DESCENDING TO DARKNESS
by Soledad
Disclaimer: see Introduction.
Rating: PG, for this chapter. Implied m/m actions.
Author's notes:
For the description of the fight against the Watcher in the Water I used some movie imagery. Gimli's mention of an old Dwarven legend is from HoME 6, if I remember correctly. I included it in this chapter for Deborah, who has an interest for Dwarven legends. :)
My sincerest thanks, as always, go to Snicklepop for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.
CHAPTER FOUR: THE DEVIL FROM THE DEPTHS(1)
Gandalf strode forward and set his foot on the lowest step. The hobbits followed tentatively, but none as soon as Gimli, who was now more eager than before to see the great realm of his forefather. Sam looked hesitatingly back and forth between the Doors and Bill the pony, who seemed very upset, rolling his eyes and smoothing back his ears. Obviously, the good beast felt some great peril approaching – something much closer than the wolves that were still howling from some distance.
Boromir draw his sword and looked around. He saw naught so far; but, as he made a count of the Fellowship, he noticed that one of them was still missing.
"Where is Legolas?" he asked in concern. "We cannot leave without him!"
Gandalf stopped and turned back with a frown.
"Is he not back yet?" he asked. Boromir shook his head.
"Trust an Elf to get lost when great speed is needed," grumbled Gimli.
Ere anyone could reply to that, Frodo was suddenly grabbed from behind as if by invisible hands and pulled off his feet. At the same moment the pony gave a wild neigh of fear, turned tail and dashed away along the lakeside into the darkness. Sam leaped after him, but hearing Frodo's cry ran back again, weeping and cursing.
"Strider! Help!"
The others, too, swung round and saw the waters of the lake seething, as if a host of snaked were swimming up from the southern end. Out from the water a long, sinuous tentacle had crawled: it was pale green and luminous and wet. Once again, Boromir was reminded of the giant, Man-eating Sea-serpents of the hair-raising tales told in Dol Amroth's taverns where far-travelled mariners shared tales of their adventures. He felt the same numbing fear rising in his chest that he had felt back then as a very young boy listening to those stories. For an endless moment he was unable to even move.
The fingered end of the tentacle had a hold of Frodo's foot and was dragging him into the water. Merry and Pippin, shaken out of their shock by Sam's cries, ran down and threw themselves upon Frodo, clutching him in a desperate attempt to slow down his slide toward the lake. While Sam, fallen to his knees, was slashing at the tentacle with his knife… with little success so far.
"Get off him, you fell monster!" he cried frantically, not understanding where the Men tarried while his Master was in dire need. "Strider!"
For a moment the arm let go of Frodo, feigning disappearance under the waters, and Sam, crying out for help again, tried to pull him away. But all of a sudden at least twenty other tentacles came rippling out. The dark water boiled, and there was a stench so hideous that Boromir very nearly threw up. Only his iron self-discipline saved him from getting sick right there.
The tentacles came thrusting out of the water, slapping the other hobbits away like small wooden toys and grabbing Frodo around the leg. Once again, he was pulled out and lifted over the water and into the air.
"Frodo!" called Merry, slashing at the nearest tentacle with his short sword furiously, but with very little effect. In fact, his efforts only seemed to make the tentacles attack more viciously.
Suddenly, the singing of a bowstring could be heard. Legolas came running up onto the shore and shot. His arrow pierced a three-pronged tentacle that was tying to wrap itself over Frodo's face. The Hobbit gasped for air and cried out for help. "Strider!"
Boromir finally shook off his horror and rushed to the water, hot on Aragorn's heels, and began attacking the beast. After all the tense anxiety of the last hours, he finally was able to do something, and he hesitated not for a moment to use his chance. But the glistening arms turned out to be disturbingly resilient – even his heavy sword could barely cut through the tough skin.
With an enraged battle cry, Boromir threw away his shield, gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands and heaved away, adding the weight of his whole body to the strength of his heaves. He butchered several of the snake-like appendages with grim satisfaction, driven by the near-insane need to kill this creature, whatever it was, that had managed to set him back in the state of numbing childhood horrors.
