DESCENDING TO DARKNESS
by Soledad
Disclaimer: see Introduction.
Rating: PG, for this chapter
Author's notes: I divided the way of the Company to the Doors of Moria into two parts, instead of writing a monster chapter.
There are some lines of description borrowed from "The Fellowship of the Ring" (the book, not the movie). As I am dealing with well-known facts here, I had two choices: use Tolkien's own lines or describe the same surroundings in a much poorer manner. I chose the first one.
My sincerest thanks go to Snicklepop for beta-reading.
CHAPTER TWO: STONE GATES CLOSEDI have dreamt again.
One would think 'tis not possible to fall asleep on one's feet while stumbling along a steep and dangerous path, across unfamiliar territory, full of perils.
Well, it is possible. You just have to be weary enough. And I was weary, weary beyond measure, wearier even than I had been when I arrived in Imladris, after having travelled a hundred and ten days from Minas Tirith. Weary enough to fell asleep on my feet. Weary enough to even dream, while still walking.
If you can call it a dream, of course.
In truth, it was more a nightmare than a dream. Still, it had to be something of a foresight, for I could not recognize what I saw.
I dreamt of fire and darkness again.
But this time, it was different from the earlier nightmares, different even from those sent me by the Ring. It was not the all-consuming Wheel of Fire that had haunted my dreams in Imladris.
It was worse. Much worse.
The fire filled every corner around me, soaring and hissing. And the Shadow that moved among the flames had no shape. It changed with every move, eluding my grasp, growing as huge as the very hills in one moment and blending seamlessly into the dark flames in the next.
Then it was gone, and I was lying in that strange, grey boat again, covered with cool water. It was filling my lungs, but that was not so bad, for I was no longer breathing. I was dead.
I was dead, looking down at my lifeless shell from some distance. I was looking beyond my burial boat, down Anduin, and I saw the black-sailed ships of the Corsairs leaving Umbar and sailing towards Pelargir. They were full of grim soldiers, ready to slaughter my people and burn my city.
I saw the armies of Harad marching towards Ithilien, their war-towers swaying slightly upon the board backs of the Mûmakil, whose mighty tusks were dripping blood; I saw the swarthy warriors with their gleaming scimitars, black bows and golden collars.
And I saw the countless armies of Orcs swarming over the ruins of Osgiliath once again, like armies of black ants. I saw the Black Gate of Minas Morgul opening and fresh troops pouring out of its maw in endless rows like black water. Lead by the huge, dark shape of the Dread Lord, the chief of the Enemy's warlords, they flowed onto the barren land.
All those vast armies had one common goal: to reach the White City of Ecthelion and paint her stones red with the blood of her people and black with ash. And I knew with absolute certainty that unless I do what I must do, my beautiful city would be burnt to the ground and her people slain 'til the last one.
Until recently, the curse of foresight was spared me. I wonder how Father and Faramir can bear these dreams. I know Father has had them all his life, and Faramir has had them since he reached adulthood.
One would think you got used to the dreams, given enough time. Mayhap some can. I would not be able to get used to them in a thousand lifetimes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Boromir stumbled and jerked awake as someone grabbed his arm with surprising strength. The green eyes of Legolas looked at him, worried.
"Boromir? Is everything all right?" the Elf asked, in a voice too low even for the Ranger to hear, and Boromir was thankful for it.
"Aye, everything is fine," he lied; there was no way he would share his disturbing dreams with the Elf. Legolas was reasonable enough for one of his kin, but he would not understand. No-one of the Company would. They only saw the Quest, while all he saw was Minas Tirith. In flames.
"I am weary, that is all," he added. Legolas nodded in understanding, let him go and fell back to his accustomed place at the rear.
The day was drawing to its end, and cold stars were glinting in the high sky above the sunset, when Gimli and Gandalf, who were leading them, reached the side of the lake. The others followed with all the speed they could manage, climbing up the steep slopes.
