DESCENDING TO DARKNESS
by Soledad
Disclaimer: see Introduction.
Rating: PG, for this chapter
Author's notes: Accidentally, this chapter has the same title as its equivalent in my Mary Sue parody – for no apparent reason. I simply liked the sound of it. Also, I am trying to write shorter chapters than it is my wont, for easier reading.
As always, many thanks to Snicklepop for beta-reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.
CHAPTER THREE: SECRETS AND SPELLSGandalf's confession that he knew not the opening words for the Doors of Moria caused great distress among the others. The Hobbits were very near to panic, even though Frodo kept a composed look as always, Gimli looked sorely disappointed, while Legolas, strangely, seemed relieved. Boromir felt a great anger rising in his breast like a hungry fire, ready to burst out. Only Aragorn, who knew Gandalf well, remained silent and unmoved.
Boromir, however, felt less restraint. The closeness of that dark pool filled his heart with unease, as if some malevolent being was watching them from its murky depths – patiently and with an unquenchable hunger that reached back to before the very birth of Time. Every time he glanced back at the dark water, he shuddered, and showing such weakness was not to his liking at all.
"Then what was the use of bringing us to this accursed place?" he asked, fighting the sound of his own fear; he wanted not to frighten the Halflings out of their minds. "You told us that you had once passed through the Mines. How could that be, if you knew not how to enter?"
Gandalf clearly disliked being questioned in this manner, if the angry glare he gave the Heir of Gondor was of any indication. But Boromir was beyond annoying the wizard already, even though he knew how unwise it was to raise the Grey Pilgrim's ire. Gandalf was known as one of the very few people who could stand up to the Steward of Gondor when Denethor was at his enraged worst – something not even Boromir himself was always able to do. Still, right now, he wanted answers and was not willing to back off.
"Well, Mithrandir," he said again, and his voice sounding harsh even in his own ears; "what is your answer?"
"My answer to your first question, son of Denethor, is, that I know not the word – yet. But we shall soon see," replied the wizard, and there was a dangerous glint in those deep eyes, under their bristling brows. "And you may ask what is the use of my deeds when they are proved useless."
"Worry not," said Boromir calmly, "I will. For I clearly see no way that would lead inside, unless you know the word. And you have still answered not my other question: how did you pass the Mines the last time?"
"Do you doubt my tale?" the wizard asked in a low, dangerous voice. "Or have you no wits left? I did not enter this way. I came from the East."
"I may be an unhewn soldier in your eyes, Mithrandir," said Boromir, and now his eyes began to burn with cold wrath, too, "but regardless of what you may think of me, I am no fool. And I dare to doubt your tale, indeed. For even though you entered Moria through its East Gate, you had to come out somehow, I deem."
"Boromir," the Dwarf lay a broad hand soothingly upon his vambrance, "you do not understand how these doors work. If you wish to know, I shall tell you that they open outwards. From the inside you may thrust them open with your hands. From the outside, though, naught will move them save the spell of command. They cannot be forced inwards. That is the way all Dwarven doors have been made since Durin's days, unless they were protected by additional means and secrecy."
"And that is exactly how I passed these doors, a long time ago," added Gandalf, still fuming slightly with anger.
This silenced Boromir, for there was naught else for him to say, even though the doubt and mistrust had not completely been lifted off his heart.
Only Pippin seemed undaunted by the wizard's bristling brows. "What are you going to do then?" he asked brightly, as if they were back in the Shire still, planning some cheerful surprise for Bilbo's birthday or whatnot. Boromir stifled a chuckle – Pippin's irrepressible nature never failed to amuse him.
Gandalf, on the other hand, found the Hobbit's question less than funny.
"Knock on the doors with your head, Peregrin Took," he said, irritated. "But if that does not shatter them, and I am allowed a little piece from foolish questions, I will seek for the opening words."
"How would you do that?" asked Merry quietly – he, too, feared the Mines far more than the irate wizard, and in his heart he hoped the doors would prove impossible to open. Even if it meant that they would have to fight the Wargs one more time.
Gandalf looked down, straight into the worried eyes of the young Brandybuck, and tamed his own temper. There was no use frightening the Hobbits, and if Merry, the bravest and most adventurous of them was full of fear and concern, reassurance had to be given.
