DESCENDING TO DARKNESS
by Soledad
Disclaimer: see Introduction.
Rating: PG, for some disturbing images concerning battles.
Author's notes:
Sorry for being this long with an update. The truth is, I thought this chapter (and the next one) lost, due to my most recent computer crashdown. It was a pleasant surprise to find them, after all.
Not much action in here, I am afraid. Basically Boromir's musings about the possible fate of Gondor, and a few glimpses into his past.
Dedication: This particular chapter is for Ro and Aislynn, my fellow Dwarf-fanciers. Alas, it is not beta-ed.
CHAPTER FIVE: THE LONG DARK
After only a brief rest we started on our way again, eager to get this part of our journey over as quickly as possible. For that, even the Halflings were willing, tired as they were, to go on marching still for several hours. Though I should not be surprised – they had shown an amazing amount of strength and resilience, and kept up with us jus finely so far. Still, though I knew that they were grown adults for their small kin, I could not help feeling protective. And seeing the round, smooth face of the Ringbearer, 'twas hard to imagine that he was a good ten years older than I.
When I first saw him in Elrond's council, I thought he might be an Elven child – the dark, curly locks and the pointed little ears were deceiving, and there was a sprite-like air about him that reminded me of the fairy tales my mother told me when I was little. Peregrin told me about a rumour among Halflings that somewhen way back a Baggins would have married a fairy – a ridiculous thing, the young Took added a little haughtily, since Frodo's sense of adventure doubtlessly came from what little Took blood he had in his veins. And yet, when one looked at Frodo, one would almost believe it. Right now even more so than before.
I looked forwards where Mithrandir walked in front, holding up his glimmering staff in his left hand and clutching his drawn sword in his right. The dim light of his staff just showed the ground before his feet, but it was enough to show the extraordinary craftsmanship of that sword – Glamdring was its name, if I remembered correctly, and it was Elven work if I ever seen one, not unlike the great sword that Gildor Inglorion wore when I met him back in Imladris – and Gildor was an Elf-lord of royal birth. I wondered how that exquisite blade had come to the wizard, making a mental note to ask my little friends during the next rest.
Gimli the Dwarf followed Mithrandir closely, often turning his head from side to side as if glimpsing small things only a Dwarf would notice. His eyes glinted in the dim light like naked daggers every time he did so, and there was a deep longing in them – a longing to see the wonders of Moria that he had only known of old legends all his life. And though I hated the Black pit with a ferocity that surprised even me, I certainly could understand his yearning.
Would I not like to see Minas Tirith in her prime again, tall and fair and proud? Would I not like to see Osgiliath rebuilt, the great, domed Hall Isildur and Anárion raised anew, with the high seats of the Kings standing in the middle, where they had held council and spoken judgement in the days of old? And even though I knew this would never happen, I envied not from Gimli to see at least the remnants of the long-gone glory of his people.
The Ringbearer walked right behind the Dwarf. He, too, had drawn that beautifully-crafted short sword he called Sting. No gleam came from its blade, of from that of Mithrandir's sword; and that was some comfort, for I had been told that – being the work of Elvish smiths in the Elder Days – they both shone with a cold light when Orcs were near at hand. Not that Mithrandir or even my so-called King had told me these things, of course, for they never felt the necessity to tell me aught if they could avoid it. But listening to the cheerful chatter of the little folk I learnt more about the finding of the Ring than the leaders of our Fellowship might have suspected – though still not enough to fully satisfy my curiosity.
I watched Frodo walking between Gimli and his faithful Samwise, tiredly but determinedly, drawn sword in his hand, and I had to smile, for he looked exactly as my mother had described Mirko, youngest son of the King of Fairie, whose adventures and brace fight against the foul beasts of Tanagra(1) were my favourite childhood tales.
The true Elven prince, following them as noiselessly as a ghost, looked less of a creature out of fairy tales. In fact, Legolas seemed not all that different from his own escort that had come with him to Imladris, neither in his attire, nor in his demeanour – until provoked. It concerned me that he had drawn steel on Gimli twice already during our journey, for even though he could restrain himself from harming the Dwarf, it clearly showed the building tension in him. I wondered what he might do, should the weight of massive rock above our heads bear down on him in this enclosed space. Elves were not made to walk in deep tunnels – they were creatures of the woods and the starlight. If the darkness of Moria lay this heavily upon my heart, what might Legolas feel?
