Hello! I hope that you enjoy this chapter! It's a quick one, because I must get to bed and I don't think rushing the second half of what was going to be here is a good idea, however I hope to get it up before Monday, and it will be an entirely new spin on a scene, so I hope that it's worth it. Anyways, enjoy this chapter, and please forgive my typos.
Chapter Thirty-Six: Azanulbizar
Aragorn had never known grief like it. It was overwhelmed him, a wave of pain and shock that crashed into his very soul, and poured down his throat into his lungs, again and again and again, without letting him come up to breathe. It was all he could do to stop tears, to stop sobbing, to stay strong,
Now, more than ever, others needed him to be strong.
They had spilled out onto the mountain, fallen where they stood. One by one, like toy soldiers knocked over by a petulant child, their sobs joining the startling birdsong, and their tears making damp the dry earth. Even Nelly was sobbing, her arms wrapped around Pippin. Overhead, the sun was shining, glorious, scornful, daring to show its face when their greatest hope, and Aragorn's greatest friend, had been stolen by fire and darkness.
He loathed himself for running. Loathed Anduril, that it had not tasted the blood of even one orc in Moria. It had simply hung useless in his hand, severing only the air, watching as Gandalf fell. Yet he had no choice – Gandalf said fly, and they had learnt at the gate the steep price that hesitance could demand. The quest had to take priority.
It will not happen again, Bróin had said. And he was right.
If only Glorfindel had been with them, he would have known what to do – and he should have been with them, he was part of the original fellowship, he should have been there. Why could it not have been Glorfindel who danced through the doorway with them, and not poor Bofin? Glorfindel would have made it, he would have known how to destroy the Balrog –
Or would he?
Aragorn stumbled, and sheathed his sword. His shoulders sagged. For all his love and admiration for the lord of Rivendell, Aragorn no longer saw him through the wonder-blind eyes of a child. The Balrog had almost bettered the Glorfindel once, and it was a fight he spoke of with dark eyes and a hushed voice.
Once, only once, Aragorn had enthused that they should fight a Balrog together one day, and Glorfindel's face had grown pale at once.
"No, child," he had said. "A Balrog is a foe beyond us both, and I paid dearly for my last victory. I pray that you will never see such a devil, let alone face it in a fight. Even the Istari would struggle against such a foe."
He was right. Glorfindel was always right.
"Come," Aragorn called, his throat croaking in protest. His body wanted him to cry, not to speak, but he swallowed the tears and cleared his throat. "Come now, we cannot linger. We can grieve when we are safe."
Boromir's head snapped up and he opened his mouth as if to argue, but then he sagged, and nodded glumly, reaching out for Frodo. He was the only hobbit still on his feet, but he was swaying, back and forth like a willow branch in a slow breeze. He flinched at Boromir's touch, and turned wounded eyes on Aragorn. They seemed to bore into his very soul, begging why, how, what do we do?
Aragorn straightened, held out his hand, and offered what little a smile he could scrape together.
"Come," he said again, and the hobbit stumbled towards him. He squeezed Frodo's shoulder, and noticed that the hobbit was clutching the end of a silver chain so tightly his fingers had lost all colour. Strange. He was sure that the ring's chain had been gold.
Slowly, the others clambered to their feet, some clutching each other, and others standing alone. But they gathered together, and Aragorn took the first step towards Lothlórien.
Then, Gimli spoke.
"Before we go, there is something I must see," he said, his voice gruff and bitter with grief. Beneath it, there was a subtle vulnerability that carried Aragorn back to their first meeting. Then, too, they had been weary and afraid, and running for their lives. "If this journey is to end in death, I would look in the Mirromere ere I fall."
All eyes flickered to Aragorn and Frodo, though whom they were asking for permission, Aragorn was not sure. He glanced up the Dimril Dale – he knew it was not far to the lake, though he had not made the short trek himself before. The sun was beginning its descent, but noon was not long since passed. They had an hour, perhaps, to spare. And, even as another wave of grief crashed down upon him, in his heart Aragorn knew that the sight might do his companions some good. He had no place to refuse.
Gimli led the way, trudging up the path with a cloud of silence around him and Bróin at his side, and one by one the hobbits trailed behind. For a moment, Aragorn simply swayed on the spot. He had no desire to see the Mirrormere. He felt no desire to explore, or see the sight, no matter how great it may be. Curiosity was not a thing that survived such a grief.
But then Pippin glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide with sorrow, and Aragorn found that his feet moved of their own volition. Pippin's mouth moved weakly into what once might have been a smile, and Aragorn nodded, increasing his stride to catch the end of the group. He heard Legolas and Boromir behind him, and they hiked up to a grove of trees half-hidden by the mountain's stone.
