The Hills leading up to Weathertop
Disclaimer: I still don't own it, you know.
In the morning, when the hobbits awoke, a heavy mist was in the air, and frost was on the ground. The day was chilly; as if some evil covered the area, causing a shadow of fear. But soon, the fog cleared away: the sky was a clear albeit pale blue.
Cheer filled their hearts, and the hobbits felt refreshed, as though they had had a night of unbroken sleep. Aragorn seemed not tired, though the hobbits knew that he had slept perhaps three hours before the sun had arose.
He was as sharp as if the night had never came; to the hobbits, he never appeared tired.
After a minuscule breakfast-- at least for the Shire folk-- to them it would've seemed barely enough to keep them on their feet back at home, though they were getting used to the small meals; they set out towards Weathertop.
"You are looking twice the hobbit you were," declared Pippin to Frodo, speaking up, which had been, over the last few days, a rarity for him.
"Very odd," said Frodo, while he tightened his belt another notch under the dagger that he wore, "considering that there is actually a good deal less of me." He grinned. "I hope the thinning process will not go on indefinitely, or I shall become a wraith."
"Do not speak of such things!" said Aragorn, sharply, and without another word, he took of at a surprising speed, that the hobbits found hard to match.
Aragorn knew the dread fullness of Frodo's words, although Frodo himself did not know. The wraiths were once men, enslaved by their lust for power. Sauron's lies deceived them, and they took the rings of power... and one by one, they fell to the power of the ring. Now they were slaves to his will, Sauron's most dread servants.
Not even the elves could withstand them when gathered together under their fell captain, the witch-king. He knew this. But they were but a shadow of their former power, in the days when Sauron still possessed the ring of power, the One Ring. If Sauron was to regain the ring, there would be none who could withstand him, and Middle-earth would fall.
The Nazgûl pursued them, Aragorn was sure of it. The only hope was to get to Rivendell, to Imladris, and hope that the ring would be safe there for a time. He had to keep Frodo safe from falling under the power of the ring, for then he would become a wraith.
It was the fifth of October. They were six days from Bree.
The line of hills leading up to Weathertop drew closer. There were remains of green moss covered ruins and old works of stone in the clefts of the hills.
"I wonder what my gaffer would say if he could see this?" asked Sam under his breath, shouldering his large, and heavy pack.
"He'd probably think: 'I wonder if that would be a good place to grow potatoes'," said Frodo, coming up beside Sam in time to hear him speak.
"I'm hungry," said Pippin.
Aragorn stopped his pace momentarily. "We will not be stopping until nightfall, Peregrin Took," he said. "We have no time. How many times do I have to throw apples at you to get it into your head, young hobbit?"
Pippin glared at him. "I'm allowed to be hungry," he muttered.
They continued walking on, though Aragorn kept a swift pace, the hobbits kept up rather well.
By nightfall they reached the western slopes of the hills, and there they chose to camp out for the night, as Aragorn seen exhaustion in the eyes of the halflings. He had to remember that he was a Ranger, he spent many years wandering in the wilderness, and they were Shire-folk, untrained in walking such distances.
Once again, he chose not to sleep, but instead kept watch, for the earth was troubled, and some dread fear was upon the land. They had not seen any birds or beasts in the last day, and Aragorn was troubled. Something was coming, the earth sensed it. But he could not.
He feared that the enemy had found them.
But no attack came in the night, and once more, a few hours before dawn, Aragorn drifted off to an uneasy sleep.
When the sun arose, and the orange and red colors of sunrise began to paint themselves across the skies, Aragorn awoke. Colors splashed across the horizon, and gave a sense of cheer to the long abandoned lands, the forsaken areas.
A bright air, there was, for though evil could control the world, the sun still rose and set, oblivious to whatever strife may've covered the world in fear and doubt. For once, Aragorn smiled. There was still hope, there always would be.
Aragorn awoke the hobbits, and after a brief breakfast, they set out to climb Weathertop hill.
For the first time since Chetwood, there was a path to follow, a track plain to see. It twisted around, that was true, but it was still a path, a clear road to follow to the summit of the hill. On either side of it, large boulders and hewn stones screened the travelers almost as a hedge. It dove through hills and dells, and twisted carefully around steep banks, where a fall could've cost an unwary traveler his life.