Between the Elf and me the two younger Halflings shuffled on tired little feet, yet determined not to fall back. The strength that lay hidden in their small but brave hearts amazed me to no end. Grown Men would have broken repeatedly under the weight of horrors we had already faced on this journey, and yet on they went, into even greater perils, for the love of their elder cousin. And though they were not children (a fact I had to remind myself again and again), I vowed to myself once again that I would protect them from everything that might come. NO harm should reach hem as long as I could wield my sword.
I glanced over my shoulder, back to the rear, where in the dark my future King walked, grim and silent. I could more feel him than see – his presence, his determination… his unease. If I truly was to die, as my dark dreams suggested, could I entrust him with the care of the young Halflings – or with that of my city, my people, my land? He who had roamed the North freely all his life, would he understand the burden that true leadership meant? Should the Council of Gondor accept his claim, despite Peneldur's Law, will he let himself be confined to Minas Tirith, dealing with the less-than-heroic matters of reign all day?
I have watched long enough to know what ruling Gondor truly meant. It is more than defending the borders from an enemy heroically. Being a hero is easy. Living through politics and petty fights between noble families, extracting trade contracts and uneasy alliances, playing even our allies against each other for the greater good of Gondor, like my father has done all his life – that is the tough part of leadership.
I have been prepared for that part since I left my mother's care. I have sat in the Council from the age of twelve. Father wanted me to learn how it was done. I might not be the well-read lore-master my brother always tried to become, but I was raised to rule Gondor – and I could do it.
The question is – could Aragorn do it?
I had no doubt that he could deal with Elves or the simple Men of the North. But in Minas Tirith, he would have to deal with the heads of the most influential families, honed in intrigue and manipulation since the time of the Kings, with the ambassadors of Rhûn and Harad – and with the Rohirrim, whom he already accused of paying tribute to the Enemy. I knew he was wrong, but I also knew that Théodred would not take such accusation kindly. I knew my dear, proud friend all too well. And should the faltering King succumb to his age, Théodred might soon become King of the Mark. Should Aragorn estrange him with his pointless accusations, Gondor could lose her most important ally.
I shook my head to chase these gloomy thoughts away – it was dark enough here, without darkening my mood any further. And on we went, following Mithrandir's staff, deeper and deeper into that dark. The passage we were following twisted round a few turns ere it began to descend. From there, it went steadily down before it became level once more, and my unease grew with every foot that brought us deeper into the guts of the Mountains.
The air grew hot and stifling (though, to my surprise, not foul), and I began to feel the weight of my weapons and armour, and a short time later I was soaked in sweat. My years as a mountaineer helped me little, for I was clad and equipped for a journey on horseback, not for the exploration of caves. The longer we went, the more I hated this place.
Fortunately, at times we could feel currents of cooler air upon our faces, though we knew not where they might come. I guessed that there had to be hidden openings in the walls, but we could see none, even though there were many of these currents. In the pale glow of Mithrandir's staff I also could catch glimpses of stairs and arches, and of other passages and tunnels, sloping up, or running steeply down, or opening blankly dark on either side. 'Twas bewildering beyond hope of remembering, and my feeling of unease grew even more, for we were utterly vulnerable to an attack from every side. This place was the perfect rat-trap if I ever saw one.
At first I had put my hope into the Dwarf, thinking that he might know the great underground realm of his forefathers well enough from ancient legends. After all, we still could find our ways among the ruins of Osgiliath and point out and name her famous roads, even though the once proud capital of Gondor was destroyed beyond recognition. But it seemed that Gimli could aid Mithrandir very little, except of his stout courage. Often the wizard would consult him at points where the choice of was doubtful; but it was always Mithrandir who had the final word.
This surprised me more than a little, as the son of Glóin was a Dwarf of the mountain-race – yet the Mines of Moria were vast and apparently beyond even his imagination. I could not help but remember the ancient sagas of the Rohirrim, sung often by campfire or in the Golden Hall of Meduseld – particularly that of Fram the Dragon Slayer(2) and his legendary journey to Govedar, the once-great Dwarven kingdom of the Ered Mithrin that had been destroyed by Scatha the Worm early in our Age(3).
