Chapter 7: Of Dwarves and Stairs

"I am not going into details: the whips and the filth and stench and all that; it does not bear remembering." -Pippin, The Two Towers

The house of white stone seemed strangely quiet without Merry, Pippin, Gimli and Legolas. Sam and Frodo rested on their cots, and Sam soon slept, but Frodo found it difficult to still his mind. To the music of Sam's snores, his thoughts turned to his Blue Book, as he had begun to call it in his own mind. He had reached the pass of Minas Morgul in his writing, and knew far worse lay ahead. Do I have the strength to continue this?

It was one thing to dabble at writing, using it to stretch and exercise his wounded hand, recording the early days of the journey, when his task had still seemed achievable. The cost would be his life, he had known that, but he had thought he had accepted it. Until Cirith Ungol. Now he was faced with confronting those events baldly, and reliving that horror.

And yet… He had felt true release after writing of Minas Morgul, as if once the events were transferred to the page, they no longer had a hold on his heart and soul. Frodo slipped from the room without waking Sam, and made his way to the front of the house. The Book lay where he had left it, beneath the window on the table Gimli had altered. He sharpened a quill mechanically, opened his ink and took a deep breath. He began writing, haltingly at first, but gained speed as he continued.

The Pass of Cirith Ungol

After eluding Minas Morgul and the Witch-King, there remained the dizzyingly long ascent of the stairs to the pass. Stairs, Smeagol called them, but truly more like a ladder carved into the rock, terrifyingly vertical in some places. The ascent took a day and a night, not that we could easily tell when day arrived. As many others will no doubt record, that was the period when Sauron covered the skies by some evil device and blocked out the sun. Day was a brownish-gray twilight with one able to see only fifty paces or so. Night was impenetrable.

I was aware of a growing pressure from the Ring as we neared the borders of Mordor. It did not merely weigh heavier on me. Now it hung about my neck, heavy as lead, and far larger than I actually knew it to be. It dangled and shifted as we climbed, and it seemed a hand-span across, if not more, which might have seemed ludicrous were it not so terrifying. The small links of its silver chain ground into the flesh of my neck, and I tried to shift it to ease the growing discomfort. Repeatedly and in vain, did I envision the tiny circle of gold, perfectly sized for my finger. I knew this was the Ring's shape. I knew were I to put it on, it would be hobbit-sized, and not the gigantic thing It seemed. No sooner would I firmly assert this, than my mind would wander and the sensation of the hideously grown Ring would return.

We were resting at the top of the straight stair before I finally realized what was occurring: I was attempting to impose my will upon It and failing miserably. The thought chilled me. Were my defenses against It crumbling so fast? I did not dare pursue that question, lest my thoughts give It some further hold upon me. Instead, I took the opportunity to touch the Ring through my shirt, impressing on my fatigued mind its size and shape. Shadows may be distorted and enlarged, I told myself. And yet, the objects that create them are solid and unchanging. I knew this did not wholly apply to the dangerous object around my neck, but I had not the strength to continue asserting the Ring's true size in the face of its illusions. All I could do was repeat the truth, and attempt to disconnect myself from the vision, as if it were a painting on the wall and nothing to do with me.

I will not fully describe our route. It is enough for my present purpose to note that we climbed the Straight and Winding Stair, and reached a space where we could rest. Sam and I ate a sparse meal, and talked a little. The nightmarish sensation of the Ring dissipated as we talked. Even this bare semblance of normality was dear to me, and strengthening. Sam's chatter about the old tales cheered me as little else could have. For an instant, it was as if we were back in the Shire, speaking about nothing in particular, teasing back and forth. Sitting before a warm fire, eating, drinking and then replenishing one's plate and cup and eating some more.

The despair that filled me when the Morgul army set forth finally lifted. Even if the Ring's destruction could not stop all the evil of the Dark Lord's war, and Gondor and even Lorien were laid to waste, still some beauty would yet survive. Somewhere there would be green lands, where flowers came forth in spring, people and hobbits would have children and tell them tales, and those children would grow and have children. Some would survive. And I still hoped that Sam might be saved to return someday to the Shire. I had none for myself, but hope for Sam still surfaced at odd moments, sturdy and undying.

We noted Smeagol's absence after we ate, but I knew as Sam could not, how Smeagol's desire and lust for the Ring dominated his soul. He would be back, and he would not willingly permit the Ring to be given over to Sauron. For then he would have no chance of regaining his Precious. I thought idly that if that worst of all events came to pass, it was likely Smeagol would find nothing more to live for. I trusted my insights into Smeagol's heart, and did not worry overmuch at his absence. In this journey, I had had to give myself over to Fate and Destiny, and Smeagol was part of that complicated coil. Sam and I slept while we could, believing the worst of the Stairs behind us.