"Have faith, Master Brandybuck," the wizard said with a gentleness that Boromir would never expect of him. "I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves or Men or Orcs that was ever used for such purpose…"
Boromir shot him a doubtful look – it seemed unlikely that anyone, even a wizard, would know every such spell. This boasting might have eased the Halflings' anxiety, but who knew how much truth there was behind those grand words?
Interestingly enough, even though the Hobbits normally took Gandalf's words as truth, Merry did not appear completely reassured.
"And how many of those spells do you still remember?" he asked the wizard, glancing worriedly at Pippin, whom – being the older cousin – he considered as his responsibility.
"Ten score", replied Gandalf promptly, "and that without racking my brains."
"Ten score?" Merry repeated with a frown. "Are we supposed to sit here and wait 'til you try every single one of them?"
"Do we have any other choice?" interrupted Frodo with a question of his own.
'Twas now Boromir's turn to frown. The Ring-bearer obviously trusted the wizard blindly – that was not new. Still, if he could find the chance to speak with Frodo in private, he might bring him to reason. The Halfling was no fool – surely he could be persuaded to do the right thing, if others did not intervene.
"Nay, you have not," replied Gandalf to Frodo's question. "But only a few trials, I think, will be needed; and I shall not have to call on Gimli for words of the secret Dwarf-tongue that they teach to none."
"To almost none," corrected the Dwarf. "We teach it not to other people in these times; but, once there were Elves, trustworthy ones, who were taught some of it. Celebrimbor himself was one of those, and so was his father."
"Still, I am certain that the opening words were Elvish, like the writing on the arch," said Gandalf; "because of the use for which the road and the doors were originally made."
"In that case you should begin to search for the right word," grumbled the Dwarf, "if we want to enter the Mines ere the Wargs catch up with us."
"That is what I am trying to do," replied Gandalf with a patience that once again surprised Boromir. "And you are not helping, Master Dwarf!"
Gimli bowed to him in Dwarf-fashion, bending slightly from the hips only, while his back remained straight. It looked like a stiff and rather… uncomfortable gesture.
"Forgive me, Tharkûn," he said. "The concern spoke from me. I shall be quiet now."
The wizard gave him a short nod of acceptance. Then he stepped up to the rock again, and reaching out with his gnarled staff he touched the silver star in the middle directly under the sign of the anvil. While he pressed lightly, he spoke in a clear, commanding voice that echoed ringing from the smoothed rock wall like a signal bell: in the same tongue as the writing was composed in.
Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen!
Fennas nogothrim lasto beth lammen!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We all waited with caught breath for what might happen. Unfortunately, not much did. The silver lines faded for a moment, but the blank grey stone did not stir.
Mithrandir seemed taken aback a little, but to his credit he gave not up easily. Many times he repeated these same words, in different order or in various intonations. But nothing seemed to work.
"What did he say?" Peregrin asked the Ringbearer, his curiosity conquering his fear. Never in my whole life have I seen a being who could ask so many questions. In a way, his eagerness was charming, even though those who were expected to provide the answers might find him bothersome at times.
For my part, I always found it comforting to answer his questions about Gondor, Minas Tirith, my brother, our food, songs and customs. He was interested in small things mostly; and in exchange told me about the simple, delightful life in their strange little land in generous detail. While our conversations might have little to do with lore or wisdom, they reminded me of the true reason for our long, twilight struggle – that we fought this endless battle against the Darkness so that at least some people could live life free of the Shadow.
Indeed, just being with the little folk eased the burden of my heart, and at times I wondered what it would be like to have someone of such irrepressible good humour in my father's much too stern and dour court. I have long since given up believing in wonders (though were I allowed to have more time with my Elf I might have re-claimed my childhood beliefs) but it seems to me that young Peregrin could make even my father smile.
Frodo could not answer Peregrin's question, and the young Took, who could never allow his curiosity to be unsatisfied, tugged on Legolas' tunic impatiently.
"Legolas! What did Gandalf say?"
The Elf squatted down to him and tilted his head on one side in a strange, bird-like manner. I had noticed this habit many times before, and knew that it drove Gimli mad, yet I doubted that Legolas did it on purpose. It must be one of those peculiar Wood-Elf things.