Those sagas told of a subterranean river that glowed in the dark with a subtle golden shine of its own and the water of which was warm and spicy; and of terraced gardens under the Earth, caressed by thin rays of sunlight led to them through narrow air-shafts cut high in the living rock of the mountainside and watered by that wondrous river.
And of mushrooms and berries and even some sort of corn that grew in those gardens, and of strange, translucent fish that lived in the river, their skin thin enough so that one could see their inner organs through it. And of animals, kept in the folds under the Earth: sturdy ponies that pulled the wagons in the mines, and goats and sheep that lived in the sunlit upper caves in the winter and grazed on the meadows of the mountainside during summer.
I wondered if Moria had been aught like that in the days of its glory. For now it seemed little more than confusing labyrinth of dark, abandoned tunnels where evil things could waylay us in every turn. I doubted that there would be any Dwarves left. And I wished I were on my way to the Gap of Rohan safely, where I would reach Minas Tirith in time, ere she gets besieged.
For besieged she would be, of that I was certain. Even without the Ring, the Enemy was strong enough to take us into that black hand of his and to crash us like flies. And with Curunír falling into the backs of the Rohirrim, our vaning strength would be divided and we would have a war on two fronts at the same time.
Mirkwood, the only other realm that actually was fighting the Enemy instead of whining and running to the West in the vain hope that the Valar would finally do something against the One that used to belong to them, was under attack from all sides, and the Wood-Elves fought with their backs against the wall. I very much doubted that anyone but I could truly appreciate the difficulty of Mirkwood's situation. Just as we had Minas Morgul right before our doorstep, they had Dol Guldur, with another of the fell Wraiths sitting in its dark tower. And just as Gondor had little help from the outside, the other Elves cared not to aid Legolas' people.
Elladan and Elrohir were the only ones to hunt for Orcs with the Mirkwood Elves at times, but that was their personal vengeance quest, and largely frowned upon by their own father. By all the affection I felt for my lover, I was fairly certain that – if not for the terrible fate of his mother – he and his brother, too, would be content to guard Imladris instead of going abroad to fight the servants of the Enemy.
But once the vast armies of the Enemy – and those of his chief servants and allies – have come into motion, all those who had sat in lazy confidence within the safe walls of their valleys or within the protective girdle of some Elven magic, will learn the brutal reality of war. A lesson that my people – or the Silvan folk of Mirkwood, for that matter – had to learn a long time ago.
I wish them not the small horrors of a land under constant warfare – I wish them even less the much worse horror of having a war in their own land. But I fear that they will not be spared either, and all those years they did naught will not prove… helpful.
I shook my head, for those thoughts helped me not to keep my wits together – like most of the others, I was greatly troubled by the darkness of the Mines, and I envied Gimli for the ease with which he endured this place. He left not the side of the wizard, and though it seemed as if the far-off memories of a journey long before were now of little help to Mithrandir, miraculously, even in the gloom and despite all winding of the road, the wizard knew whither he wished to go, and he did not falter, as long as there was a path that led towards his goal.
"Do not be afraid," said Aragorn somewhere behind my back, and he lengthened his stride to catch up with the Halflings, who were crowded in an almost indistinguishable heap between Legolas and me, muttering anxiously. We had stopped a few moments ago, I realized, so deep in my own, worried thoughts that I nearly overrun the little ones. The break seemed longer than usual, yet still Mithrandir and the Dwarf were whispering together, obviously not able to come to an agreement.
"Do not be afraid," my King-to-be repeated, and I rolled my eyes in the safe disguise of the nearly complete darkness, for I certainly was afraid that we might never find a way out of this cursed maze, and I could only guess how afraid the Halflings might have been. For all the bravery of their small hearts, this was no place for a Halfling – or a Man.
"I have been with Gandalf on many a journey," Aragorn continued, "if never on one so dark; and there are tales in Rivendell of greater deeds of his than any that I have seen."