Looking at it they saw that in breadth the lake was no more than two or three furlongs at the widest point. How far it stretched away southward not even Legolas could see in the failing light; but its northern end was no more than half a mile from where they stood, and between the stony ridges that enclosed the valley and the water's edge there was a rim of open ground.
"We must hurry forward," Gandalf warned the groaning hobbits. Boromir felt like groaning, too, but was somehow able to suppress that particular urge – he could not appear weak, not now, not in the eyes of his self-proclaimed King. "For we still have a mile or two to go before we can reach our destination on the far shore," the wizard added.
"And then you have still to find the doors," pointed out Merry, his tone leaving doubts that he believed the wizard would succeed. Gandalf gave him a stern look.
"Let that be my concern, Master Brandybuck," he said. "Yours should be to stay on your feet and go on, without falling into the lake."
Merry shot the dark water an uneasy look and shivered. He could not see much of it, but it made his skin crawl. He exchanged a glance of agreement with Pippin, who seemed a little white around his mouth, and as if following some inaudible order, they both inched closer to Boromir. The mere presence of the big Man gave them a feeling of safety. Boromir smiled at them, even though his smile was a forced one. He had learnt not to underestimate the little ones, despite their seeming weakness.
And so on they pressed, regardless of the weariness that all felt, save perhaps Gimli, and of course Legolas. When they finally came to the northernmost corner of the lake, they found a narrow creek that barred their way. It was green and stagnant, thrust out like a slimy arm towards the enclosing hill. Boromir shifted his weight uncomfortably. He was not about to voice his childish fears, but he felt all too vividly reminded of those tall tales about huge sea serpents and other slimy monsters the mariners of his Uncle Imrahil loved to spin in the taverns of Dol Amroth's Gate Town. He never knew how many of the tales had a seed of truth in it, but he found that this pool definitely could spawn some more of these stories.
Gimli, however, strode forward undeterred, and found that the water was shallow, no more than ankle-deep at the edge. Behind them the hobbits walked in file, threading their way with care, for under the weedy pools were sliding and greasy stones, and footing was treacherous. Boromir stared down at the dark, unclean water with disgust and shuddered at the thought of its touch on the naked feet of the hobbits. He was very glad to be a Man and to wear high boots.
As Sam, the last of the Hobbits, led the strangely reluctant pony up on to the dry ground on the far side, there came a soft sound: a swish, followed by a plop, as if a fish had disturbed the still surface of the water; though Boromir found it hard to imagine that any fish could live under all that murk. Turning quickly – as quickly as he dared, for he still stood ankle-deep in the water – he saw ripples, black-edged with shadow in the waning light. Great rings were widening outwards from a point far out in the lake. There was a bubbling noise, and then silence.
"What was that?" Boromir asked Legolas in a low voice. The Elf was only a few steps behind him, watching he others' backs as always, but now he stopped, too, eyeing the dark surface in suspicion.
But there was naught to say, not at that moment. The dusk deepened, and the last gleams of the sunset were veiled in cloud, so Legolas, having waited some more, finally shrugged.
"I cannot say what it might have been. Let us go on, for we must hurry."
Indeed, they were falling back already, for Gandalf now pressed on at a great pace, and the others followed as quickly as they could. 'Twas not too hard for the stout Dwarf and the long-legged Ranger, and surely an easy walk for the tireless Elf, but the Hobbits dragged on wearily, and even Boromir felt the hardness of the rocks in his very bones, for long it had been since he climbed the White Mountains for the last time, hunting for cave trolls with the Rohirrim and their Prince, Théodred. They both were young Men back then, barely come of age – now he felt the burden of more than twenty summers past keenly.
Finally, they reached the strip of dry land between the lake and the cliffs: it was narrow, often hardly a dozen yards across, and encumbered with fallen rock and stone; but they found a way, hugging the cliff, and keeping as far from the dark water as they might, for the mere sight of it still made them shiver. Looking back over his shoulder Boromir got a glimpse or two of Legolas, rubbing his light boots against the rock surface to get rid of the stinking remnants of that murk.