"Want to know the Noble Tongue, Master Took?" he asked teasingly. Peregrin shook his head most determinedly.
"Naaay… I only want to know this spell."
"What for?" asked Legolas; then he added with a mischievous grin: "It seems not to work all too well…"
Mithrandir must have heard him, for he shot the Elf an irritated look before continuing his so far fruitless efforts. Legolas' grin broadened, and I began to wonder about things that Elves found amusing. Our situation was anything but funny at the moment, and for short while I considered throttling him… even though I wanted no more to go through the Mines than he did.
Peregrin, however, did not let himself be distracted so easily. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now – which meant he would be nagging Legolas mercilessly until he got them.
"Still, I want to know what those words mean," he repeated stubbornly.
Legolas gave an exaggerated sigh, but his leaf-green eyes were twinkling in merriment. Apparently, he found the youngest Halfling highly amusing company.
"Well then, o most insatiable hobbit, I shall reveal for you the meaning of those riddled words," he said in playful formality, and I could hardly believe that this was the same Elf who had pulled steel on Gimli not so long ago. "But you must promise that you will be quiet after that. I wish to listen to the voices of the night."
No matter how lightly he said the last words, they made me restless again. For I knew why he wanted to listen – he wanted to hear the approach of the Wargs, should they catch up with us under the veil of the night.
"I promise," said Peregrin impatiently. "Now tell me!"
The Elf laughed quietly – it was a rare and pleasant sound that reminded me of peaceful nights in Imladris – and finally gave in.
"As you wish. But it is not that interesting, truly. The spell simply says: 'Gate of Elves, open now for me! Doorway of Dwarrows, listen to my words!'(1)"
Peregrin glared at the Elf suspiciously. "That is all?"
Legolas shrugged. "What else do you wish for? 'Tis a common enough spell that has been used for such purposes for two Ages, at the very least."
"Yet apparently not among the elves of Eregion," said Frodo quietly.
"Nay," Legolas answered. "I think not. Still, I would say Gandalf is not beaten yet. Keep up your spirits and try to rest for as long as you can. For I fear this might be your last chance, whether the Doors open or not."
With these words he rose gracefully and departed with those weightless, cat-like strides of his towards the pool.
"I shall take a look southward along the lake-side," he called back over his shoulder – then he was swallowed by the darkness.
"Do you believe he will find something?" I asked my would-be King quietly. Aragorn sighed, giving the eerily silent, dark pool an uneasy look.
"I know not," he answered in a voice as low as mine had been. "Yet I wish Gandalf would find the opening spell, soon. I have a very bad feeling."
"Foresight?" I asked, not truly teasing. I have learnt to respect the gut feeling and disturbing dreams of my brother, and if Aragorn in truth was a pure blooded Dúnadan of royal breed, his gift – or curse, depending on one's point of view – might have been twice as strong as Faramir's. Or even Father's.
"Experience," he answered wryly. "Thank the Valar, my dreams are rare and far between. But I have spent most of my adult life in the wilderness and have learnt to listen to its signs. Something here is very, very foul – as if the rock itself would watch us with wakefulness and wrath. Can you not feel it?"
"I feel as if we are watched," I replied. "By whom or what I cannot say, but what ever it is and where ever it hides, it cannot mind well with us. We should leave here. Now."
Aragorn nodded in agreement, which was a rare thing between us. Unfortunately, it helped us little, for the only one who could open the way of escape – even if it led to even greater perils – was Mithrandir, and he was having little success in doing so.
He had abandoned the words of the first spell and tried other spells, one after another, speaking now faster and louder, now soft and slow. None of them pulled a response from the stone. Then he spoke many single words in different Elven tongues, some even I could understand, while some were unknown to us all, including Aragorn, though he had been raised by Elrond and taught Elven lore.
Nothing happened. The cliff towered into the night, the countless stars were kindled, the wind blew cold – and the Doors stood fast, framed by the two great holly-trees that stood stiff, dark, and silent, throwing deep shadows in the moonlight.
"I feel like I am trapped in a nightmare," I murmured, my eyes turning back to the dark and silent waters again and again. Aragorn followed my look.
"You are," he replied gloomily; "we all are."
There was naught I could answer to that, and so we sat in shared anxiety, watching as Mithrandir approached the wall again, lifting up his arms, so that his wide sleeves hung like huge bat-wings, he spoke in command and rising wrath.