"That is nice," replied Meriadoc with a false brightness that almost convinced us all; of the little ones he could face his own fears the best; "and I would love to listen to those, told by a nice campfire, while food and beer are reached around aplenty. What I would prefer to see soon, though, is the end of these Mines. But it seems to me that Gandalf has gone astray, and Gimli has no idea where we might be, either."
"Gandalf will not go astray," said Aragorn with certainty, "if there is any path to find. He has led us in here, against our fears, but he will lead us out again, at whatever cost to himself. He is surer of finding the way home in a blind night than the cats of Queen Berúthiel."
"Who was this Queen Berúthiel?" Peregrin's eyes brightened in anticipation of an exciting story. "And what about her cats?"
To my honest surprise, Aragorn hesitated.
"I… I cannot tell. I never heard the true tale behind that saying," he admitted, a little ashamed. "I picked it up in Gondor, a long time ago, but never asked for any details."
Peregrin, as it was his wont, did not lose a beat.
"That is all right, Strider," he said cheerfully. "Surely Boromir can tell us the whole tale, him being from Gondor and all that."
"Indeed, Master Peregrin, I can," I replied, for it gave me some less-than-generous satisfaction to show my greater knowledge of Gondor, even if it was naught but some obscure folk tale.
"Tell me then!" demanded Peregrin, and all the hobbits sat down expectantly, as Mithrandir and the Dwarf were still arguing anyway.
Aragorn and I followed suit, for we, too, felt weary, and it was good to rest a little. Only the Elf remained standing motionlessly in the darkness.
"Well then," I began, remembering how I once told this very same tale my brother when he was litter; "the Queen Berúthiel was the wife of Tarannon, twelfth King of Gondor. Now, Tarannon was the first of the Ship-kings, called so for their great victories on Sea, and he took the crown in the name of Falastur, 'Lord of the Coasts', and during his reign has Gondor reached the peak of its glory. But also he was the first childless King, for there was no love between him and his nefarious, solitary wife, who is said to have been a Princess of the Black Númenóreans of Umbar."
I paused, seeing if I had confused my little friends with too many names and details that would say them naught. But I underestimated their curiosity once again, it seemed, for they were still looking at me with great interest.
"What was she like?" asked Meriadoc, as if trying to nudge me forward.
"Well, se was… strange, to say the least," I answered, "Berúthiel lived in the King's House in Osgiliath, hating the sounds and smells of the house that Tarannon built below Pelargir upon arches whose feet stood deep in the wide waters of Ethir Anduin…"
"I cannot blame her," Samwise shuddered. "I would not wish to live upon the waters, either,"
"Yea; but she also hated all making, all colours and elaborate adornment," I replied, "wearing only black and silver and living in bare chambers. And the gardens of her house in Osgiliath were filled with tormented sculptures beneath cypresses and yews."
"Was she evil?" asked Frodo quietly, and I shrugged.
"People in Gondor thought so. And they blamed her for the breaking of Anárion's line – which might be the very reason why her name was erased from the Book of the Kings."
"But you still know it and remember her," said Frodo.
"I do," I agreed, "for the memory of Men is not wholly shut in books, and thus the cats of Queen Berúthiel never passed wholly out of Men's speech, either."
"Yea, what about the cats?" asked Peregrin impatiently. "You have not told the part about the cats yet!"
"Aye, the cats, right," I said, smiling, for he was like a child demanding his bedtime story indeed. "Now, it is told that she had none black cats and one white, her slaves, with whom she conversed, or read their memories, setting them to discover all the deep secrets of Gondor, so that she knew those things that men wish most to keep hidden, setting the white cat to spy upon the black ones, and tormenting them."
"But how could mere beasts do anything like that?" Samwise was clearly frightening by the mere thought of it. "Was she a sorceress or a witch of some sort?"
"Most people believed that she was," I answered. "No man in Gondor dared to touch those cats. All were afraid of them, and cursed when they saw them pass – or so the tales tell."
"And what has finally become of the Queen?" asked Peregrin.
"'Tis said that King Tarannon had her set alone onto a ship with her cats and set adrift n the Sea before a north wind," I answered slowly. "The ship was last seen flying past Umbar under a sickle moon, with a cat at the masthead and another as a figure-head on the prow(4)."