"I wonder who made this path, and what for," said Merry, as they wound their way down the path, one where the stones were unusually large and close set. They were also less careful than the others, appearing as if at any given moment they would fall, and crush the person walking the path beneath. Merry continued, as if it was comforting to hear his own voice, "I am not sure that I like it: it has a-- well, rather a barrowwightish look." He stopped, and looked at Aragorn, who was leading them through the rocky terrain: this area was less cleared as others. "Is there any barrow on Weathertop?" he asked.
"No," answered Aragorn, "there is no barrow on Weathertop, nor on any of these hills." He continued weaving through the path, and clearing it for the hobbits, who did not have his long legs, and could not step over all the overhanging, and fallen rocks that littered the area. "The Men of the West did not live here;" he continued, "though in their latter days they defended the hills for a while against the evil that came out of Angmar. This path was made to serve the forts along the walls. But long before, in the first days of the North Kingdom, they built a great watchtower on Weathertop, Amon Sûl they called it. It was burned and broken, and nothing remains of it now but a tumbled ring, like a rough crown on the old hill's head. Yet it was once tall and fair. It is told that Elendil stood there watching for the coming of Gil-galad out of the West, in the days of the last Alliance."
Aragorn was learned in old lore, and it was obvious in his change in speech. Now, he was confident; he knew what he spoke of. He knew the past as well as he seemed to know the ways of the wild lands, old lore, and tracking.
"Who was Gil-galad?" asked Merry, but Aragorn did not answer; he was deep in thought, as if remembering something from the distant past; days that no longer were.
Suddenly, there was a low voice, quiet, and indistinct who murmured:
" Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
" Of him the harpers sadly sing
" The last of whose realm was fair and free
" Between the mountains and the Sea.
" His sword was long and his lance was keen,
" His shining helm afar was seem;
" The countless stars of heaven's field
" Were mirrored in his silver shield.
" But long ago he rode away,
" And where he dwelleth none can say;
" For into darkness fell his star
" In Mordor where the shadows are."
They turned in amazement, and shock, as they realized that it was Sam who spoke.
"Don't stop!" said Merry.
"That's all I know," stammered Sam. "I learned it from Mr. Bilbo when I was a lad. He used to tell me tales like that, knowing how I was always one for hearing about Elves. It was Mr. Bilbo that taught me my letters. He was mighty book learned was dear old Mr. Bilbo. And he wrote poetry. He wrote what I have just said," said Sam.
"He did not make it up," said Aragorn, jerking himself out of the past. "It is part of the lay that is called the fall of Gil-galad, which is in an ancient tongue. Bilbo must've translated it. I never knew that."
"There was a lot more," said Sam, "all about Mordor. I didn't learn that part, it gave me the shivers. I never thought I should be going that way myself!"
"Going to Mordor!" cried Pippin, shaking himself from his somberness. "I hope it won't come to that!"
"Do not speak that name so loudly!" said Aragorn. "Come on."
They wove up the hill, Pippin thinking about Mordor now as well as getting his revenge, Aragorn thinking about getting to the top of the hill as soon as possible, not longer worrying about concealment, Merry thinking about Gil-galad, Frodo thinking about the ring, and Sam thinking about getting back home.
They all had fears, and worries, though Aragorn's were the most strongly founded, for he knew more about the enemy than the hobbits did. Mordor. That name was not one to be spoken loudly, or easily, not with possible servants of the enemy near.
Mordor. The land of the shadow, where nothing but darkness, peril, and fear lurked in the shadows beyond the gate. If a man needs walk in sight of the black gate, and tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he too, will have. Aragorn was one who had done so; his life was constant peril and fear, though he would not show it.
He was anxious to reach Rivendell, and hoped that Gandalf would be found on Weathertop, as the hobbits hoped.
To be continued... the next part will be Weathertop.
Review shoutouts:
X-Smasher 3: Hey, I'm sorry, I haven't reviewed you again yet... blah. I'm glad you like it... my Barrowdowner reviewers said that it was like a missing chapter, and that was the goal! It's suppose to be like that...
Grumpy: Yah... I want Pip to get revenge sooner or later... See, I've write more. Now see that little button that says review...? Click it!
Pipinheart: I'm glad that you liked it. So, are you Pippin's wife, or something? Just guessing by your user ID...
Ice Ember: I'm not telling how Pippin's going to get back at them... It's a secret! I'm afraid that you'll have to wait them. I like your user name, it's cool... and hot. LOL!
Now, wait until the opportune moment to review... that'd be now!