On his right Aragorn, too, was slashing the beast with the Sword that was Reforged, and for a fleeting moment of honest admiration Boromir had to admit that the hand that wielded it had indeed inherited the sinews of the Kings of Men. If naught else, Isildur's Heir was an excellent swordsman.
Slightly off on his left he could hear the singing of the Elven bow as it was bent to its limit, Legolas pulling the string back behind his own ear in order to send out his deadly arrows with the greatest possible strength(2). A Gondorian bow, such as Faramir and his Rangers used in Ithilien, would not bear such abuse for long, but obviously Elven bows could endure a lot more – and so did Elven sinews. Bending a bow like that demanded a strength few Men would possess, yet Legolas showed no sign of strain.
Boromir shook the wet hair off his face and looked around to measure their situation. It looked not good. Despite their efforts, the Ringbearer was still dangling high above the water from one of the tentacles, being lowered towards a gapping maw, ringed by fangs, set in a gilled face of some ancient beast whose huge, pale old eyes glistened fish-like from its head.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I realized not that I was lowering my sword, standing petrified upon the shore in hapless horror again. All I could see was that big head – it was so huge that the creature could have swallowed all of us with one bite – framed by those log, thorn-like fringes, longer that the height of a grown man and looking like the tresses of some crazed Sea-giant.
Though I never saw one with my own eyes (as I rarely had the chance to board one of Dol Amroth's ships,) I recognized the creature from the tales of the old mariners who earned their next tankard of ale by spinning tales in the taverns of Dol Amroth's harbour. It was a Kraken – there could be no doubt it. Only that I never believed them to be real. Old mariners were often known to spin tales of pure imagination.
Now I was forced to learn better.
I still believed not that this creature was big enough to swallow whole ships, but his maw certainly seemed wide enough for any Hobbit, Dwarf, Elf or Man to vanish in it, and in those ancient eyes was a malice, older than the world itself perhaps. A malice and a bottomless hunger that chilled me to the bone.
This was what I had felt from that accursed lake ever since we reached the Doors of Moria! Mayhap the Kraken had watched us all the time, waiting for the moment when our watchfulness was the weakest to attack.
'Tis possible, though, that it was sleeping in the farthest corner of the lake, not expecting any intruders.
In which case 'twas my own foolishness that awakened it, endangering all our lives. Why in Mordor did I have to throw that cursed stone? I behaved like a child that could not master his fears. And if the Ringbearer, or any of the Fellowship should die, it would be my fault. Though I was not the leader at any point of this journey, I had failed them nonetheless.
Never in my life had I failed my comrades before. Not as a young man in my first battle, not as the Captain of Osgiliath's defences, nor as the Captain-General of Gondor. Never – until now.
"Boromir!" someone screamed, and only a moment later did I recognize the clear voice of young Peregrin. "Above you!"
I looked up and saw the tentacle that held the Ringbearer coiling right above my head. I raised my sword again but was bested by Aragorn. Andúril sliced through that slimy arm like a hot knife through butter; it uncurled, and Frodo fell into my arms like a ripe fruit, making me effectively defenceless.
Behind me I heard the urgent voice of Mithrandir.
"Into the gateway! Up the stairs! Quick!" the wizard shouted, leaping back. Rousing us from the horror that rooted all of us to the ground for a moment when we believed that Frodo would fall into the maw of the Kraken, he drove us forward.
'Twas time to move indeed, for as we hastily retreated towards the Doors, other tentacles rose from the waters again.
"Legolas!" I shouted, running after Aragorn, clutching Frodo tightly, as if I were pursued by the fates; for I saw a huge tentacle uncoiling a hand-like appendage snaking after us, and I knew we had no chance to outrun it.
The Elf nodded with an uncanny calm and took arm. His bright eyes glittered in the moonlike like cold jewels.
"Go!" he said curtly. "I shall take care of it."