I ended my tale, and there was a long silence, the hobbits thinking about what they had heard. Even in the barely illuminated darkness I could see that they did not like the ending at all.
"That was cruel," Frodo finally said, and the others nodded in agreement.
"Even if she was evil, sending her to certain death, and upon the Sea that she hated most, was wrong," added Meriadoc. "And can it not be that she was not evil at all, just lonely and desperate, having to live in a land where people feared and hated her?"
I sighed. "I know not, little one. I cannot even tell whether these tales are true or not. Still, they have been told in Gondor for a very long time, so there has to be some truth behind them, at the very least."
Frodo shook his head. "'Twas a cruel thing from your King nevertheless."
I was amiss of a good answer. What could the little folk know of the Black Númenóreans who had been serving the Enemy for two Ages by now? Of their dark alliances with the peoples of Rhûn and Harad, aye, even with the huge, far-away realm of Khand; the threat they represented for our borders and coasts?
Wedding Berúthiel to Tarannon was a feeble attempt to reunite the two estranged kindreds of Westernesse and provide our land greater safety – just as my father intended when he voiced his wish that I wed Éowyn of Rohan. Certainly, Rohan could not be compared with the vast power that the Third Realm in the exile had in Tarannon's times, but Gondor, too, had fallen deeply from its one-time glory, and was the Riddermark not our strongest ally yet?
This gave me a sobering thought. Would our people, even if I returned safe and sound, ever accept Éowyn? Or would they only see the wild shieldmaiden of the North in her, despite the blood of Lossarnach that flows in her veins?
Even though I shall never be what my father has been for Gondor for so long, not if the Council accepts the claim of Isildur's Heir (and in these desperate times there is a chance that they will), the Steward's family has always been the noblest and most respectably, heavily loaded with tradition, our lives guided by strict rules – would she ever be able to live among us?
Well, should my dreams prove true, I needed not to worry about her. She would never be trapped in the golden cage of a loveless marriage, never be looked down at by haughty Gondorian nobles, never be forced to endure the strictness of the Steward's House and Father's icy glare – even though I think she could stand up even to Father if she wanted.
Fortunately, Mithrandir and the Dwarf finally had come to an agreement, and the wizard urged us forward again, making in unnecessary for me to answer. But as we fell back to our former line again, Legolas turned back to me for e moment, leaving the hobbits pass, and said quietly:
"Men fear that which they know not, do they, Son of Denethor?"
"We are wary of strangers, aye," I answered.
"And what will happen when Aragorn returns with you to Minas Tirith?" he asked. "Will he be considered the long-lost King in his right – or an usurper who tries to take over what is not his to take?"
To that I had no answer, and he nodded as if he had not accepted to get one either, taking up his original place between the two pairs of hobbits once more.
On we went, following the pale glow of Mithrandir's staff once again, and grateful we were for such a guide, for we had no fuel or any means of making torches. In the desperate fight-and-flight at the Doors many things had been left behind. We felt their lack keenly, most of all the lack of our blankets that were lost, for it was cold in the Mines, colder than any of us would except, save those who had been here earlier.
Still, the cold was the lesser evil; if we moved quickly enough, we could warm up ourselves. But without any light we would soon have come to grief. Even in this deep shadow we could see many roads to choose from, on both sides, and I had begun to vaguely guess just how vast the Dwarrowdelf (as Gimli called it) must have been.
There also were holes and pitfalls in many places – the remnants of old battles mayhap, or caused by the changing of the rock itself, which happens all the time, slowly but inevitably. I saw many such traps in the White Mountains in my youth. Our passing feet often echoed in dark wells beside the path, and I wondered what on the bottom of those might lie hidden, hoping that I would never find out. How could the Dwarves live in these treacherous caverns?
Of course, they would know their own realm much better than chance visitors like we did. Mayhap those fissures and chasms in the wall and floor had not been there in the Days of Durin, and surely the cracks that every now and then opened right before our feet would have been repaired long ago. The abandoned wasteland that we found made me doubt that any of Gimli's people would still be here.
Mithrandir came to a halt all of a sudden, and peeking over the hobbits' head I could see why: we came to another crack across our path, and this one was more than seven feet wide in my estimate. Too wide for a hobbit to leap over, and not an easy task even for a grown Man.