A mile or so southwards along the shore they came upon holly trees – a sight that made Legolas whimper softly, as if it pained him bodily. Stumps of dead boughs were rotting in the shallows; the remains, it seemed, of old thickets, or of a hedge that had once lined the road across the now drowned valley. There was no doubt about the Elven origins of that way.
Even less so, for close under the cliff there stood, still strong and living, two tall trees, larger than any trees of holly that Boromir had ever seen or imagined. Their great roots spread from the wall to the water. Under the looming cliffs they had looked like mere bushes, when seen far off from the top of the Stair; but now they towered overhead, stiff, dark and silent – standing like sentinel pillars at the end of the road.
Legolas walked by them quietly and approached one of the trees with awe and the utmost respect, laying his palm upon the rough bark. His eyes closed, and for a moment he seemed to fall in a strange trance as he conversed with the tree without words. Then he stepped back, and as he opened his eyes again, he seemed rejuvenated and strengthened like they had not seen during the whole quest.
"These trees are older than even I am," he said softly, with a sense of wonder in his voice, "and strong, very strong and wise. Alas! 'tis not easy for me to understand their thoughts, for they have nearly forgotten how to talk to Elves any more. I tried to ask them what happened here, but their memories are so flooded with images that it is hard to find the right one among them. They must have stood here since the early years of the Second Age, I deem."
"And rightly so, my friend," Gandalf nodded. "Here the Elven-way from Hollin ended. Holly was the token of the people of that land – the people of Celebrimbor, the Jewel-Smith – and they planted these trees here to mark the end of their domain."
"Their domain?" Boromir frowned. "Was then Moria and the lands around it not the possession of the Dwarves?"
"It was," said Gandalf. "But the West-door was made chiefly for the use of the Elves of Hollin in their dealings with the lords of Moria. Those were happier days, when there was still close friendship between different folks, even between Elves and Dwarves."
"It was not the fault of the Dwarves that the friendship waned," said Gimli, giving Legolas a dirty look. The Elf raised an elegant eyebrow.
"I have not heard that it was the fault of the Elves," he replied pointedly.
They glared at each other with open hostility, and for a moment Boromir almost feared that Legolas would lose control of his fiery temper again. The Elf could be as quick as a striking cobra in the deserts of Harad, and twice as deadly, if pushed beyond endurance. And despite Gimli's strength, Boromir doubted that the Dwarf would stand a chance against the enraged Elf.
Fortunately, Gandalf chose this very moment to step between the two, ending the glaring contest.
"I have heard both," the wizard said, in the manner of a long-suffering father. "and I shall not give judgement now."
"Oh?" the Elven eyebrow arched again, Legolas obviously not willing to give up just now. "You would not? Well, it was not their High King who got slaughtered in his own chambers, I daresay."
"But it was our King-to-be who was thrown into the dungeons of a greedy woodland Elf for no reason," shot back the Dwarf easily. Gandalf rolled his eyes over the old – and rather pointless – argument, but he got no chance to settle it once again.
Legolas moved so quickly that not even Aragorn was able to see his deceptively slender arm lashing out. Ere he knew what had happened, Gimli was grabbed by his beard and hurled against the rock wall with a force that rattled his teeth, and a long, white knife glinted in the twilight, ready to deal the deadly strike between the Dwarf's chin and the high collar of his mail shirt.
Only Boromir was near enough to intervene, and he moved without a second thought, grabbing the Elf's waist and throwing himself backward, thus separating Legolas from his prey, using his own weight for momentum. He landed on his back with a loud thump and a groan, Legolas on top of him. The rock was every bit as hard and unforgiving as it had felt through the soles of his boots.
