Author's Notes: It's all Tolkien's. No, seriously. It is. Hmm, with revisions, Tasana almost just barely passes under the Bad! Sue radar, depending on how much leeway you'd give her. Nyaah. But still, the site's informative for any discerning reader and/or wannabe writer, so I'll include it just for kicks & giggles: http:oddlots. digitalspace. net /PPC/SueTestLOTR. html (Without the spaces, naturally.) Make up your own mind & tell me about it in reviews. Word of warning: dust bunnies, chewing gum, duct tape, and crazy glue may not be the best materials to do so with, judging from my experience. Props for the PPC, just because they keep my pride in check and my sense of humor very healthy.
Also, if you're wondering about the song in the addition, no, I don't have words or a tune for it, but you filkers are more than welcome to put one together, if that's your thing. Yes, I know the characters metioned do not, according to Tolkien, ever meet. It's one of them funny AU things. All shall be explained in later chapters, or my prequel to this puppy, The Choices of Tar-Miriel. (Shameless plug, I know. Couldn't help myself.)
After finding a small flat landing on a staircase halfway through their journey that night, Frodo announced that he was hungry. The group hadn't eaten since that morning, so the proposition of a dinner break was greeted with plenty of enthusiasm, but they didn't stop for very long. They ate only enough to regain lost energy, as the dwarven skeleton still lingered heavily on their minds.
"How far is it to the exit?" Sam asked as they finished up their meal.
"Three or four days' journeys, if we aren't delayed by false paths." Gandalf adjusted his battered blue hat. Sam had a dogged look on his face, anticipating four or more days in the darkened passageways with the unknown forces that had killed the dwarf. "Don't worry so much, Master Samwise. If there is a path to be found, I shall find it. I came through the eastern passes once before this."
"Well, let's get started, then," Boromir said, jumping up from where he had been sitting. "I have a bad feeling about these caves, and frankly, the sooner we leave them, the better, as far as I'm concerned."
"I second that motion," said Legolas, putting out their small cooking fire. "So much for well lit hallways." He grumbled as the darkness of the stairwell enveloped everything but the light of the torch and Gandalf's staff.
"These stairs have survived since the days of Durin, though," Gimli parried jokingly, "so you must admit they are well built."
"Do you think that corpse has survived since the days of Durin as well, Gimli? There are things down there that don't care how well the stairs are built." Aragorn's comment soured their mood and stifled further conversation. Tasana glanced back at the menacing shadow among the dark reflections of her torch. He was probably right about the dangers of the mines, but she guessed her brother also badly needed sleep, and would not be fit company until he had had a full night's rest.
One other thing she had learned about her brother over the last few days: he never showed his weaknesses. Strider would march on stubbornly until he fell over from exhaustion, rather than hold the group up. He would bully others into keeping healthy, but paid scant attention to his own health if it got in his way. Aragorn was scared, even more deeply scared of these mines than Boromir and Legolas were. No one would ever get him to say so openly; Tasana doubted he would even admit it to himself. Yet it was obvious he was frightened to everyone else, so Strider was in a black, bleak mood. Not unlike how she might handle such a situation, Chev'yahna thought. Each with its own inscrutable thoughts, the two dark-haired shadows flowed amongst the torch-lit, brooding company.
Gandalf and Gimli, who were in the lead, stopped at major forks in their road, discussing possible paths and testing the air. Mostly dry, old, still, and stuffy, an occasional fresh breeze from a side chamber cleansed the air in the long, high-ceilinged main tunnel. They stopped in such a room off the central passageway for the night for the next two days, careful not to leave any sign of their journey.
It was probably best that they used very little of their supplies during these stops. The fire materials were running slim, and the torch Tasana had brought was burning dangerously low. They made good use of their light source throughout those next two and a half days; despite Gimli's reassurances of dwarven stonework, there were nearly as many holes in the floor of the mines as side passages in the walls, and the sheer number of those arches, bridges, ramps, and hallways was all but unthinkable. Despite the confusing network of walkways, Gandalf's path led unerringly southwest, rarely deviating from a straight line to the exit. They would usually go straight to sleep if they weren't on watch after those exhausting mile-eating hikes on tightly rationed food and water. They had found no streams fit to drink out of, and supplies of dried food were growing short.
Boromir and Legolas weren't the only ones whose nerves were raw and ragged from the caves. Frodo swore he heard an extra pair of footsteps behind them, and occasionally a hissing breath. Perhaps it was no more than a need for a real target to direct all her nameless fears upon, but amongst the light pitter-patter of the hobbits' bare hairy feet, the steady clomp of Boromir and Gandalf's boots, the barely audible catlike tread of Legolas, Gimli's ironclad stomp, Strider's cautious footfalls, and her own lighter step, Tasana could hear the smack of bare, flat feet against stone. Whenever the group stopped, the last pair of feet continued on for a time, too long for an echo, and a raspy hissing could be heard in the endless blackness behind them. Their pursuer was careful, though. It was never close enough to be caught in the torchlight.