"Rope!" Samwise muttered, eyeing the crack with understandable disgust. "I knew I would want it, if I had not got it!"
"'Tis a long leap, but not impossible to make," Legolas encouraged him, jumping over the crack with the easy grace of a sleek cat. From the other side, he looked back to the hobbits, smiling, but I saw the concern in his eyes.
"Come, follow me, my friends!" he urged the rest of us. "You can do it! Go back a few steps, then run and jump!"
Mithrandir followed first, his heavy robe flattering behind him like some strange sail; then Gimli, showing a limberness that I would never expect from his stout form. But the hobbits seemed frightened, and I knew not how to help them – I would be lucky to balance my own weight after such a leap, I could not risk carrying any of them, or we would all fall to our deaths.
As usual, Frodo was the first to take the risk. He closed his eyes for a moment, backed a few steps, then, as Legolas had advised, ran and leapt. He landed safely on the other side, not even swaying – having such big feet (compared with the rest of hobbit bodies) seemed an advantage when it came to balance.
Samwise followed him blindly, as usual, but he was less skilled and almost fell backwards. Fortunately, Legolas was quick as lightning and grabbing his arm yanked him away from the crack with that hidden Elven strength that always surprised me when surfacing.
That left the two younger hobbits with us two Men, and they were clearly nervous. A lot more nervous than Frodo had been.
Aragorn nudged me forward.
"Go first," he said quietly. "They trust you. When they see you on the other side, waiting to catch them, they might go easier."
Well, that certainly sounded flattering, but to tell the truth, I was not that convinced about my own chances in the first place. But I had not other choice, either.
"Legolas," I called the Elf, taking the big shield from my back, for it doubtlessly would have unbalanced me. "Catch!"
He nodded, understanding my intention at once, and I threw the shield with care. It flew straight into his hands, and he stepped back to make room for me.
I swallowed hard. It had been nearly twenty summers since I had mastered the mountains… I could only hope that my feet were still sure enough. Well, there was only one way to find out, and I could not afford to show fear before the already frightened young hobbits.
Just as Frodo had done before, I retreated a few steps, then ran and jumped. The dreadful gap seemed to have no end – I felt like a broken-winged seagull over the stormy Sea, and the noise of churning water that came up from far below only strengthened that eerie feeling. Would the weight of my weapons and my mail shirt – or that of my age – bring me down ere I could reach the other side?
I was not aware that sometime amidst my leap I had shut my eyes tightly. Fear began to overwhelm me once again, fear and helpless fury that I would end in this fetid hole while my city was in dire need of my strong arm, of my leadership. For a short moment I felt panic rising in me. Then my feet made contact with the hard rock, and someone grabbed my forearms with a strength greater than any Man's.
I opened my eyes and looked ashamedly in the bright ones of Legolas, yet in those were naught but understanding. The Elf nodded once and gave me back my shield without a word, and I felt absurdly grateful for having the support of such a fine warrior.
"Well, little ones," I said, turning back to Meriadoc and Peregrin, "'tis your turn now."
The young Brandybuck looked less than eager, but got over easily enough, mimicking Frodo's movements most precisely. Peregrin, however, kept looking down into the crack and was 'a little pale around the eyes', as Aragorn later put it. The noises of the water deep down seemed to worry him very much.
"This sounds as if some great millwheel were turning drown there," he muttered unhappily.
"Oh, come on, Pippin, you can do this!" encouraged him Meriadoc. "Boromir could do it, and he is big and heavy – you are small and light, you will fly over that crack like a bird!"
"And I promise to catch you," I added, ignoring the 'big and heavy' part for the moment, though I intended to pick a bone with Master Brandybuck about that later. Peregrin looked at me with big, round – and very frightened eyes.
"You will? Catch me, I mean?"
"Why, certainly," I said with a confidence I did not truly feel, for the gap seemed awfully wide for such a small person. I went down to one knee and stretched out my arms to him. "Come!"
Finally he summoned all the courage he had – and that was a lot indeed – shut his eyes tightly and jumped with all his strength, landing in my arms and knocking me off balance, so that Legolas had to grab us both, or else we might have fallen to our deaths, after all. Fortunately, Peregrin only opened his eyes when I put him down, so he had no idea how close we both came to falling. But the others paled so much that it could be clearly seen, even in the almost complete darkness.