Aragorn overcame his shock soon enough to grab Legolas' wrist and wrestle the knife from his hand. Boromir doubted not that the Elf could take out the Ranger without even quickening his breath; but, to his surprise, Legolas let himself be disarmed without further resistance. He rolled off of Boromir, landing on his feet gracefully like a cat, his face pale and blank. Only his burning eyes and his heavy breathing showed the cold wrath raging inside him.
"I warned you not to besmirch the good name of my father again, you filthy dog," he said to Gimli in a low, dangerous voice. "Try it next time, and your friends will be not fast enough to save your miserable life."
Gimli answered something in Khuzdul – something that was no compliment either, from the sound of it. Legolas, his temper flare obviously over, only shrugged and turned away, not giving the Dwarven curses any significance at all – which probably angered Gimli more than any acerbic answer the Elf could have given. Boromir frowned.
"What was that all about?" he asked Aragorn, the one most likely to give him any answer at all. "Do they have some personal grudge?"
"More or less," the Ranger answered quietly. "Both Elves and Dwarves are very good at keeping grudges for unreasonably long times – and Legolas inherited the sometimes frightening temper of his father. King Thranduil is well known for his tantrums, even though they seldom happen without reason."
"I have heard that Wood-Elves can be unpredictable and dangerous," Boromir murmured, "but I expected not that Legolas would draw steel against one of the Fellowship. He could have killed the Dwarf on the spot."
"Had he truly wanted to do so, Gimli would be dead already," replied Aragorn. "He would not waste time with threatening… though I must admit that for a short moment I was frightened for Gimli's sake. 'Tis rare to see Legolas this angry. He usually keeps his temper under tight control."
"I hope so," said Gandalf, who was listening to them in concern, "or else we have no chance to bring this quest to success." He raised his voice, calling out to the two still silently fuming combatants. "Legolas! Gimli! I ask you not to declare never-ending friendship – I know both Elven and Dwarven stubbornness all too well, alas! – only to calm down and help me. I need you both!"
He gave them a gaze so intent that neither could hold it. Legolas nodded reluctantly and turned away, growling something softly in a peculiar Silvan dialect.
"What can I do?" asked Gimli, still eager to help the wizard, despite the distraction of a good quarrel with the Elf.
"The doors are shut and hidden," Gandalf answered, "and the sooner we find them, the better. Night is at hand!"
"True," agreed Aragorn grimly. "So, what do you wish the rest of us do while the two of you are searching?"
"You should each make ready to enter the Mines," replied the wizard. "You know what I mean by that, Aragorn, do you?"
"That we must say farewell to our good beast of burden, I deem," Aragorn sighed, giving Sam a pitying look. Then he turned to the others, saying: "All right, my friends, I fear that we must lay aside much of the stuff that we brought against bitter weather: we will not need it inside."
"Nor when we come through and journey on down into the South," Boromir added. "If we come through at all, that is."
"If we want a chance of that, each of us must take a share of what the pony carried, especially the food and the water-skins," Aragorn replied, clearly not sure about the outcome of their attempt to visit the Mines – which made Boromir even more uneasy about the whole route. Whatever the Ranger might be, he certainly was no coward. And there also were Legolas' ill feelings about this path to consider.
As for the Halflings, they only sighed, accepting the inevitable, even though they were not happy about it. Sam, on the other hand, looked very distressed, his friendly, round face red with righteous anger.
"But you cannot leave poor Bill behind in this forsaken place, Mr. Gandalf!" he cried. "I will not have it, and that is flat. After he has come so far and all!"
Despite the graveness of their situation, Boromir could barely suppress a grin. The small, stout, red-faced Hobbit, glaring up into the wrinkled face of the wizard, was too funny to bear with a straight face.