"Into the cave!" Aragorn shouted, urging us to go on in, and I ran for dear life.
At this moment Legolas finally released his arrow. I risked a glance back over my shoulder and saw it embedding itself deeply into the beast's right eye, and the Kraken recoiled for a moment with an ear-splitting roar. Aragorn picked up my shield and shoved me towards the Door, none too gently.
"No time for tarrying. Run!"
And run we did, racing straight into the Black Pit – just in time. Sam and Frodo, whom I had to put down as soon as we crossed the threshold, were only a few steps up, and Mithrandir had just begun to climb when the groping tentacles writhed across the narrow shore and fingered the cliff-wall and the Doors.
Legolas came running up, hot in my heels, almost knocking me up the stairs. He did not even seem out of breath.
"Do not tarry!" he said, using almost the same words as Aragorn shortly before. "We cannot afford to lose time."
I glanced back again. One of the long, thick arms had already come wriggling over the threshold, glistening in the starlight. I grabbed my shield from Aragorn and got ready to fight the monster again, even for the price of my own life. The Ringbearer had to be defended, by any means necessary.
Mithrandir, too, turned and paused. Yet if he was considering what word would close the gate again from within, there was no need. Instead of groping for us again, the many coiling arms of the Kraken seized the Doors on either side, and with horrible strength, swung them round.
With a shattering echo they slammed, and all light was lost. A noise of rending and crashing came dully through the ponderous stone. Then there was silence.
We were trapped in the Mines, and our only way led through them.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was utterly dark in the inside of the Black Pit, and for a moment they all stood, still shaking from the horrible fight with the ancient monster. Boromir felt the small frames of Merry and Pippin clinging to him from both sides but was too shaken himself to offer any other comfort than an encouraging squeeze of the small shoulders – even though it was an encouragement he did not truly feel. His own spirits were quite low, too.
Next to him Sam was clinging to Frodo's arm, although he only felt them because in this unbroken darkness the presence of the Ring had grown strong enough that he could tell its whereabouts without as much as seeing Frodo. He heard the little gardener collapsing upon a nearby step.
"Poor old Bill!" Samwise muttered in a choking voice. "Poor old Bill! Wolves and snakes! But the snakes were too much for him."
"At least he got away unharmed," came Frodo's soft, comforting voice. "Think about that, Sam. Bill is a wise beast and has learned much in Rivendell, as Gandalf said. He will escape the wolves and find his way back to Elrond's house – or wherever he wishes to go."
"I still think that it was nothing short of murder to turn him loose with all those wolves around," answered Sam sullenly. "But I had to choose, Mr. Frodo. I had to come with you!"
"And I am grateful that you did, Sam," said Frodo gently. At that Sam had naught else to say, so he only sniffled a few times, and then they both remained silent for a while.
'Tis curious how much the other senses seem to sharpen when one cannot see, thought Boromir absently, for he had no difficulty recognizing Gandalf's footfall as the wizard came back down the steps and thrust his staff against the Doors. By anyone else it would have been a ridiculous effort, but Boromir knew that in the hand of a wizard a staff could be much more than just an old man's walking aid. He had seen what Gandalf's staff could do with his own eyes during this quest, after all.
Yet this time the wizard's staff was of no use. Although there was a quiver in the stone when it touched the Doors, and the stairs trembled for a moment, the gate did not open again. Boromir felt a dread feeling creeping into his heart as he saw his fear confirmed. They truly were enclosed in the Mountains!
Once, he was not afraid of enclosed spaces. Before he was made Captain of the defences of Osgiliath, he had served with the mountaineer troops that explored the caves of the White Mountains, hunting for Orcs that might be hiding there. And though he enjoyed little spending days and nights underground, he found it not particularly frightening, either.
That is, until the day when they walked straight into an ambush, set up by cave trolls, the existence of whom they had known, of course, but whom no-one of them had really expected to find there. Cave trolls were considered extinct in the White Mountains.