For a moment, they trudged down the dirt track, but within a minute or two, the trees parted, and Aragorn's breath was stolen from his lungs.
Before him stood a large pillar of stone, one that he needed no explanation for save legend – it was the place where Durin had stood.
And beyond it shone the Mirromere, an arrowhead of brilliant blue set beneath the grey stone. Its shortest side lay before them, perhaps quarter mile wide, and it stretched out for perhaps a mile before the two sides tapered to a point beneath the sheer mountain wall. It sparkled so brightly that it seemed to give off its own light, and the hue was bluer than any flower Aragorn had ever seen. Nothing floated on its surface, no weed or lily or broken twig, and its banks were as clean as clear glass.
Never had he seen such beauty in so vast a body of water. All that could compare were the ponds of Rivendell, and with a pang he was reminded of Ael o Alassë. The same sense of sorrowful memory hummed around Mirromere, and the deep blue reminded him of Gandalf's eyes. Of holding a million memories, a light that seemed sure to last forever.
His feet drew him nearer, and it seemed that he was not the only one to feel so. The entire fellowship flanked out along the bank, and as one they peered down. Aragorn gasped sharply.
He could see the stars.
He looked up quickly, but the sky was blue and clear, save for a few wisps of white cloud. There was not a star in sight. But when he returned his gaze to the lake, he saw them reflected in the water, as though they were a crown above his head. They twinkled up at him, and a tiny shiver of hope shot into his heart. This was what Durin had seen, come to life before his eyes.
The stars, hidden as they were by the scornful sun, were still alight.
Hope, as smothered as it was by Gandalf's death, was struggling on.
"Ir-rûzud tanallikhi, id-nûlukh tarazzidi," whispered Bróin, his voice breaking.
Gimli let out a strangled laugh, but nodded, wrapping his arm over Bróin's. "The sun is still shining, the moon glows on."
Aragorn took a deep breath of the cool air, and the flutter of hope in his heart grew a little stronger.
"I am glad," Legolas said in a tight voice, "that your people's legacy here has not been utterly swallowed by the darkness. That some places remain unmarred."
"It is not unmarred," murmured Frodo, tears chasing each other down his cheeks. "This is where Frerin died."
Boromir frowned heavily. "Who is Frerin?"
Frodo's gaze remained fixed on the lake, and he tugged at the chain around his neck. His hand was going white. "He was Dís and Thorin's brother. It was in the Battle of Azanulbizar. He was just a child."
"No older than Pippin or Bodin," added Bróin mournfully.
Legolas looked horrified, and Aragorn was reminded just how little news came to Mirkwood of life outside its borders. He knew that Legolas had rarely travelled, and that his usual journeys took him no further than the Misty Mountains one way, or Erebor in the other. Legolas had seen battle and blood and death, it was true, but Aragorn wondered how much he knew of the struggles faced when the fighting died down.
Boromir made an odd noise of disgust, and shook his head. "It is a sign of evil times indeed when those so young are sent to battle. The soldiers of Gondor grow younger with every passing year. Soon we will not be able to afford to turn away any boy over eleven summers, yet it hurts my heart to see it so. Curse the orcs for fouling this place, and curse Mordor for forcing our hand now."
They turned away, and they walked on.
Aragorn would remember little of their journey, save the weight of his grief, and the immense fear of attack. Every step, every hour seemed to linger into the next, and time passed in a wink that lasted a lifetime. Years of training and experience drove his feet, scripted his calls of encouragement and direction to the others, but true sharpness of mind did not return to him until the water of Nimrodel lapped at his ankles.
It shook just enough of his shock and weariness from his mind, and he raised his eyes to check the sky. He sighed, his hand automatically going to his sword's hilt. Already, red streaks were soaking the clouds, and darkness was rolling in from the east.
"We must hurry," he said, ushering they stumbling Sam through the water. "Night is almost upon us, we must reach the trees ere it falls. Come, Merry, Pippin."
They sped into a run, and though they often faltered and staggered, they hit the outer trees of Lórien as the twilight stars appeared. Darkness rolled in quicker beneath the trees, and the hairs on the back of Aragorn's neck stood up. Somehow, he did not think that the sweet waters of Nimrodel and the whispered threat of the witch of the woods would keep orcs from Lothlórien on this night. He looked up – shelter might be found if they climbed the trees. It would be a primitive mockery of the ways of the Galadhrim, but it had saved him before, and saved Gimli and Pippin too.
But even as he opened his mouth to say so, a figure emerged from the gloom before him. A figure that he knew, at once.
"Haldir," he cried in relief, rushing forward even as the others leapt back.
