crossed to the west side of the mountains, Aragorn. We cannot stay here any longer, or we shall be eaten before daybreak."
"We need to find a place where we have some cover and can defend ourselves a little better," Arwen agreed. "There used to be watchtowers atop the hills while the Kings of Arnor still ruled these lands. Let us see if we can find one of those; even if ruined, their walls can protect us.
Elladan frowned, searching his memory. "There is one of them half a mile to the south-east from here," he finally said; "unless I am quite astray."
"You are not," said Gildor, walking over to them. "But it will be a hard run to reach it in time."
"Do we have any other choice?" asked Aragorn sourly. "Let us pick up the hobbits, as they would never keep up with us; and Elladan can support Boromir."
No-one had a better idea, thus they broke camp in a great hurry, with Arwen and Gandalf leading the ponies. Despite his short stature, Gimli had no difficulty running just as fast as the long-limbed Elves and the Ranger, but Boromir was seriously hindered by his leg wound. Elladan had to carry the greater part of his weight, almost lifting him from the floor of the shallow little valley they were treading.
The stony height of a steep little hill was clearly visible before them They had barely reached its feet when Boromir, too, noticed the first howl; his eyes being less sharp than those of the Elves (or even Aragorn), he could make no difference between the wind and the wolf-voices before. Then a second howl came, this one from much nearer, and he felt cold sweat breaking out of his every pore. He came to a halt after only a few yards of painful climbing and looked around nervously.
"Keep going!" urged him Elladan between clenched teeth. "We do not have much time left!"
A third howl answered the second one now, and this time it clearly came from somewhere behind them on a further-away slope of the valley. Aragorn, too, held on for a moment, listening intently, with Frodo clinging to his back, frozen with horror.
"Hurry up!' the Ranger called back to Elladan. "There are at least two hunting packs, closing up on us from both sides."
"I can hear that," muttered Elladan, dragging Boromir with him upwards, He knew that reaching the hilltop was their only hope; not even he could outrun the Wargs on the long haul, and Boromir, injured and weary from the fight against the snow earlier, had even less of a chance.
The howls multiplied in the nearly impenetrable darkness, sounding nearer every time. Elladan had hunted these fell beasts often, and his experienced ear told him that the Wargs had already scented their prey and were now spreading to flank them. There was another eerie howl, right ahead and above of them. He tried to pick up his pace, but Boromir was little more than dead weight, hanging from his arm, his stiff leg barely functional, his feet slipping on the frozen soil every other step.
Elladan held on, looking for a place where he could put Boromir down and defend him, as they seemed to have no chance to reach the hilltop. About a hundred yards away, there appeared to be a rock shelf trusting out of the hillside. If he could only climb fast enough with Boromir slowing him down...
Boromir, too, was well aware of the peril. The long, shuddering cries of the hunting pack drew closer, answering each other as if synchronizing their moves like Gondor's troops did by using horn signals, He knew it was useless to tell Elladan to leave him behind and save himself, so he tried to be less of a burden, using his free hand as much as his one good leg, grasping at exposed, frozen roots for balance as they tumbled towards the ledge. But he could hear the thudding of paws behind them already, and he doubted that they would reach it in time.
Then he looked up and froze. Right above them, on the very rock shelf they were trying to reach desperately, the phantom shape of a large, silver-furred beast appeared. Mayhap the deep shadows made it look larger than it actually was, but the Warg certainly looked at least as big as their ponies. It threw its head back ears flattening, yellow eyes gleaming ominously, and released a long, chilling howl.
Boromir's heart sank, seeing that the way of their escape (if it could be called that at all) was cut short from the other side. Injured and at the end of his strength, he stood no chance against one of these beasts - and now he could sense the fast approach of the other hunter behind them. He was going to die on the frozen rock of this nameless hill, and he would take Elladan with him. That thought was worse than facing his own immanent death.
Suddenly, the high-pitched whistle of an arrow could be heard from above, and the Warg on the ledge stumbled, screaming in pain. An Elven arrow shuddered in its throat, hitting the main artery with deadly precision, and the creature jerked violently one more time ere falling from the rock to its death. High up on the hilltop, the slender frame of Arwen Undómiel appeared in a gap of the broken circle of large boulder-stones – the last remnants of a watchtower that once had crowned the hill. She had a long bow in her hand.
"Hurry up!" she called out to her brother, who – with a last, desperate effort – hauled Boromir up to the rock shelf, ere nocking and releasing her next arrow.