"I am sorry, Sam," said the wizard, laying his hand on the curly head of the young Hobbit in a grandfatherly manner. "But when the Door opens I do not think you will be able to drag your Bill inside, into the long dark of Moria. You will have to choose between Bill and your master."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The rest of their discussion eluded me – that simple gesture of Mithrandir brought back memories I thought long forgotten. It reminded me of the day when the wizard came to Minas Tirith to say his farewells to my grandfather, who had fallen mysteriously ill a few years earlier. The healers knew not what ailed him, and it took me more than thrice ten years 'til I understood that he, too, had fallen under the Shadow that dwelt in Minas Morgul. Not a moment earlier than under the ruins of the broken bridge of Osgiliath did I recognize that grey weariness upon his face – 'twas the same dread that I saw on Faramir's face after we had swum to the safety of the other river bank, and I am certain that it was on my face, too.
But back then Faramir was but a little child, and I was very young myself. When I looked at Samwise, rising his angry yet still trusting eyes to Mithrandir, I could almost see the boy my brother had been. It occurred to me that during one of those long-winded lessons about Halfling family trees young Peregrin had mentioned once Samwise's age – it was the same age as my brother's. They very nearly were born on same day.
I looked at the little gardener and saw my brother as a five-year-old – for the tidings of Ecthelion's illness reached Mithrandir far too late, and when he finally came, my grandsire had been dead for four years already – looking up to the wizard with big, shining eyes, demanding tales about Elves and dragons and the unexpected luck of the sons of penniless widows. Suddenly, my heart felt heavy with foreboding. As if the foreshadows of a not-so-far, dread future had fallen upon it. And once again, I knew, with a terrible certainty that went beyond reason, that I will not see Faramir again.
Almost unknowingly, my fingers tasted after the Stone that I had not touched since we had fought back the Wargs. I was afraid of the intensity of the Joining – of my own treacherous heart. I was afraid, that – if I tasted that wonderful peace again – I might not bring up the strength to go on. That I might simply lie down and die in bliss.
But now I felt so drained that I could not deny myself the comfort of Elladan's touch upon my soul. Selfish it might have been, for I knew that it drained his strength every time, but I craved that special closeness I could have with no-one else, not even Faramir. What I shared with my Elf was unique, a bond created rarely between Firstborn and Men through all three Ages of Middle-earth. And I needed it before facing the darkness of the Mines.
Thus I slipped off my rough glove and closed my fingers around that peculiar white gem in almost-despair.
And there it was – his soft touch upon my soul, like the kiss of a spring rain upon the barren soul. Earlier on, he often farspoke to me through the Stone, but not this time. There was a gentle brush between our spirits, a brief, yet complete merging once again – then he was gone. But that was enough to fill me with much-needed strength, even though I felt his loss keenly.
I missed a good part of the discussion between Samwise and the wizard, it seems, for when I returned my attention to them the Halfling was in tears already, fumbling with the straps and unloading the pony's packs, throwing them all on the ground. Meriadoc and Peregrin – and indeed, even the Ring-bearer himself – sorted out the goods, chasing us, "clumsy Big People", as they said, out of the way. They made a pile of all that had to be left behind, commenting sadly on the considerable size of that pile, and divided the meagre rest. Realizing how little we could take with us made even my heart heavy, and the Halflings looked more than a little unhappy.
When all was done, we turned to watch Mithrandir again. If any of us expected some spectacular demonstration of wizardry, we were disappointed. The old wizard appeared to have done nothing during all the time. He was standing between the two trees gazing at the blank wall of the cliff, as if he wanted to bore a hole into it with his eyes, and I began to doubt that he would be able to find the Doors at all. My father had always said that Mithrandir was no good – full of tricks and deception, but no true powers – and despite the fireworks that had scared the Wargs away, I asked myself whether he truly could do aught else but blind some easily-impressed Halflings with his jests and games.
The Dwarf seemed to have come to the same conclusion, for he had already begun to look for the Doors on his own, wandering about, tapping the stone here and there with his axe and muttering into his fiery beard in his own, strange tongue. To my surprise, I also saw Legolas, next to one of the ancient trees, pressed against the rock, as if listening, and I wondered what he might hear – if anything.