"Gollum," Gandalf said as soon as Frodo mentioned his fears of a follower to him. "For good or for ill, the former ring bearer may yet have a part to play in this quest."
"Ring bearer?" Tasana sat up from where she had been lounging during breakfast, intrigued. "That's the first time anyone's mentioned a ring to me."
"That is the reason why we're headed for Mordor: to destroy the One Ring in the place it was made, the one place it can be unmade," Aragorn explained.
"But I thought it was lost." Actually, she had thought Sauron's Ring of Power was no more than a fairy tale, something her mother had used to scare her into behaving when she was a little girl, until now. After meeting her brother, Tasana was ready to believe almost anything. Unless she was greatly mistaken, that was Isildur's sword, Narsil, reforged at Strider's waist. It certainly was no orc blade like the one she carried. To think, the sword that had cut down the Dark Lord of Mordor was hanging that close to her, in the scabbard of the rightful heir to the lost throne of Gondor… and she was his closest relation. How did a simple maiden daughter of a merchant who wished for nothing more than the chance to hunt with the wolves get so close to this much power?
"The Ring was, for many years," Frodo replied; fingering an ornament on the chain he wore around his neck. Tasana thought she detected a hint of gold. "But then my uncle found it in Gollum's cave. He's a ruthless creature, that Gollum. He'd probably strangle us all while we slept, save he's too afraid of the light. A pity Uncle Bilbo didn't kill him."
"Pity? It was pity for that 'ruthless creature' that stayed his hand. Do you think yourself truly able to judge a being's character from one chance encounter?" Gandalf said sharply, causing Frodo to lower his head with shame. "We shall see what role Gollum has yet to play."
Tasana and the others, however, never wavered from their watch. Even Gandalf, despite his egalitarian words, seemed to let his eyes stray to the shadows behind the company for signs of an unwanted pursuer. Perhaps legendary times call for even more suspicion than usual, the woods-woman thought to herself.
They stopped in a guardroom off the main path their third night in Moria. Spider webs covered the dusty walls and a deep, uncovered empty well stood decaying in the center. After eating a small portion of the dwarven journey bread and having a sip of water each, the males set out their sleeping rolls and Tasana bundled up in an extra cloak as everyone went to bed.
Pippin was assigned first watch, but wasn't the only one still awake. Gandalf was dredging up old memories of Moria, trying to decide on tomorrow's path. Aragorn had moved Boromir to a dark corner and was making a vague threat about what would happen the next time he caught the younger man making calf eyes at the healer, something unpleasant that left plenty of room for imagination.
"Forgive me; I didn't know you had an interest in her." Boromir backed as far into the corner as he could, keeping his open palms between the tall, menacing Dunedain and his more vulnerable parts. More concerned about the looming, vengeful wraith in front him; neither Boromir nor Aragorn noticed the dark form behind him.
"He's my brother," the shadowed spirit said half exasperatedly. "Of course Strider has an interest." She reached over Boromir's shoulder and gave Aragorn a peck on the cheek. "I've handled men and orcs I don't like for the past twenty-three years. I can take care of my own affairs without your help, thank you, Aragorn."
"That's exactly what I was afraid of." He smiled at his sister, removing her hand from Boromir's shoulder. Tasana squeezed her lord's hand where she held it in the shadows.
"Just try to be a little more diplomatic next time, Strider. It would hardly do if my uncivilized big brother scared off a man I really liked, now would it?" she teased in return.
Strider didn't have time to reply. A sudden thump emanating from the center of the room caused all three to turn in that direction. Tasana couldn't help but notice how Boromir moved to shield her as they cautiously drew their swords.
"Sorry… sorry," Pippin said sheepishly between thuds, flinching at the drawn blades with each echoed clunk. "I… must have knocked a stone off of the side of the well." Had anyone been watching him, one would have seen that the young hobbit had purposely dropped the stone in his curiosity to see how deep the old well was.
"Well, next time throw yourself in after it and rid us of your incessant foolishness!" Gandalf snapped. "We can't afford any sign of our passage."
The tapping continued far too long; those reverberations in the deep could not all be echoes of the stone's fall. It sounded almost like a cryptic, evil signal. "That was a hammer," Gimli said when the noise died away at last. He and the elf had awoken at the sound of swords being unsheathed. "I'd know that sound anywhere."
"That rock probably just hit something at the bottom of the shaft," Boromir shrugged, sheathing his broadsword.