This one missed its target, though, and the Warg behind them had already launched into a leap. Boromir could hear the harsh rasp of the beast's breathing; sense the foul smell of its breath. Regardless of his wounded leg, he rolled onto his side, away from the lunging jaws, and the Warg, unable to change the angle of its attack, crashed into the unforgiving rock headfirst. It was numbed for a short moment, and Boromir, grabbing its jaw, jerked its head to the side with all his remaining strength. He could hear the loud crack as the beast's neck snapped, feeling grim satisfaction. With his healthy foot he kicked the corpse, rolling it down the ledge, which slowed down the next attacker long enough for him to draw his sword.
This was just in time, for the next Warg lunged already, two others going for Elladan at the same instant. Obviously, the pack behind them sensed that they were the weaker prey and had decided to finish them off ere going for the others who had better cover and more weapons. Boromir met his attacker with the point of his sword almost instinctively. He had never fought Wargs before, they were rarely seen in the South and came never further down than Rohan, but had heard enough hair-raising tales from Théodred to know that at the end, they were just beasts. Evil, malevolent beasts, for certain, but they could be slain by any good blade.
Surely enough, the sword of Húrin(3) passed through the wolf's throat like hot knife through butter, even though the arm that wielded it was weakening. Boromir gave the heavy body a vicious kick, but he no longer had the strength to fling it off the ledge.
That was a very bad thing indeed, for the hunting pack had now caught up with them fully, and no less than three other large beasts hurled themselves at him, slanted yellow eyes burning with ravenous bloodlust. His back was protected by the rocky surface, but his injured leg reduced his means of self-defense greatly, making him dependent on the waning strength of his sword-arm and upper body alone. He regretted now having left his shield behind; he could have used it as protection and as a weapon against the Wargs.
Still, a life spent on the battlefield fighting against impossible odds proved an advantage in this particular fight. His sword-arm moved almost on its own, lopping off the head of the largest and fastest attacker with a force that he had not expected himself. He stopped the leap of the second wolf by ramming his left arm into its jaw with brutal strength he did not even know he still possessed, hoping that the cruel fangs would not be able to cut through both his strong leather gauntlet and his mail shirt, while bringing his blade around with his right to slash the throat of the third one.
The risky move succeeded, but he knew he was fighting a lost battle. The second Warg was still attached to his forearm, jaws closing on him with such force that he could feel the link of his chain mail being drawn into his bruised flesh – and still more beasts were coming, if the elongated howls were any indication.
Then he heard a sickening crunch, and the pressure of his arm loosened considerably. He looked up, dazed, directly into the round face of Gimli. The Dwarf must have run down the hill and crushed the Warg's skull with the blunt side of his great battle-axe.
"Are you still alive?" asked Gimli, and when he nodded, the Dwarf ran over to Elladan to help him. Boromir felt two hands grabbing him with inhuman strength, as Gildor lifted his battered body and threw him over his shoulder in one smooth – and not too gentle – move.
"It seems to be my destiny to pull Elrond's pets out of wolf-jaws," the Elf-Lord grumbled in apparent irritation, and began to climb up the hill again quickly, not the least hindered by Boromir's weight.
Arwen and Aragorn were racing downhill to help Elladan as well, and moments later they all reached the broken remnants of the once-protective wall. For the time being the wolves retreated, it seemed. But they all knew 'twas only a momentary relief.
Inside the stone circle a few old and twisted trees stood, and in the middle there was a shallow dent, encircled by flat, grey stones: a fire-ring, often used by traveling Rangers, Elladan explained. There they lit a fire for, as the hunting packs already knew where they hid, sitting in the dark would not help them.
The ponies and Gildor's horse stood together under the trees, nibbling on the dry, half-frozen grass. The ponies trembled and sweated with fear, but the Elven horse seemed as intrepid as her master, and her calm presence helped the smaller beasts to overcome their panic. The hobbits kept lingering around them, though Boromir was not certain who encouraged whom in this particular case.
"The Wargs will not attack again, not 'til the other packs arrive," said Elladan, sitting down next to him. "Alas, we cannot leave here during the night, and I dare not remove your boots, as we might not be able to put them back on you if your leg got any worse. But let me take a look at that arm of yours!"
Boromir was too weak and weary to protest, as he would have done otherwise, disliking 'the fuss' as he called the customary eagerness of healers. Thus Elladan could remove his gauntlet and his vambrace without any further argument, and – pushing up the sleeve of his mail shirt – examined his injured arm closely. There were ugly red and purple bruises, and it was slightly swollen, but the skin seemed unbroken, which relieved Elladan greatly.
"You have been lucky," he said, wrapping a wet cloth around the damaged arm. "The fangs of the Warg were unable to cut through your chain mail. Their fangs are poisonous and filthy. Their bites are painful and slow to heal."
"Are you... speaking of... experience?" asked Boromir, fighting a hopeless battle again, this time against his own weariness.