Apparently, patience was not one of the strengths of Halflings, for they were fidgeting already. As expected, Meriadoc was the first to give in to his worries – as he was the one who dreaded the thought of crossing the Mines most.
"Well, here we are and all ready," he said, his clear little voice uncommonly sharp and irritated. "But where are the Doors? I cannot see any sign of them."
Gimli turned away from the rock wall he was examining and gave the irritated hobbit a sour look.
"Dwarf-doors are not made to be seen when shut," he said in a lecturing tone. "They are invisible, and their own masters cannot find them, if their secret is forgotten."
"Why am I not surprised?" Legolas commented softly, but still loud enough for the Dwarf to hear. I groaned, fearing another outburst of their never-ending quarrel, and I could see Aragorn rolling his eyes, too.
But nay, fortunately Mithrandir chose this very moment to come suddenly to life and turn around.
"But this Door was not made to be a secret known only to Dwarves," he said. "Unless things have altogether changed, eyes that know what to look for may discover the signs."
"What signs?" Meriadoc asked, not the least reassured. It seemed that I was not the only one who could make no sense of the wizard's riddled words, despite the fact that the Halflings had known him all their lives.
"You will see in a moment," Mithrandir replied, walking forward to the wall.
Following his movements we could make out a smooth place between the shadow of the trees – a rather tall and wide space, where the rock looked as if it had been polished over with great care, even though it had apparently happened a long time ago. Over this space now Mithrandir passed his hands to and fro, muttering words under his breath in a tongue that I could not understand. Then he stepped back.
"Look!" he said. "Can you see anything now?"
The Moon now shone upon the grey face of the rock, but no matter how hard I tried, I could see naught else – and I was not the only one.
"All I can see is the rock itself," Peregrin muttered unhappily, and his cousin nodded in grim agreement. Then the youngest Halfling looked up to me with his head tilted to one side. "Can you see aught, Lord Boromir?" He kept addressing me like that, while he simply called Aragorn "Strider", even though out of all of the "Big People" he chose to keep company with me.
I shook my head and was just about to say that no, I could see naught, either, when on the surface, where the wizard's hands had passed, faint lines began to appear slowly, faint like veins of silver running in the stone, delicate and beautiful.
"Look, Master Peregrin!" I said. "There is something."
"They look like pale gossamer-threads," Samwise commented in awe, and indeed, at first they were no more – so fine that they only twinkled fitfully where the silver beams of Ithil caught them. But slowly and steadily they grew broader and clearer, until their design could be guessed.
And I understood at once that we had, indeed, found the Doors.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Though calling them "doors" might have been a little exaggerated for something that still looked like silver painting on the rock surface. At the top, as high as Gandalf could reach, was a graceful arch of interlacing letters in Elvish characters, in a mode that had once been used in Beleriand that was now buried under the Sea, and later among the Elven-smiths of Eregion. Thank all those studies forced upon him in his youth by his father, Boromir could read the letters – he even recognized a word or two – but the meaning of the writing eluded him.
Below the arch, though the threads were in places blurred or broken, the outline could be seen of an anvil and a hammer surmounted by a crown with seven stars, shaped like a helmet. Beneath these again were two trees, each bearing crescent moons. More clearly than all else there shone forth in the middle of the door a single star with sixteen rays.
They all gaped in awe at he exquisite craftsmanship before their eyes, but most amazed of all was Gimli, of course.
"These are the emblems of Durin!" he cried in delight, forgetting even the peril of the Wargs that could catch up with them any moment.
"And there is the Tree of the High Elves," added Legolas. "I have heard wondrous tales in Imladris about the making of these doors, as Gildor Inglorion witnessed their making. These emblems are wrought of ithildin that mirrors only starlight and moonlight, 'tis said, and sleeps until it is touched by one who speaks words now long forgotten in Middle-earth."