"Welcome," said the elf, putting a hand over his heart and bowing his head. "We have been wondering if your party should pass through our lands. Which one of you is Bilbo Baggins?"
Shock struck Aragorn in the face so hard that for a moment he did not understand what was being said. Then, he realised that word had come from Rivendell. That they were expecting Bilbo. And Gandalf.
Taking a deep breath, Frodo stepped forward. "I am Frodo Baggins, nephew of Bilbo. I am here in his place, with his burden."
Eyes widening, Haldir turned swiftly to stare at Aragorn.
"The story is long, and full of grief," Aragorn murmured. "How much do you know of our errand?"
"Enough to know not to speak of such maters outside the safety of the kingdom's walls," Haldir said sharply, and he stared intently at the group. "Yet it was my Lord and Lady's will that your company be given leave to pass." His gaze rested rather suspiciously on Gimli and, to a lesser extent, Bróin. "You are lucky, Master Dwarves, that the lady had knowledge that Durin's Folk would travel among this Fellowship. We have not brought dwarves into Caras Galadhon since the dark days."
Bróin and Gimli glared at the elf, and opened their mouths to protest or retort, but Nelly took Bróin's hand and Frodo looked beseechingly at Gimli, and the dwarves fell silent.
A ladder of silver rope spooled down from the tree behind Haldir, and the elf stood aside, gesturing to it. "After you, son of Arathorn."
He would have rather wait until he knew that the others were safe, but given that he had been invited, Aragorn took the ladder and climbed as quickly as he could. A pair of strange, silent elves greeted him at the top, and though he recognised neither of them, he thought they bore a rather strong resemblance to Haldir. He had met the guard on his first and only trip to the land of the Galadhrim, though he had no wish to dwell on the memories of that visit now. It would bring no comfort.
Now, he stood upon a small platform, wide and rail-less, spread around the tree and sheltered by a thin roof. It was sparse, no more than a guard-post, but he was grateful for the shelter. For a way to hide from the orcs.
This sentiment did not seem to be shared by Sam or Pippin when they came out onto the platform, and saw their height.
"Trees are all right and good for playing in," Sam whispered to the youngest hobbit. "But not for sleeping in, like a bird in a tree. What if we fall off the perch?"
"Don't worry Sam." Aragorn smiled wearily. "We will not let you fall."
When he himself ascended, Haldir introduced the strangers as his brothers, who spoke very little of the Common Tongue. Aragorn, Legolas and Frodo shared a few niceties in Sindarin, but no one was in the mood for idle talk.
"Tonight, you will rest here. Tomorrow, I will take you into the city," said Haldir. "But take care not to speak so loudly. You are not resting in safety yet."
Too tired and grief-worn for anything else, they laid down on the platform, with the hobbits huddling close to the tree. Just when he thought that his heart could not grow heavier, Aragorn saw Pippin, ever their little sleeper, staring out at the night with wide eyes, pinching his own arms when his eyelids flickered.
Aragorn began to doze, but in what felt like minutes he was woken by the tramp of orc feet and goblin jeers below. He reached for his sword, but Haldir gave a silent shake of the head, and signalled for the fellowship to remain with his brothers. Aragorn settled back down reluctantly as Haldir disappeared down the tree.
And only minutes later, silence stifled all noise from below.
Pippin went on pinching himself, until Merry pulled his hand away.
Aragorn closed his eyes. Succumbed to sleep.
He woke to a grief that allowed him to breathe, and to weak sunlight filtering through the trees. Haldir was waking them all, and as Aragorn came fully to awareness, the elf urged them to follow him down the ladder once more.
"What of the orcs?" asked Bróin urgently.
"They are destroyed," Haldir said. "None will leave this woodland. Come."
They followed the elf down the ladder and onto a hidden path, one that could not be seen by the naked eye of man or hobbit or dwarf. Yet the elves could see it, and they led the company true. For hours they wound around trees and over rocks and across little tributaries, until at last they reached the wonder of Caras Galadhon.
Once, Aragorn had been taken breathless by the beauty of the place, and of the buildings that wove around the trees, but today his appreciation was numbed by grief. He drew a little joy from Sam's mumbles of awe and Frodo's wide eyes, but that was as much as his heart would allow.
"Where're we going now?" Pippin asked glumly, and Aragorn glanced at him. There were dark rings under the hobbits eyes, and he stood with sagged shoulders sand a lowered head. Before Aragorn could reply, Haldir spoke.
"To meet the Lord Celeborn, and the Lady Galadriel."
So, I will have to leave it there for today. However, I will endeavour to have the second part of the chapter up tomorrow/Sunday if I can at all. I just want to make sure it's as perfect as I can get it! Until then, thank you for reading, and take care!