Last of us all, Aragorn crossed the crack with one long leap, nearly as easily as Legolas – if that was because he was used to move like Elves or because he had the longest legs I have ever seen on a Man, I knew not; and I cared even less. We had overcome this particular obstacle and would go on, and that was the only thing that counted.
After a moment's rest we indeed continued our march through the long dark of Moria, yet it became slower as these dangers became more frequent.
"It seems to me that we have been trampling on and on for Ages to the roots of these cursed Mountains," I muttered, more to myself than to Legolas, when he joined me on one of our rare rests once again.
The Elf looked at me in concern, eyes impossibly large and bright in his pale face.
"I, too, feel as if I would be enclosed in a tomb," he admitted, "but you must not speak thusly within the earshot of the little folk. They are brave, but more than weary already, and seem not to find comfort even in the thought of halting anymore."
"I cannot blame them," I murmured. "Mayhap we should give them more food to raise their spirits."
"I wish we could," Legolas sighed, "But we have nearly run out of resources as it is. The sooner we leave the Mines behind the better."
With that I completely agreed. So we sat in silence 'til Mithrandir gave us the sign to move on. As it was his wont, Legolas walked between the two pairs of hobbits, his head proudly raised like that of a listening deer. I knew that his senses were sharper than the others', even Aragorn's, and seeing a deep uneasiness, growing to dread, creeping over his face made me concerned.
"Do you hear anything?" I asked, but he shook his head.
"Nay; but I do have the same dread feeling that I had felt when I entered Moria the last time – only that now it is closer. Much closer."
He spoke in the Elven tongue, in that old-fashioned manner that was still spoken in the noble Houses of Gondor, so I had no difficulty understanding him. The young hobbits looked at him curiously – and at me in surprise when I answered in the same tongue. Why people would think I had been taught nothing but swordfight in my youth, I cannot understand.
"Where does it come from?" I asked, feeling a little awkward about my much too harsh accent. Yet it seemed not to bother Legolas.
"We are walking straight towards it," he answered grimly. "But it cannot be helped – we must through. Whatever it is, I hope we can sneak by it unnoticed. Otherwise our journey in the dark will be a short one."
He fell into silence and I asked him no more, for I, too, felt the presence of something evil – other than the Ring, that is. Of course, I could feel the Ring, too, stronger than ever before, whispering in the dark corners of my mind, with words that I could not understand – yet. But the whispers grew louder as we went on, so that I could barely hear the light step of Legolas before me or the soft pattern of hobbit-feet. Just the dull stump of Gimli's boots, my own heavy tread, caused by a sore ankle, and behind me the slow, firm footfalls of Aragorn with his long stride.
I looked at the Ringbearer, who seemed to bend forwards under the weight of his burden, his left hand lying upon his breast where, hidden under his clothes, that wheel of fire hung upon its chain. I could see that he, too, felt the certainty of evil ahead and of evil following – for was he not the bearer of the very thing that called out to all evil in this dark place? I knew he was afraid; but he said naught. He gripped tighter on the hilt of his short sword and went on, doggedly.
I, too, gripped my sword-hilt, ready to face any enemy that might burst out of the darkness. My other hand sneaked to the Stone – it was useless, I knew, and yet I could not resist the need to seek some connection with my beloved. But the Stone remained cold, and I felt more alone than ever before in my whole lonely life.
One only understands what one has had when one loses it.
TBC
End notes:
(1) No, I have no idea what sort of creatures the beasts of Tanagra are. Prince Mirko is a character from a children's tale in South-Europe.
(2) Fear not, that is another tale you will be told yet – though I cannot say when exactly.
(3) No actual date for this event. Frumgar, the father of Fram led this people (the Éothéod) to live by the sources of Anduin in 1977, Third Age. Therefore, the fall of Govedar (which is a non-canon place) must have happened around 2000, since Fram visited it as a grown Man.
(4) The tale of Queen Berúthiel was taken (with slight modifications) from the "Unfinished Tales", p. 419. Anyone interested in more should read Kielle's story "Skadi in Shadow", available on