"'Tis true," nodded Gandalf. "Even for me, it has been a long time since I heard them, and I had to think deeply before I could recall them to my mind."
"But what does the writing say?" asked Frodo, who was trying to decipher the inscription on the arch. "I thought I knew the Elf-letters, but I cannot read these."
"Ennyn Durin Aran Moria: pedo mellon a monno. Im Narvi hain echant: Celebrimbor o Eregion teithant I thiv hin," Legolas read for him with ease; seeing the stunned looks of the others, the Elf shrugged. "I might not be a lore-master like Elrond, but I am the son of a King nevertheless. Do you believe that shooting arrows was the only thing I learned in more than three thousand years?"
"No, we do not," replied Frodo apologetically, "but I still understand not the meaning of these words."
"The words are in the Elven-tongue of the West of Middle-earth in the Elder Days," answered Gandalf in Legolas' stead. "But they do not say aught of importance to us. They say only: 'The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend and enter!' And underneath small and faint is written: 'I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs.'"
"That is why the Star of the House of Fëanor is in the middle of the door," Legolas added. "For Celebrimbor was the grandson of Fëanor, and his skills nearly matched those of his grandsire."
"The last sensitive Elf who ever walked in Middle-earth," grumbled Gimli. "At least the Elves of Eregion appreciated fine craftsmanship instead of whining about trees that were felled for fire."
If he expected Legolas to pick up the challenge, he waited in vain. The only answer the Elf gave him was a meaningful look at the truly magnificent trees that guarded the closed Doors – had guarded them for over four thousand years. The message was clear for everyone: Celebrimbor and his people apparently had been just as fond of trees as any other Elf.
"What does it mean by 'speak, friend, and enter'?" asked Merry hurriedly, as if trying to change the subject and avoid another quarrel between the Dwarf and the Elf.
"That is plain enough," said Gimli impatiently. "If you are a friend, speak the password, and the Doors will open, and you can enter."
"The password?" Pippin's eyes grew incredibly wide with excitement; no Hobbit could ever ignore a good riddle. "You mean these are magic doors, just like the ones in the palace of Legolas' father in Mirkwood? The ones Bilbo told us of?"
"Ha!" the Dwarf snorted. "Thranduil's doors are naught compared with these here! They were made by the masters of some nether clan from the Grey Mountains!"
"That might be so," Legolas replied with deceiving mildness, "but at least we are able to open and close them at will."
Aragorn suppressed a groan… and the urge to roll his eyes in despair once again. Despite their long friendship, at times he wished to throttle Legolas for that Silvan stubbornness of his.
"I am certain that we will open these doors as well," the Ranger said. "If the Elves could do it, so should we, I deem."
"Yes," said Gandalf, "I, too, think that these doors are governed by words. I wish we had Gildor with us, for he has visited Moria in the times of its glory, and mayhap would remember the opening spell as well."
"Then mayhap you should have advised Elrond to send a more useful Elf along with the Fellowship," commented Legolas icily. "Though knowing the words alone might not be enough, as some Dwarf-gates will open only at special times, or for particular persons; and some have locks and keys that are still needed when all necessary times and words are known. Or so those lesser masters of the Ered Mithrin have told us long time ago."
"True," admitted the wizard, ignoring the challenge in the Elf's voice, "yet I happen to know that these doors have no key. In the days of Durin they were not secret. They usually stood open, and doorwardens sat there. But if they were shut, any who knew the opening word could speak and pass in. At least so it is recorded, is it not, Gimli?"
"It is," said the Dwarf. "But what the words were is not remembered, unless this Lord Gildor can recall them. For Narvi and his craft and all his kindred have vanished from the earth."
"But do not you know the word, Gandalf?" asked Boromir in surprise. "Surely you had counselled with Gildor Inglorion ere we left Imladris, as you had planned this way all along?"
"Nay," said the wizard, "for he left the Valley on some sort of errantry after the Council, and I had no chance to discuss our travelling plans with him."
TBC