Chapter Four: The Journey to the Mountains

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings sob. Or Pippin sob. I do however own myself.

Author's Note: The course of the story is directly from neither movie nor book. It mostly follows the book, but the dialogue, etc. is not exactly the same, as this is the 'real' thing, and of course, a translation (the book) can never be accurate on all counts.

After my little conversation with Pippin the night before, I had dreamt odd dreams, tossing fitfully, until I woke with a start and an aching ear. Merry crouched above me grinning wickedly, tugging mercilessly at my ear. I swatted him away irritably; I was never a morning person. I moaned as I stumbled up, rubbing at my back where a tree root had been digging into it,

"Wha's fer breakfas'?" I mumbled, looking at Pippin, knowing full likely Aragorn or Gimli would have looked askance at such a question.

"Wha's usually fer breakfast? Have some o' yer rations."

I grimaced, and turned toward Aragorn.

"Whither today, lord? The Redhorn Pass?" He glanced at me

"The lord is hardly necessary, Haleth. But yes, I believe we are headed for the mountain."

He sighed, and I knew he was hoping Caradhras would not prove as cruel as the tales tell. Unfortunately, it would. I flopped down beside him,

"What troubles you?" He looked surprised for a moment that I should ask

"Ah, mellonin." He heaved a sigh. "I fear the mountain road may prove too perilous. In which case, there would be no other way but..."

He glanced at me sidelong, as if judging whether he dared tell me.

"Moria."

"Moria!?" I gasped, part of this was simply good acting, but some was real fear. Now that I was actually here, well- those masses of orcs were entirely too real. "Is it not infested with orcs? Do you think Balin's folk managed to drive them out?"

"I don't know, I would hope so, but it seems not unlikely that all Balin's folk are dead or slain and the mines once more overrun."

He trailed off and stared at his feet.

"Aragorn, 'ere's no sense in worrying ourselves about what may be, better to concentrate on what is." He looked at me with the beginnings of a smile hovering around his lips,

"You are wise for one so young, perhaps you're right." He got up and arched his back,

"Well, will you breakfast with the rest of us for a change m'lady?" I grinned,

"Hey, hey- if I'm not t'call you lord, you've got to drop the lady."

"Make me." He smirked and dashed off. I sat back, laughing like anything. Aragorn acting like Merry, Pippin, or myself was just too much.

The company set out that morning with a heavy hearts; none were looking forward to the mountain pass. As we walked, I started singing to myself. The song was "Into the West", the credits song from Return of the King. I loved that song with a passion. I had sung it sophomore year for the talent show.

Lay down

Your sweet and weary head

Night is falling,

You have come to journey's end

Sleep now

And dream of the ones who came before

They are calling

From across a distant shore

Why do you weep?

What are these tears upon your face?

Soon you will see

All of your fears will pass away

Safe in my arms

You're only sleeping.

What can you see

on the horizon?

Why do the white gulls call?

Across the sea

A pale moon rises

The ships have come to carry you home

And all will turn to silver glass.

A light on the water

All souls pass.

Hope fades

Into the world of night

Through shadows falling

Out of memory and time

Don't say we have come now to the end

White shores are calling

You and I will meet again

And you'll be here in my arms

Just sleeping

What can you see

On the horizon?

Why do the white gulls call?

Across the sea

A pale moon rises

The ships have come to carry you home

And all will turn to silver glass

A light on the water

Grey Ships pass into the West.

As the song ended, I realized that everyone had been listening. Legolas' deep peat-brown eyes turned on me, and they were filled with wonderment.

"Where did you learn that? I have not heard it before." I shrugged.

"My parents were elf-friends, I learnt it from them."

"'Tis fair... and sad... I almost wonder how it comes that mortals capture the feeling better than we, the Firstborn. 'Tis beautiful. You do it justice."

I flushed with embarrassment, and fidgeted with my ring, a replica of the One, which ordinarily hung about my neck. Of course, as a member of the Fellowship, I could hardly wear an imitation of the Ruling Ring openly, and so, I kept it in a leather pouch, which hung from my belt.

We walked on, the shadow of the Misty Mountains looming nearer and nearer on the horizon. I walked along unconcernedly, for it was a gorgeous day, counting my steps in a marching rhythm: left, left, left, right, left. Left, left, left, right, left. Suddenly a voice behind me startled me out of the trance-like state I was in.

