Chapter 4: I Admit to Fear
There have been two times in my life when I have known fear. Not the abstract childhood fear of things unknown lying await at night. Nor the normal life-saving rational fears such as the fear of falling or of drowning. I speak of real terrors which freeze the mind, eat the spirit, and immobilize the body.
The second time was when the Fellowship ran from the Balrog of Moria. That fear was well-known and immediate. I will tell that tale at a later date.
But the first time Fear came upon me, it did so with subtlety and treachery unknown in all my years. Fear appeared during the Council of Elrond in Rivendell. It was at the moment the One Ring was presented to the Council, and we beheld its beauty and its power. At first it looked to me a simple, plain gold band. Lovely and elegant in simplicity of design. Wonderfully rich and warm; bathed in autumnal sunlight. A simple thing. A beautiful thing.
And the longer I gazed upon it, the more I desired to touch it. Feel its weight in the palm of my hand. Finger its smoothness and experience its sweet, warm breath. For it seemed to me that it had life of its own. It breathed and sighed and began to vibrate in subtle rhythm with the shafts of light.
The more I looked upon its beauty, the less aware I was of my surroundings. Forgotten were the other members of the Council. I could see them with my peripheral vision, but they were unimportant at that moment. Somebody was speaking, but that too was unimportant. I only had senses for the Ring.
It was singing. Singing to me. Singing solely for me. A beautiful, lovely song with my name embedded in the chant. Songs of forest, field and stream. Of the secret lives of moss and rock and bird. The mating madness of kine and stag. The keen senses of hawk and eagle and wolf. Warg and spider and worm. Knowledge of the most intimate type. Songs of knife and bow; arrow and staff; sword and dart. Of running without tiring. Seeing with perfect vision penetrating even wood, stone and fire. To BE the arrow as it flew through the air; feel the heavy thrill of piercing hide and flesh; drink the hot metallic nectar of pumping blood as it shot down my shaft, dripping life from my fletching.
If I could but reach IT, I could claim that song for my own! I would be Lord of the Hunt. Master of Forest and Mountain. Slayer and Renewer.
I came to myself with a start.
Truly, this . this THING before us WAS evil.
And I was afraid.
I must admit a certain amount of shame when I am in Frodo's presence. Shame at being humbled by his willingness to conquer this fear and sacrifice everything for the good of all. For I hesitated when the call was announced to destroy the Ring in Mount Doom. All of us at the Council of Elrond hesitated, save the hobbits. And I was shamed before my elders and peers. For I could not bring myself to volunteer for such a task. Yet the hobbits did. Even Master Bilbo Baggins, Frodo's elderly uncle who had kept the Ring in quiet keeping for well over sixty years; even he did not hesitate when the question was posed. "Who then will take IT to Mount Doom?"
Gandalf tells me I should feel no shame at my fear. Mithrandir himself was unable to touch the Ring lest he fall to its temptation. Lord Elrond would not handle it. Nor would the Lady of the Golden Wood. When it was presented to us at the Council, I gazed upon it and feared what it could do to me.
I feared it. Legolas, renowned hunter and tracker. Master of bow, blade and shield. Captain of my father's royal guard. Destroyer of wargs, goblins and the giant spiders of Mirkwood. Feared a simple band of gold.
For the most part I remained quiet at the Council. Ashamed that I was unable to control my fear and do the task which should have been done by one of my race. For were the Elves not responsible for allowing Sauron to forge the Rings of Power?
But it was not my task to un-make that mistake. That role was reserved for a mortal. Someone small and weak. One whose unfailing steadfastness and resolve humbled even the Wise.
There have been two times in my life when I have known fear. Not the abstract childhood fear of things unknown lying await at night. Nor the normal life-saving rational fears such as the fear of falling or of drowning. I speak of real terrors which freeze the mind, eat the spirit, and immobilize the body.
The second time was when the Fellowship ran from the Balrog of Moria. That fear was well-known and immediate. I will tell that tale at a later date.
But the first time Fear came upon me, it did so with subtlety and treachery unknown in all my years. Fear appeared during the Council of Elrond in Rivendell. It was at the moment the One Ring was presented to the Council, and we beheld its beauty and its power. At first it looked to me a simple, plain gold band. Lovely and elegant in simplicity of design. Wonderfully rich and warm; bathed in autumnal sunlight. A simple thing. A beautiful thing.
And the longer I gazed upon it, the more I desired to touch it. Feel its weight in the palm of my hand. Finger its smoothness and experience its sweet, warm breath. For it seemed to me that it had life of its own. It breathed and sighed and began to vibrate in subtle rhythm with the shafts of light.
The more I looked upon its beauty, the less aware I was of my surroundings. Forgotten were the other members of the Council. I could see them with my peripheral vision, but they were unimportant at that moment. Somebody was speaking, but that too was unimportant. I only had senses for the Ring.
It was singing. Singing to me. Singing solely for me. A beautiful, lovely song with my name embedded in the chant. Songs of forest, field and stream. Of the secret lives of moss and rock and bird. The mating madness of kine and stag. The keen senses of hawk and eagle and wolf. Warg and spider and worm. Knowledge of the most intimate type. Songs of knife and bow; arrow and staff; sword and dart. Of running without tiring. Seeing with perfect vision penetrating even wood, stone and fire. To BE the arrow as it flew through the air; feel the heavy thrill of piercing hide and flesh; drink the hot metallic nectar of pumping blood as it shot down my shaft, dripping life from my fletching.
If I could but reach IT, I could claim that song for my own! I would be Lord of the Hunt. Master of Forest and Mountain. Slayer and Renewer.
I came to myself with a start.
Truly, this . this THING before us WAS evil.
And I was afraid.
I must admit a certain amount of shame when I am in Frodo's presence. Shame at being humbled by his willingness to conquer this fear and sacrifice everything for the good of all. For I hesitated when the call was announced to destroy the Ring in Mount Doom. All of us at the Council of Elrond hesitated, save the hobbits. And I was shamed before my elders and peers. For I could not bring myself to volunteer for such a task. Yet the hobbits did. Even Master Bilbo Baggins, Frodo's elderly uncle who had kept the Ring in quiet keeping for well over sixty years; even he did not hesitate when the question was posed. "Who then will take IT to Mount Doom?"
Gandalf tells me I should feel no shame at my fear. Mithrandir himself was unable to touch the Ring lest he fall to its temptation. Lord Elrond would not handle it. Nor would the Lady of the Golden Wood. When it was presented to us at the Council, I gazed upon it and feared what it could do to me.
I feared it. Legolas, renowned hunter and tracker. Master of bow, blade and shield. Captain of my father's royal guard. Destroyer of wargs, goblins and the giant spiders of Mirkwood. Feared a simple band of gold.
For the most part I remained quiet at the Council. Ashamed that I was unable to control my fear and do the task which should have been done by one of my race. For were the Elves not responsible for allowing Sauron to forge the Rings of Power?
But it was not my task to un-make that mistake. That role was reserved for a mortal. Someone small and weak. One whose unfailing steadfastness and resolve humbled even the Wise.