What followed was more a massacre than a fight. To the present day, Boromir did not understand how they had survived at all – at least those who did, for the greater part of his troops was killed swiftly and brutally. That would have been their all fate, no doubt, had the Elves not come to their aid.
That was his first encounter with the Firstborn (save the few occasions he saw one of them from afar in his uncle Imrahil's court,) and that was mayhap the reason why he could relate to Legolas so much more than to the haughty and detached people of Imladris. For the Elves that had appeared as out of thin air, clad in rough, dark grey garb that was hardly distinguishable from the rocks themselves, were quiet and quick and deadly, and did not resemble Elrond's people at all.
Their whole attire served one purpose only: to be helpful in battle. Their dark hair was twisted into a simple knot on the top of their heads, and they wore flexible torso armours of small plates riveted inside a covering of leather(3), but even the plates of it were dulled grey, so that their glittering would not reveal them to the enemy. They fought with short spears and long knives, and with a savage fierceness that was in itself just as frightening as the trolls. And they knew the trolls and their fighting customs very well, easily finding weak spots on the huge, scaled beasts – weaknesses that Men had never heard of.
Even thus, the fight was cruel – and eerie, as it occurred in almost complete silence, save the grunts and groans of the wounded trolls. It went on for a long time, 'til the last troll was slain, and afterwards the strange Elves gave every fallen creature a thorough examination, to make sure no-one had survived. The trolls were dispatched with a cold efficiency that made the surviving Men shiver.
Some of the Elves were wounded, too, but none as severely than Boromir himself, who was slashed across his stomach with a filthy troll-blade. Beregond told him later that they had all but given up on him, for the wound was deep enough that they could see his inner organs through the wide slash. Yet the leader of the strange Elves gave him some arcane treatment, including dried herbs and healing spells, and dressed the wound with wet willow-bark that pulled it together and kept it closed. He not only survived, but made it back to Minas Tirith – where he then spent several weeks in the Houses of Healing.
The Men tried to thank the strange Elves, but they understood neither Sindarin nor Westron. When the elves spoke at all during the whole encounter, they only exchanged short, low voiced words with each other. Their tongue was so different that it hardly even sounded like the Elven speech Boromir had been taught as a child. Still, it was enough for the Men to recognize the Elven leader as a female – for though her voice was deeper than female voices usually were, it was soft and musical like all Elven voices.
Later, in Imladris, Elladan explained to Boromir that they had most likely encountered the Dark Elves – Avari they were called among heir own kin; the Unwilling, for they refused to leave the lands of their birth and never went to the West, not even as far as the other side of the Mountains. They avoided even other Elves, Elladan said, and lived in scattered settlements, deep inside the ancient forests or in closed, hidden valleys among the wildest mountains(4).
Yet when Boromir saw Legolas fighting the Wargs, he knew at once that this was not entirely true. For Legolas fought just as fiercely and savagely as those strange Elves back in the caves, and Boromir was sure that if no-where else, in Mirkwood there certainly was some contact between the Dark Elves and their Silvan brethren. Only an Avari armsmaster could have taught the son of an Elven King this particular fighting style.
He shook off his memories and glanced around to see if he could see the Prince of Mirkwood in this complete blackness – and, to his great surprise, he actually could! As his eyes adapted somewhat to the lack of light he saw back, where he guessed the Doors must have been, a slender shape, glowing softly, barely visible at all, but most certainly there. He remembered the night on Caradhras, where he first saw this, and wondered whether it happened every time when there was no other source of light or heat, or if Legolas could do it at will.
Gandalf still stood at the doors, listening to the noises from the other side of the stone slabs. Boromir could hear naught, himself, but maybe the ears of the wizard were better than those of a mere Man.
"Well, well!" said Gandalf, stating the obvious once again. "The passage is blocked behind us now, and there is only one way out – on the other side of the Mountains. I fear from the sounds that boulders have been piled up before the Doors. We cannot hope to move them again, even if we wished to get out in this side."