"I have been bitten by Wargs a few times," answered Elladan with a shrug; then he kissed Boromir on the brow. "Try to sleep a little, meleth-nîn. I shall wake you up in time."
Sleep did not come to Boromir, despite his weariness, but he did doze for an hour or so uneasily. The others sat around the fire, except for those who were on guard, discussing another possible route for crossing the Mountains – assuming they lived to see the morning.
"Where are we to go, even if we can fight off the Wargs?" asked Frodo glumly. "It is no use trying the pass again; but you said yourself last night, that we could not now cross the passes further north because of the winter, nor further south because of other enemies."
"There is no need to remind me," answered Gandalf. "The choice is now between going on with our journey – by some road or other – or returning to Rivendell."
The faces of the hobbits revealed plainly enough the pleasure they felt at the mere mention of returning to Rivendell. Sam's face brightened visibly, and he glanced at his master. But Frodo looked troubled and did not answer at first.
Elladan stirred. "My path leads southwards, to Minas Tirith, not back to my father's house," he said.
Gildor nodded. "So does mine. My people in the South Haven will rejoice in my return, unexpected as it is; and you are all welcome in my town." But Frodo shook his head.
"I wish I was back in Rivendell," he acknowledged. "But would that not be going back upon on all that was spoken and decided there?" he asked.
"It would," replied Gildor bluntly. "Our journey was already delayed long enough; mayhap too long. After the winter, it would be quite in vain. If we return, it will mean the siege of Rivendell, and likely enough its fall and destruction. Elrond has not the strength to resist both the traitor Saruman and the Abhorred One if they decide to go for the Ring."
Arwen and Elladan nodded in grim agreement. They knew better than anyone that great though the powers of their father might be, the Master of Imladris had no vast armies with which to protect his peaceful valley against the Shadow.
"Then we must go on," said Frodo with a sigh, and Sam sank back into gloom. "We must go on – if there is any road to take."
"There is," said Gildor calmly.
"Or there may be," corrected Gandalf. "But I have not mentioned it to you before, and did not think of it while there was still hope of the pass of Taragaer. For it is not a pleasant road."
"If it is worse than the Taragaer, it must be very nasty indeed," muttered Sam. "But you had better tell us about it now."
"Have you ever heard of the Mines of Moria or the Black Gulf?" asked Gandalf.
"Yes," answered Frodo. "I think so. I seem to remember Bilbo speaking of them long ago, when he told me tales of the Dwarves and Orcs. But I have no idea where they are."
"They are not far away," said Gildor quietly, his eyes burning like blue flames in the firelight. "They are in these mountains. They were made by Dwarves of Durin's clan many hundreds of years ago, when Celebrimbor and his Jewel-Smiths still dwelt in Hollin. In those ancient days Durin dwelt in Caron-dun, and there was much traffic on the Great River. But fierce Orcs in great number drove them out after many wars, and most of the Dwarves that escaped removed far into the North, as Gimli could tell you. They have often tried to regain these mines but never have they succeeded – so far as I know ."
He cast a questioning look at Gimli, and the Dwarf shook his head.
"But how can the mines of the Black Gulf help us?" asked Boromir, awaking from his uneasy slumber for a moment. "It sounds a name of ill-omen."
"It is," answered Gandalf with a sigh.
"Or has become so," added Gildor. "But one must tread the path need chooses. If there are Orcs in the mines again, it will prove ill for us, that is true. But there is a chance that the mines are still deserted, and then we may get through. For the mines go right through and under this western arm of the Mountains. There is no shorter way. The tunnels of Moria were of old the most famous in the northern world, and more than once have I passed its secret gates on the western side during the Second Age to leave through the chief entrance in the East that was looking upon Caron-dun, to continue my journey to Edhellond."
"I, too, have passed through the West-Gate, many years ago, when I was looking for Thrór and Thráin," said Gandalf. "But I have never been since – I have never wished to repeat the experience."
"And I do not wish for it even once," said Boromir.
"Nor me," muttered Sam, shooting uncomfortable looks toward his master.
"Of course not," said Gandalf. "Who would? But the question is, will you follow me if I take the risk?"
"Follow you?" repeated Gildor with an arrogantly arched eyebrow. "Do you truly believe, Mithrandir, that you would be the most suitable guide?"
Gandalf gave him no answer, and even the silently fuming Aragorn managed to keep his temper under control. All eyes turned to the Ringbearer, as this was ultimately his decision.
"How far is the Western Gate?" asked Frodo at length.
"About ten miles south of the Taragaer," answered Gildor without hesitation, and after a moment Aragorn nodded, confirming his estimate.