"Something that shouldn't have been disturbed," Strider muttered darkly. Gandalf replaced Pippin, who was thoroughly cowed, on watch and shook his head at the well. Tasana dropped off to sleep after sharing a concerned look with the men across the room.
They were awakened the next morning by Gandalf, who appeared to be in a much cheerier mood despite having kept watch half the night. "I've decided which path to take," he said brightly. "The path on the right leads in the wrong direction, and I don't like the smell that emanates from the center one." Tapping his hooked nose with a long, thin finger, his hawkish blue eyes shining with decisiveness and a little tired relief, the old wizard reminded Tasana of one of the village grandfathers sharing ancestral weather lore. "Always follow your nose; if there are no other signs," he said sagely.
"So the left path it is then. I hope for all our sakes you've followed your nose correctly, Gandalf." Legolas slung his pack onto his thin shoulders.
Gandalf led them up a winding trail for eight hours, with only two brief stops. At first the young hobbits had joked, laughed and sung to keep the gloominess of the dead, empty mines away. As the day wore on and the company grew a little shorter of breath, the dark, silent, cavernous passageway seemed to swallow their bright voices and reflect them mockingly, as if Moria itself knew how futile their efforts to hide their fears were. Among these echoes were less benevolent noises: the flapping of bare feet and the occasional ringing tap of some unknown metal.
"But come," Pippin laughed rather hollowly as he and his cousin paused for breath in the dim cavern. "We have been doing all the singing. Surely Strider or Master Legolas has some sweet elvish tune we have not yet heard." Aragorn shook his head gruffly, and the elf avoided the youngest fellowship member's hopeful gaze.
"I fear I am in no mood for singing in this dark land," the archer said, letting his gaze wander over the shadowed side tunnels, any of which could be filled with dangers yet unseen.
"What of you, Gimli? These passageways must have been filled with song in Moria's glory days. Might you know some song to keep the darkness at bay?" Pippin asked the dwarf who led the cluster along the wizard's path.
"I will make a fool of myself when that elf does," he replied, shifting his axe to his other shoulder and hurrying to catch up with Gandalf.
Shyly, Peregrin turned to the last two members of the company. "Mistress Chev'yahna? Do the Wargs sing?"
Tasana knew she would have little to offer the young hobbit, but she hated to disappoint him when all else seemed to be taking a turn for the worse. Better to hear the false cheer of a warbling singer than the raspy breath that followed their trail. "They howl," she answered him, bringing her torch forward so as to better see Merry aiding his cousin with a pleading look. "But I know no songs fit for this company. A Warg sings in a chorus, or of its loneliness, but they've no songs for a single speaker to cheer her companions with."
"Gondor, too, sings mostly of war and death," Boromir forestalled the hobbit's eager questioning. "For we are a warlike people, living in dark times." Pippin's face fell, and Boromir chewed a nail, as if considering whether to bring something up. "There is, however," he started at last, with a glance towards Tasana with a devilish gleam in his eyes that could just barely be caught in the torchlight, "An old ballad of Dol Amroth that my brother was ever fond of as a child. I would sing it, but it is best when performed by a pair. Might you know 'the Song of the Seagull's Wing,' Mistress Chev'yahna?"
She did indeed, as her father had not forgotten his heritage from Dol Amroth, a land of seafarers and the Swan Knights, from which Boromir's mother had come. Nor had Tasana's own mother forgotten her history, which was more closely attached to that song than the sea-folk who dreamed of following the ship of the ballad's hero. But the healer was reluctant to admit to her knowledge, and not simply because even the raspy-throated Parcha'kahnsta of her wolf pack had a better singing voice than Tasana did. "By my Dunedain blood, I cannot say I do," the woods woman responded, warning Boromir of her brother behind her. The steward's son appeared not to notice her jerky head tilts in the dim light.
"It must be even more popular in Arnor than in Dol Amroth," he argued. "For the hero of the tale sired a kingly line that now dwells there." It was his turn to make eye contact with the ranger, offering Aragorn a challenging stare. "Or so the tales say." The tall Dunedain said nothing, seeming to draw the shadows more closely around himself as he returned Boromir's gaze.
"Come, Chev'yahna, you must know at least some of it," Merry pleaded with the reluctant healer.
Tasana sighed and acquiesced, hoping the song would at least postpone a fight between her brother and her lord. "I might be able to warble a few bars, if you'll give me the tune. But don't expect a she Warg to sound like a songbird."
"Oh, don't worry," Pippin reassured her. "Merry doesn't sound half so good now as he does once you get a few mugs of ale into him."
"You sound a lot better when I'm drunk, too," Merry teased him, giving his cousin a playful punch. "But, come, let's hear it."