"Edro, edro!" he cried, and struck the rock with his staff.
As before, nothing happened.
"Open, open!" he shouted again, this time in Westron, and followed it with the same command in every language that had ever been spoken in the West of Middle-earth – or at least so it seemed. I recognized Adûnaic, Rohirric, Dunlendish, three different dialects of Haradric and two Elven tongues that I was fleetingly familiar with. What the others were I could not even guess. But one thing they all had in common – they opened the Doors of Moria not.
After a while Mithrandir, too, seemed to realize his own defeat. He threw his staff on the ground, and sat down in silence.
"Aragorn, 'tis hopeless," I said to my King-to-be in a voice I hoped was too low for the Halflings to hear, "you know that as well as I do. We should never have come here."
"Mayhap," he agreed reluctantly, for he had been against this road himself, and I knew that. "Yet now we are here and here we must come through… somehow."
"Why should we?" I asked, for his stubbornness angered me more than a little. "'Tis still not too late to make for the Gap of Rohan. Not even Curunír can be everywhere, and Prince Théodred is a good friend of mine. We could get help from him: horses and supplies, mayhap even a small escort, not enough to draw unwanted attention but enough for us to travel safely for a while. It was folly to set off on foot in the first place!"
He looked at me indecisively, and in the moonlight I saw doubt in his grey eyes – for the first time ever since we met. For a fleeting moment I almost hoped he would listen to reason. But alas! Fate remained unkind to me… to all of us. At that very moment from far off the wind bore to our listening ears a disturbingly familiar sound.
The howling of wolves.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That, of course, pretty much ended any discussion about going back and making for the Gap of Rohan after all. With the Wargs on their trail, there remained only one way for them: through the Mines. Unfortunately, that way, too, was still blocked.
The Hobbits all sprang to their feet to help Sam restrain Bill the pony – the poor beast startled in fear and nearly broke away, but they caught him just in time, and Sam's softly whispered endearments seemed to calm him down little by little.
"Do not let him run away!" said Boromir, casting an uneasy look first at the still closed Doors and the motionless wizard, then at the dark, stagnant water again. "It seems that we shall need him still, if the wolves do not find us."
"You truly believe that we have a chance to shake off the Wargs after they have picked up our scent?" asked the Ranger gravely. "Nay, Boromir; not even the stench of this lake would be strong enough to fool their noses. Even if we swam across it, soiling ourselves with its murk, it would not be enough."
"You must be insane for even thinking of swimming across this foul pool," replied Boromir, stooping and picking up a large stone, which he cast as far into the dark water as he could. "Valar, how I hate it!"
Aragorn did try to stop him, but he was too late. The stone, hurled far with all the pent-up frustration that had grown in Boromir's gut since they arrived there, vanished with a soft slap. But at the same instant there was a swish and a bubble. Great rippling rings formed on the surface out beyond where the stone had fallen – and they moved slowly towards the foot of the cliff.
Boromir heard a sudden, sharp intake of breath and glanced down – right into the worried, very serious eyes of the Ringbearer.
"Why did you do that, Boromir?" asked Frodo. "I hate this place, too, and I am afraid."
"What of?" asked Boromir, and Frodo shrugged uncertainly.
"I know not: not of the wolves or the dark behind the Doors, though all that, too, fills my heart with unease. But there is something else… some unknown evil that I can feel but cannot see."
"The pool," Boromir muttered. "There is something in that foul water; something very old and very, very evil. I can feel its hunger in my bones."
"So can I," said Frodo quietly, "and I wish you had not disturbed the water. For thus far, what ever it is, it was quiet. Who knows what you have awakened?"
"I know not, and I doubt that even Gimli does," said Aragorn. "For this lake was not here when I visited this place the last time, and what ever dwells in the water, must have been driven out from its hiding place, deep under the mountains – by whom or by what, I cannot say."
"And I care not, truth be told," said Merry, watching the water anxiously. "All I wish is that we could get away."
Pippin nodded in complete agreement and eased closer to Boromir, almost involuntarily. The presence of his big, valiant friend gave him a feeling of safety.
"Why does not Gandalf do something quickly?" he asked.