"There is more than that," said Legolas, his voice breaking with grief. "The old trees… they have been uprooted and thrown across the gate. I could hear their dying cries, even through all that stone."
"I am sorry," answered Gandalf quietly; he was perhaps the only one in the Fellowship who truly understood Legolas' loss. "For the trees were beautiful, and had stood so long."
"And now all they have seen and learnt in thousands of years is gone, too," the Elf added, sorrow and hatred filling his otherwise so pleasant voice. "If we survive this quest, then, by the holy name of Palúrien, I shall come back and tear that beast to pieces with my bare hands. That will not bring the trees back, but might save others of their kin."
"Palúrien…?" Boromir asked in a low voice from Aragorn, who now stood next to him.
"Yavanna," the Ranger explained. "That is how the woodland folk calls her: the Earth-lady. She is greatly respected among Silvan Elves."
"I felt something horrible was near from the moment that my foot first touched the water," said Frodo, who heard nothing of their short conversation.
"You were not the only one," replied Boromir grimly.
"But what was the thing," the hobbit asked, "or were there many of them?"
"I do not know," admitted Gandalf reluctantly. "But the arms were all guided by one purpose. Something has crept, or has been driven out of dark waters under the Mountains."
"In our old legends there are tales about groping arms that emerged from the waters and took our people when they were not watchful," murmured Gimli, and he could not suppress a shiver.
Legolas looked at Gandalf in askance. "But did you not say that there was no lake when you came here the last time? Where could this – whatever it was – have hidden before?"
"It was a Kraken," said Boromir grimly. "Old mariners in Dol Amroth's taverns often tell horrible tales about ancient Sea-monsters, and this thing certainly looked like one of those. Though how it has got here, so far from the Sea, I cannot say."
"It could have been trapped in the deep, dark waters that wash the roots of Arda, under the Mountains, Long ago, when the face of the Earth was different," said Gandalf. "There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world."
He did not speak out aloud, yet Boromir could not help thinking of how strange it had been that the Kraken had seized on the Ringbearer first among all the Fellowship.
"In the deep places of the world!" he muttered under his breath, to himself mostly, but the echoing stone magnified the sound to a hoarse whisper that all could hear. "In the deep places of the world indeed! And thither we are going against my wish. Who will lead us now in this deadly dark?
"I will," said Gandalf. "And Gimli shall walk with me. Follow my staff!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I cannot say that Mithrandir's promise was a great reassurance to me. So far, his leadership had been aught but flawless. Yet we had little other choice than to follow him, and follow him we did, deeper and deeper into the long dark of the Mines.
For we had none else to lead us. Not even Gimli had been in the deep halls of his forefathers, therefore the wizard was the one to pass on ahead, up the great steps, holding his staff aloft, and lo! from its gnarled, root-like tip there came a faint radiance. 'Twas barely stronger than Legolas' glowing, but enough for us to see at least where we set our feet.
The wide stairway before us was surprisingly sound and undamaged, which gave me some hope that if naught else, there had not been any fights. We began to climb the stairway, and I asked myself whether Gimli's kindred might still dwell somewhere in the depths, and if it had been them who had dammed their own gate-stream and driven the Kraken out of its former dwelling place.
The steps were broad and shallow, but the stairway seemed to have no end at all. Being used to climbing the seven stone rings of Minas Tirith, I felt it not too hard a climb, yet my small companions, who never left my side, were of a different mind. They panted and gasped for breath, wasting it for counting the steps at the same time. After a while I understood that for their short legs, the steps must have been fairly high, as they were shorter even than the Dwarf. I wished I could help them somehow.
Finally, we reached the top of the stairway and found an arched passage with a level floor leading on into the dark. The Halflings collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily.
"Two… hundred…," Peregrin gasped. "Why cannot Dwarves make nice, level floors like decent people? Bag End goes through the whole Hill, and still you need not to climb any steps there."
"Bag End is but a hobbit-hole," replied the Dwarf, sounding insulted. "This is… was a whole city, with many different levels. You are not at home any more."