"Milady."

It was Boromir. For the first time since I joined the Fellowship, I got a good look at him. He was tall, over six feet, with a sharp nose and dark, flashing eyes. His sandy auburn hair, plainly inherited from his mother, hung lank about his shoulders. He had a sharp jaw-line, graced by stubble, a strong man, and one always ready to give his opinion.

His sword hung at his side. The large pommel was wrought in an effigy of Minas Tirith, a reminder of his fierce loyalty and love towards the city. It was a long sword, and broad, a big sword for a big man. His clothes, though travel- stained, were fine- obviously the best Minas Tirith had to offer.

"Who? Oh, Boromir, you startled me." He inclined his head slightly

"My apologies, I wished to speak with you." I raised my eyebrows and motioned for him to continue,

"What about?"

"Oh, nothing." He said, "I was in need of someone to talk to, it gets lonely, trudging along at the back of the group."

"I know what you mean." I said with a wry smile.

Boromir was about to continue when he was interrupted by a shout from near the front of the group.

"We are here." That was Gandalf. Gimli stood by Legolas, an expression of awe on his face as he gazed upon the mountains, which of old were the home of Khazad-dûm, the greatest of all realms of his people.

"There is the land where our fathers worked of old, and we have wrought the image of these mountains into many works of metal and stone, and into many songs and tales. They stand tall in our dreams: Baraz, Zirak, Shathûr. Only once before have I seen them in waking life, but I know them and their names, for under them lies Khazad-dûm, the Dwarrowdelf, which is now called the Black Pit, Moria in the Elvish tongue. Yonder stands Barazinbar, the Redhorn, cruel Caradhras; and beyond him are Silvertine and Cloudyhead: Celebdil the White and Fanuithol the Grey, that we call Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr. There the Misty Mountains divide, and between their arms lies the deep-shadowed valley which we cannot forget: Azanulbizar, the Dimrill Dale, which the Elves call Nanduhirion."

The hobbits stared at Gimli, as this was the most he had ever said even from the time he arrived at Rivendell. I had forgotten about this particular little speech, and I shook my head, the use of so many words in Khuzdûl having given me a headache.

Sam shook his head, eyes wide,

"A fair jaw-cracker dwarf-language must be..."

"Yes," Said Gandalf, "It is for the Dimrill Dale that we are making. If we climb the pass that is called the Redhorn Gate, under the far side of Caradhras, as I've said before, we shall come down by the Dimrill Stair into the deep valley of the dwarves."

Boromir started to continue, but was cut off once again by Gimli,

"Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla. My heart trembles at the thought that I may see them soon." Gandalf smiled at him, perhaps the only member of the Fellowship unfazed by the long string of names Gimli had rattled off,

"May you have joy at the sight, my good dwarf."

I looked at Pippin, whose brows were still knitted in confusion at Gimli's long rant.

"Khazad... summat? Umm.. wotsit called? Erm..." He turned to me, "Did you understan' a word of tha'?" I smiled

'let's see if I can remember all these...'

"Ok, Pip, the first three he named, umm, Barazinbar, Zirakzigil, and... and... dammit... and Bundushathûr, they're mountains. The Dimrill Dale, Az... Azanulbizar, that's the valley on the other side of the mountains. Got that?" He nodded. "Ok. Kheled-zâram, that's the Mirrormere, a pool in the valley, and Kibil-nâla is the springs that are the beginning of the River Silverlode. Khazad-dûm is the Khuzdûl name for the Mines of Moria, savvy?"

'Finally, finally I can say 'savvy' without someone accusing me of imitating Jack Sparrow!'

"Thanks." Pippin said, and grinned.

"And I'm sure that now ye know all of 'em by 'eart, right?"

He gave me a look of injured dignity.

"Of course. Pray, fair lady, do you think I look like a fool?"

I smirked evilly

"Yup."

Merry came over to Boromir, who, I realized, was still standing next to me, ill at ease.

"'Ey, Boromir?"

He smiled; he had a soft spot for the hobbits.

"Yes Master Brandybuck?"

"C'dja tech me an' Pip a bit more 'bout swordfighting?"

"Surely."

I nudged Pippin

"Cummon, we can't leave poor Boromir alone with that vicious cousin o' yers- 's go."