Gandalf took no notice of them. He sat with his head bowed – either in despair or in anxious thought. The others found this rather unsettling, as the mournful howling of the wolves was heard again, this time closer than before, and they feared that the fell beasts would reach them ere the wizard found the means to open the Doors.
"Where is Legolas?" asked Frodo suddenly. "It might not be the best idea to become separated. The wolves are closing up to us, and the water…"
He trailed off, but the others followed his gaze and understood what he meant. The ripples on the water grew and came closer; some were already lapping on the shore.
"Whatever it is, it is coming," said Aragorn grimly, drawing his sword. "Frodo is right – we may need Legolas very soon, as he is the only one of us with a bow(2)."
Boromir followed suit, and the Hobbits, too, draw their short swords. Frodo cast a look at Sting, but the blade remained dull and grey.
At least no Orcs, he thought, but that was small comfort. What ever was coming out of the water certainly was bigger than any Orc. Several times, if the size of the ripples was of any indication.
Yet in the next moment they forgot about the upcoming peril, for with a suddenness that startled them all the wizard sprang to his feet.
And he was laughing!
"I have it!" he cried in delight. "Of course, of course! Absurdly simple, like most riddles when you see the answer!"
No matter how much he disliked the thought of crossing the Mines, even Aragorn seemed utterly relieved. Anything was better than being caught between the wolves and the rock wall – or whatever was emerging from the dark lake that very moment.
"You have found the word?" he asked. Gandalf nodded with a broad smile.
"I have indeed. Watch!"
Picking up his staff he stepped before the rock and said in a clear voice that bore more power than one would expect from such a bearded old Man: "Mellon!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I knew well what that word meant, of course. I had been taught the Elven-speech, after all, and my time with Elladan brought many things that I thought forgotten back to my mind. Still I wondered what such a simple word might do – surely it could not be the opening spell!
But I was mistaken, obviously. For as soon as the upper end of that gnarled staff touched the many-rayed star in the middle of the door, it shone out briefly and faded again. Then, to my great wonder, silently a great doorway was outlined, though not a crack or joint had been visible before. I must admit that up to that moment I had doubted that the Doors actually existed. But now that magic doorway slowly divided in the middle and swung, still noiselessly, outwards, inch by inch, until both doors lay back against the wall.
Through the opening a shadowy stair could be seen, climbing steeply up; but beyond the lower steps the darkness was even deeper than the night. The Halflings gaped and the Dwarf stared in wonder; as for myself, that darkness made me concerned, more than the howling of wolves that kept coming closer. Still, I wished Faramir could be here to see this, as it was something he would appreciate more than I was aver able to.
After the first joyful shock all eyes turned to Mithrandir in wonder and askance, and the wizard laughed quietly.
"I was wrong after all," he said, "and Gimli too. Merry, of all people, was on the right track."
The Dwarf apparently disliked this statement, grumbling something into his beard in his peculiar tongue. Meriadoc, however, looked up to the wizard in pleased surprise.
"I was right?" he repeated. "But I said naught of importance."
"Oh, but you did," replied Mithrandir. "You asked what it meant 'Speak, friend, and enter'."
"True. And?" Meriadoc was still unaware of why it would be so important. And, truth be told, so was I.
Mithrandir laughed again, pleased with himself.
"My dear hobbit, the opening word was inscribed on the archway all the time!" he said. Gimli frowned unhappily that it was not he who made this discovery.
"It was?" he asked. "Where?"
"I made a mistake," the wizard admitted; "a small but important one. The translation should have been: Say 'Friend' and enter. I had only to speak the Elvish word for friend and the Doors opened. Quite simple."
"Then how come that you did not see it right at the first moment?" I asked, my voice mayhap a little too harsh, even for my own ears. Yet to my surprise Mithrandir did not become angry this time, even though it had taken less to enrage him earlier.
He looked at me thoughtfully with those deep, dark eyes of his, and it seemed to me that his face was veiled by great sadness.
"Mayhap it was too simple for a learned lore-master in these suspicious days," he answered quietly. "Those were happier days. Now let us go!"
TBC
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) The translation of the second part of the spell is not completely genuine. I wanted something that sounded a little strange, so I used the originally intended plural for the word 'Dwarf'.
(2) In the books he was, indeed. And this is a bookverse fic.