"I wish I were," sighed Frodo. "But let us sit and rest and have something to eat, here on the landing. For I doubt that we shall find a dining-room soon."
The other hobbits agreed eagerly, and I could not help but wonder at their resilience. As if we were not in the Black Pit, they prepared a meal with gusto, forgetting already the fight with that ancient monster. While I, hardened warrior though I was, still felt the horror in my very bones, and I could see that Aragorn's eyes were haunted, too.
Part of our meagre food resources was passed around, and the Halflings ate with ravenous hunger. I could not suppress my amazement about how much these small creatures could eat. Once along our journey Peregrin tried to properly teach me all the names of regular hobbit meals, but I ceased to count them when he completed his lesson about the importance of elevenses. I was simply unable to keep count of all those small customs and rituals that regulated their everyday life. And I was amused that everyday life was mostly focussed on eating or preparing meals.
Yet, I could not deny feeling a faint envy, thinking of a land where producing and consuming food was the greatest concern. I wished the children of Gondor could have such a peaceful life. But I knew that that was not likely to happen. Not in the long run. Not when He, whose greatest weapon a small Halfling was wearing on a fine chain upon his neck, sat in his dark tower beyond the Ephel Dúath, watching our lands.
During my musings the others had eaten, and now Mithrandir was passing around that small flask again, the one with the miruvor.
"It will not last much longer, I am afraid," he said. "But I think we need it after that horror at the Gate."
For once, I was in complete agreement with him. As the cordial of Imladris hit my throat, spreading its wonderful warmth throughout my whole body, for a moment I felt as if I was back in Elrond's valley, resting in my lover's comfortable embrace. I remembered with astonishing clearness a memory of one particular time –when we had made love for the first time after our ugly fight… though calling it a fight might be misleading. I had hurt him badly, for when I was hurt myself, I lashed out at him; and he endured it with that uncanny Elven calmness that made me more angry than anything else.
I had wished him to fight back, to hurt me just as I had hurt him, for that would have made our parting easier. Yet he did not. He left my room, broken and hurting, but not as much as a bad word did he say to me. While he was off on errantry with his brother, I had enough time to understand the full measure of my folly and my loss.
Never did I truly believe that he would forgive me and things might become as they had been. And at first it seemed that they would not indeed, for he is a proud warrior, and I had wronged him greatly. Yet when I finally managed to overcome my stubborn pride and begged his forgiveness, his love won over the hurts I inflicted upon his heart, and he opened it for me again.
Looking back at that fateful night I had to believe that it was then that he made his Choice. Our love-making was desperate and yet so very gentle, I never knew that it could ever be this way with another man – or even with a woman, for that part. Afterwards, when I rested in his arms and he sang to me softly in the darkness to keep the nightmares away, as was his wont, I felt a warmth and a peace that I had not known since I left the safety of my mother's womb.
The warmth of miruvor had brought back that very feeling for a moment, and touching the Stone briefly, I reached out for my beloved, mayhap to thank him, mayhap just for resting in his comforting presence once more.
But I could not reach him. No matter how hard I tried, there was no answer.
Something, mayhap being enclosed in this accursed Mountain, or some evil that dwelt under the deep caverns, blocked Elladan from me. The feeling of loss was excruciating. I had grown so accustomed to his presence in my mind that it almost felt as if part of my own self had been forcibly removed. Was this what Elves felt when their soul-bound mates were killed? I knew not.
All I knew was that the journey through the Black Pit would be long and dark indeed. Even more so than I had feared.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As most of their companions were busy eating and listening to Gandalf's instructions concerning the next part of their journey, Legolas was the only one to notice Boromir's stricken face. The Elf, as usual sat a little apart from the others, his keen eyes never losing their watchfulness, (not even the nearly complete darkness,) and watched the Heir of Gondor with quiet anxiety.