I do not remember what I dreamed of, before descending into Torech Ungol. I have turned it over in my mind, wondering if there was some warning my sleeping mind dismissed, but all is dark. I awakened slowly, aware of Smeagol and Sam squabbling about something. There was a strange tingling in my mind, almost a ringing. I was half-asleep but the feeling was compelling. As if some great chance were being missed, or some doom averted by inches.

Fair or foul? I could not say. That was unusual enough that I cast anxiously about, seeking to find its source. The Ring was quiet; the call came not from it. My eyes were still closed, and Sam finished speaking with Smeagol and sought to rouse me, little realizing that I was already awake. I fixed my eyes on Smeagol and greeted him. The ringing through my mind intensified. He replied that he had done nothing, that he was a sneak.

Sneak! The word struck me as ill-favored. I stared at him, and saw his anger and satisfaction. "Sneak" he was, in some bitter hurtful way, but part of him yet wished that it was not so. It was to that part I spoke. "Don't take names to yourself, Smeagol. It's unwise, whether they are true or false."

Smeagol answered that Master Samwise had given him the name. Again, I was aware of the discrepancy between his sullen speech and his emotions. Wild amusement at the word, regret at its aptness, and anger at his own regret.

Sam was annoyed and defensive when I questioned him. "I said I was sorry but I soon shan't be."

I was watching Smeagol, and his head jerked involuntarily when he heard this. Sam would soon be sorry, very sorry. I could see the words in his mind.

The odd compulsion left me abruptly and I was no nearer understanding what had happened or what I should have done. Was it a doom averted or a final redemption missed? I was so uncertain, blundering my way through my Quest, and never once feeling as if the road were clear before me.

One thing seemed plain, that Smeagol had taken the word 'sneak' to heart in a way I did not like. "Can we find the rest of the way by ourselves?" I asked him. "You have done what you promised, and you're free: free to go back to food and rest, wherever you wish to go, except to servants of the Enemy."

But Smeagol refused, and led us on.

Now perhaps I can better understand what happened that day. Sam saw Smeagol 'pawing' at me, as he put it. Did the horror of Torech Ungol overcome Smeagol for an instant, and had he come to me for comfort? Did he wish that he were not as he was, and consider not taking us through that tunnel? I believe so, but I cannot fault Sam for his words, given Smeagol's history. Perhaps if I had been wiser or quicker, and not so worn by the Ring, I would have understood and could have prevented what inevitably followed. But such speculation is fruitless.

In any event, repentance in a creature such as Gollum would likely be a fragile thing, easily destroyed or reasoned away by his more-practiced tendency toward evil. It is not likely to have persevered under any circumstances, let alone under the temptation of the Ring. That is what I believe. That is what I must believe.

Torech Ungol or

Shelob's Lair

That was what he intended to write. Frodo was deeply engrossed in the scene on the page, and having come this far, was determined to push through until he finished the horror of Shelob. But as he began lettering the next heading, a stirring at his shoulder raised the hair on the back of his neck. Something whispered, "Frodo" directly into his ear. Frodo recoiled violently and jumped up, knocking his chair over and striking Pippin's chin with his shoulder.

Frodo rounded on him. "Drat it, Pippin!" he said, rubbing his shoulder. "Why are you sneaking up on me and whispering in my ear?"

Pippin fingered his chin, looking injured. "I did not sneak up on you, Frodo. I said, Frodo, aren't you coming, several times. Didn't I, Merry?"

Frodo looked over at Merry, who nodded.

"Oh." Frodo examined the book. The last word on the page ended in a fine long scrawl, but the page was not torn. He set down his blunted quill, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. To be so rudely torn from his immersion in Cirith Ungol… "My apologies, Pippin, for my hasty words."

"Accepted, Frodo." Pippin peered down at the book again. "Tor—something. That reminds me of the last word in the dwarvish book in Moria."

"Yes, Pippin. I am not mortally wounded, but I do seem to be driven to make errors when you're around."

"Grumpy, isn't he, Merry?" Pippin remarked. "He sounds rather like Bilbo did when he was working."

Merry took Frodo's quill and deftly sharpened it with his knife. "Bilbo made errors when you were around, too, Pip. Remember when you wanted to see what he was doing so you stepped up on the back of his chair? Just as he was getting up?"

"I do not remember, Merry," Pippin said, sounding a bit sulky. "Given that I was an infant at the time."

"No infant could've tipped over both the chair and Bilbo the way you did. Frodo, are you coming to dinner?"