"I yield the floor, Ragastion." Tasana gave her liege lord a mocking curtsy, and Boromir started the song, his voice deep and rich. The woods woman joined in at Miriel's lines in the song, her speech clumsy and faltering at first, but gaining strength as she sang of the lost queen's desire for battle and reckoning. She was by no means the best singer the hobbits had ever heard, but her voice, a harsh alto with little regard for key, carried forth the passions and depths of despair the doomed monarch had felt at leaving her country to its tragic fate, and the love and hope she felt once more with Palansül the Grayhavensailor once the captain, voiced by Boromir in sweeter, more vibrant tones than he had used for the queen's wizardly advisor, had carried her off to Valinor.
By the last chorus, Boromir was spinning Tasana in a circle, the young hobbits clapping them on. Their audience had grown from the two curious young ones, however. Sam was whistling along with the tune, and Frodo seemed to be concentrating on something more than his feet, although the eldest hobbit seemed too weary to look up. Tasana caught a grin flickering across Legolas's face, and although her brother rolled his eyes, Aragorn, too, seemed to walk taller after this tale of his ancestors. Gandalf smiled, murmuring, "Radagast always hated that song. But neither he nor young Palansül was willing to take credit for Miriel's recovery, and 'twas Palansül who commissioned the bard." The old wizard paused, thinking of his peers as his smile infected the others. "But whether Radagast admits it or no, Alistar is right. The old politician still does the best impression I've ever seen of Tar-Miriel." A more sober expression came over Gandalf's face as his reminisces turned to a more recent time. "I don't understand why the brown wizard warned me away from the order when I told him of the quest. Our leader, Saruman the White, has a right to know." The inaccessibility of the other wizards was a sobering reminder of how alone the group was, physically remote from their homes by this quest, cut off from sunlit surroundings by the cavernous darkness of Moria, and each trapped in its own mental walls from the companionship of strangers.
Aragorn insisted upon keeping rearguard, motioning Tasana and her weakened torch up head of him so his eyes would adjust to the near darkness. Chev'yahna herded the tired, footsore, but wary hobbits in front of her. Boromir and Legolas had unconsciously fallen into flanking positions about Frodo Baggins. The eldest of the hobbits had drawn his dagger. From the way its florid designs reflected the torchlight, Tasana could tell the dagger was of ancient elven make, one that would glow with a blue fire in the presence of orcs. She had heard of such weapons from some of her pack mates who had been freed from Mordor. The dagger's dim reflection of the twin light sources was a great comfort in the dark, twisting tunnels.
Gandalf and Gimli, up ahead, appeared unconcerned about their companions' nameless anxiety, but merely pushed ahead grimly. The wizard's glowing staff bobbed about holes in the floor and outlined the side paths, occasionally stopping and turning this way and that as Gandalf chose their route.
As they turned down yet another corridor, this one in better shape than most of the others, Tasana found herself panting for breath like the city dwelling hobbits, despite years of running with the Wargs. She wasn't the only one beginning to show the effects of long miles on a nearly empty stomach. Aragorn lagged behind, and Boromir had become too tired to grumble about the wizard's choice of roundabout paths anymore.
The corridor widened into a hall, soon becoming too wide for the weak torch to illuminate. Gandalf risked a brief flash of light, revealing three exits near the other end of the gigantic hall. This must be one of the great feast halls Gimli had told them about. Tasana had imagined it must have been very welcoming and impressive in its glory days, but now the open space only made her feel vulnerable to hidden attackers. "There used to be high windows to light these halls," Gandalf said as the light dimmed. "It must be night outside." The group had not seen the sun in four days. The wizard's observations heightened the forest dwellers' thirst for having warm sunshine once more upon their backs.
"How much longer until we get out of these caves?" Legolas asked no one in particular. He had been born and raised in the wilds of Mirkwood, east of Rivendell. None missed the dappled sunlight of the forest more than the sylvan archer.
"Mines," Gimli corrected him peevishly. "No underground stream could have created a hall as great as this one was during its glory days."
"Mine, cave, what does it matter?" Boromir snapped. "You're the only live dwarf we've seen since we left Rivendell. Where are your illustrious cousins, Gimli?" He looked as if he would have liked to continue, but a judicious use of Aragorn's elbow cut him off before Gimli's axe could.
"We should be out of Moria before the week is out, Legolas," Gandalf filled in the tense silence as Tasana and Strider moved to forestall the short-tempered fighters before their battle of words took on new weapons. Even a drawn hunting knife could produce a general brawl amongst the company right now. "I think we are just a little above and northwest of the other gate," the wizard continued. "That east corridor should take us directly to it. Let's rest here for tonight though. We still have a full day's journey ahead of us before we even leave Moria, and we are as yet nowhere near our ultimate goal."