"Then you know of Moria?" asked Frodo, looking at the Ranger in surprise.
"Aye, I know of the mines," said Aragorn quietly. "I went there once, too, and the memory is very evil."
"More evil than stumbling South with hungry Warg-packs on our trail?" asked Gildor with a pointed look at Boromir who had fallen asleep again. "I doubt that we would last long. If you want to know, I was always in favour of trying the mines rather than an open pass, but these two," and here he looked at Gandalf and Aragorn, "would not listen. If I had my way, we could have come to the Gate of Moria more secretly and might be leaving on the other side of the Mountains right now."
Frodo glanced from one to another, looking very much like a trapped rabbit, and Sam scowled silently. He found it highly unfair that his master had to make such a hard decision alone, while they were surrounded by Elves and Men much older and with more experience.
"Well, come now," said Gandalf. "I would not put such a choice to you, if there were any hope in other roads, or any hope in retreat. Will you try Moria, or go back to Rivendell?"
"There is hope in other roads," said Gildor with a shrug; "though even less than through Moria. We could try the Gap of Rohan, after all, and count on the bravery and help of the Horse-lords – but time works against us on that road... or on any other."
As if answering his words, a storm of howls broke out, fierce and wild, all around them. In the waning night many gleaming eyes could be seen peering over the brow of the hill, some advancing right to the ring of stones. A great host of Wargs must have had gathered silently, and now was about to attack them from every side at once.
The Elves grabbed their bows and so did Aragorn, this being their best hope to slay some of the fell beasts from a safe distance. They were so fast that it almost seemed as if they did not take aim at all, yet their arrows hit the blazing eyes or the furry throats of the wolves with deadly accuracy.
Gimli stood, his short legs apart for better leverage, holding his great axe with both hands, protecting Boromir's back, who had pulled himself into a sitting position, his sword drawn. Even the hobbits held their swords defiantly, not willing to give up without a fight.
It took several long moments 'til the wolves could break through, leaping over the corpses of their slain pack-mates. The sword-fight that followed was brutal, and they would have lost in the end, despite all their bravery, if not for Gandalf.
Holding back at first to collect his strength, the old wizard finally stepped forth, lifting a burning branch from the fire and strode straight to the wolves like some ancient fury taking Man-shape. The beasts gave back before him, but he did not miss a beat, following them, tossing the blazing brand high un the air that it threw long, white-hot sparks around.
"Naur an edraith ammen!" the voice of Gandalf thundered, echoing from the mountainside. "Naur dan I ngauroth!"
The sparkles leapt from the burning branch to the tops of the old trees, so that they burst into fire like huge torches. The blinding flames crackled, bathing the whole hilltop in dazzling light. The shaggy fur of the wolves caught fire; the sparks stuck to their coat and burned deep into them, and unless they rolled over quickly, they were all in flames within a heartbeat.
Very soon, wolves were rolling down the hillside to put out the sparks on their backs, while those that were burning already were running around howling, maddened by the pain and their own blood thirst, setting others alight. Finally, a long, shuddering howl could be hard, like a horn-signal for retreat, and the still hale Wargs fled off down the slopes, vanishing into the night.
Elladan lowered his sword and looked around. The fire had already died, and naught but falling ash and a few dim sparks were left. The old trees had been burned to blackened stumps, and a bitter smoke curled above the stone ring. High above their heads, the first light of dawn came dimly in the sky. Day was coming again, and they were still alive.
"You are a mean fighter," said Boromir when his Elf sat down tiredly. "Better even than I thought you would be. And so is the Lady Arwen. You Elves are deceiving creatures – you look so fragile, yet you are so strong."
"Yet even we need a rest after a fight like this," replied Elladan, leaning against him wearily, while Boromir wrapped those big arms around him. "And Gandalf needs time to regain his strength after those fireworks too, no doubt."
"Let us rest 'til full daylight," Gildor suggested, walking by and giving the old wizard a worried look. "But after that, we must move on as quickly as we can."
The others all agreed and threw themselves on the earth for a much-needed rest, while Gildor, the eldest and most battle-hardened of all, watched their troubled sleep(4).
TBC
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End notes:
(1) A playful hint towards the meaning of Boromir's name, mir meaning jewel.
(2) The Tower of Stars, Celebrimbor's tower in Ost-in-Edhil. My sincerest thanks to Cirdan who invented it and allowed me to use it. :))
(3) Remember, he's the first recorded Steward of Gondor, not the hero of the First Age here.
(4) Yes, I know. Technically, Gandalf is older than Gildor – just not in his present incarnation. My Gildor has been born during the War of Wrath (the end of the First Age) and has walked Middle-earth for more than six thousand years.