Frodo took the newly sharpened quill from Merry's hand, and looked from it to the page and back again. He was of the mind to say no, because he wanted to finish the passage he had started. How long would that take? Should he miss dinner to spend the evening locked in remembrance? Perhaps if he could complete it quickly… He searched his mind, feeling uncharacteristically confused. The words had slipped away from him, and now he felt only fear and revulsion at the thought of Torech Ungol. Perhaps it would be best to take some time away and allow the words to return as they would. But would they? He suppressed a flicker of panic at the thought, and wiped the quill and re-corked the inkbottle. "Yes, I am coming."

The Companions dined at the palace that night. A farewell feast was being held for the emissaries from Dale and the Lonely Mountain. Frodo listened to their news with interest; Brand and Dain had both been killed in the fighting, but their sons had withstood the siege of Mordor's forces. The stories of the battle of Dale brought Bilbo to Frodo's mind, and his adventures in that land.

When the last course of the feast was taken away, musicians circulated playing songs of Erebor and all were free to wander or listen or smoke. Gandalf and Gimli withdrew to one of the great window seats and filled their pipes. Gandalf blew a smoke ring and it whirled twice around his head and out the window. Gimli laughed and exhaled a long plume of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling. "Come and sit, Frodo."

"Thank you," Frodo replied. He took a pipe from an inside pocket, and filled it from the pouch that Gimli companionably offered. "Watching you, Gandalf, I am reminded again of Bilbo. Many evenings he sat and blew smoke rings and remembered yours to me. He will be saddened to learn of Dain's death, and that of Dori and Nori."

Gimli sighed gustily. "Great heart, Dain had. May I fight so well past my two-hundred-fiftieth year."

"I should call Dain's fall a heavy loss," Gandalf said, "if it was not a wonder rather that in his great age he could still wield his axe as mightily as they say that he did, standing over the body of King Brand before the Gate of Erebor until the darkness fell."

"Another chapter, perhaps, for Bilbo's book," Gimli said. "Or your own, Frodo."

"My scribblings do not yet qualify for the name," Frodo said. "But I thank you for it. Bilbo's original tale has grown so. One step leads to another, as he says, and somehow or another one finishes one battle at the Lonely Mountain and gets swept into a wholly different one in Mordor!"

Gandalf opened his eyes. "But, my dear hobbit, those battles were not wholly different. Did you think the renown of Bilbo merely from the finding of the Ring? No, his role in Smaug's demise and as peacemaker after the Battle of the Five Armies dealt a harsh blow to Sauron's plans for the North."

"What do you mean?" Frodo asked. "Smaug was in league with the Dark Lord?"

"Nay, that could not be. Dragons did not make alliances," Gimli said.

"Master dwarf, that is true, as far as it goes. But you underestimate Sauron if you believe he was not aware of the dragon and had hopes for his use. Vain and prideful, Smaug might have been, but Sauron was ever skilled at persuading others to do as he wished. At any rate, Smaug would have needed little persuading to set the North aflame. With an army of orcs under his wings, few could have stood before him. Even Elrond would be hard-pressed."

Frodo stared at him in amazement. "I never imagined such a fearful thing!"

"Ah, yes," Gandalf gave Frodo a penetrating look from under his bushy eyebrows. "When you think of the great Battle of the Pelennor, do not forget the Battles in Dale and the valor of Durin's Folk. Think what might have been. Dragon-fire and savage swords in Eriador, night in Rivendell. There might be no Queen in Gondor. We might now hope to return from the victory here only to ruin and ash. But that has been averted—because I met Thorin Oakenshield one evening on the edge of spring in Bree. A chance-meeting, as we say in Middle-earth."

Gimli puffed on his pipe, and said, "Do you mean to say you did not know he was there, Gandalf? I've heard the story, of course, but those telling it fancy you found Thorin purposefully."

Gandalf laughed. "I had too many cares to look for one dwarf, however worthy, Gimli. No, our meeting was ordered, as Elrond would say, but not by my own purpose." He blew a smoke ring that turned blue and spun lazily away over the heads of the other guests. "And that is enough dark talk for tonight, I believe."

Frodo inhaled deeply of the fragrant pipe-smoke. His worry and distress earlier in the evening seemed overwrought in this peaceful setting. There is no need to rush through the events, as if I must write it all immediately. Perhaps I have been pushing a bit, and should let well enough alone for now. He pursed his lips to blow a smoke ring, but an eddy of wind from the window caught it as it left his lips and it dissolved into mere wisps of blue vapor.

TBC

author's note: these quotes of Gandalf are preserved in Appendix A: Part III: Durin's Folk.