Ever since they had met in the woods near Imladris, he felt a strange kinship toward this tormented Man, and was increasingly concerned about him. He would have kept an eye on Boromir even if Elladan had not asked him to do so. For though he considered himself a loyal friend of Aragorn, if for naught else than for Lady Arwen's sake whom he loved like a sister, he could also feel the loss of the Steward's son. How ever this quest might end, Boromir's life – and that of his family – would change, for ever.
If he lives to see it, Legolas thought, full of sorrow. For, with the keen sense of his maternal ancestors, he could feel the evil weight of the Shadow growing heavier upon Boromir's heart, the longer he was this close to the Ring. The Elf hoped that the bond between the Man and Elladan would prove strong enough to save Boromir from falling under that evil spell, but that was by no means certain. Boromir had fallen under Shadow before, and thus he was in great peril, greater mayhap than most of the others, save Frodo himself.
Legolas rose gracefully and noiselessly, stepped over one of the hobbits (he bothered not to see which one it was,) and sat down next to Boromir, offering him his waterskin as an excuse for his intrusion.
"You look troubled," he said in a low voice, so that they would not be overheard by the others. "What ails you?"
"The Stone," Boromir was too shaken to keep it to himself; besides, Legolas had never been aught but supportive in this matter. "It… it works no more!"
"Oh, but it does!" Legolas replied with a certainty he not truly felt; but he could not allow Boromir to break down, not now. "There must be something to overshadow the magic of the Stone; either the sheer mass of rock above us, or some evil presence. And, of course, you are a mere Man – were you an Elf, you could farspeak to Elladan still, even though it would be more difficult. Though mayhap not," he added, shuddering from unpleasant memories. "If ancient evils, older than even Elves are at work here, their powers might keep you from reaching him anyway."
"You think I shall be able to speak to him, soul to soul, when we leave this cursed place?" Boromir asked, clearly relieved. The Elf nodded.
"That is my belief, aye. So, keep up your hopes and be prepared, for I am certain that the little folk will have need of your strong arm and sharp sword yet, ere we reach the Eastern Gate."
He paused, his bright eyes searching the Man's face intently. "This darkness will take its toll on all of us, I fear. Will you be all right?"
Boromir nodded. The Mines made him as uneasy as they made Legolas, but now that he saw a purpose before his eyes and a hope waiting for him on the other end, he felt he could go on again.
"I am a soldier," he said simply. "And a good one, if I may say so myself. Duty comes first. Worry not, Master Elf. I can do this."
Legolas nodded, and without a further word he rose again to return to his former place. Gandalf, who was still talking to the others, noticed the waterskin in his hand, which gave him another thought.
"Go carefully with the water, too!" the wizard warned the hobbits. "There are many streams and wells in the Mines, but they should not be touched. We may not have a chance of filling our skins and bottles 'til we come down into Dimrill Dale."
Needless to say, this made the hobbits less than happy. Saving food and water was not something they were used to doing.
"How long is that going to take us?" asked Frodo.
"I cannot say," answered Gandalf with a shrug. "It depends on many chances. But going straight, without mishap or losing our way, we shall take three or four marches, I expect. It cannot be less than forty miles from West-door to East-gate in a direct line, and the road may wind much."
TBC
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) Yes, I do know that there is no such thing as a devil in Middle-earth (unless we count in the Dark Lord), all right? I was just unable to resist the pretty alliteration.
(2) That can actually be done – nomadic Hungarian warriors are said to have done so all the time. In fact, no mounted warrior who lacked the strength to draw the bowstring behind his ear was accepted into the Chieftain's or one of the nobles' guard. An arrow, shot by a trained warrior went through mail shirts or sometimes even plate armour like through butter. At that time the frequent prayer in Western Europe was: "And save us from the arrows of the Hungarians, O Lord!"
(3) Called a "brigandine" among mere Men. g
(4) Actually, considering the fact that in the Third Age Galadriel and Glorfindel were the only ones who had ever seen Valinor, all LOTR-Elves could be considered as Dark Elves. But I assumed that this was how the Avari were still called by their more "civilized" cousins.