Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
Author's Note:
This is a LegoRomance (slow-burn)
LIV: The Ring goes South
Eregion - Hollin, 3019 TA, January 9
Days they had traveled, crossing great distances by foot, and it was the beginning of their goal. One night, after they departed from Rivendell, the Fellowship found themselves encamped under a canopy of stars, the journey ahead of them still a path unwritten. The air was crisp, with the scent of pine and earth mingling in the cool breeze, a gentle reminder of the vast wilderness they traversed. The world around them was a tapestry of shadow and moonlight, the trees standing as silent sentinels in the night.
The Fellowship, a band of nine, was an assembly of diverse beings bound by a singular, solemn purpose. Frodo, the Ringbearer, sat quietly, the weight of his burden evident in his thoughtful gaze. Gandalf, the Grey Wizard, was a figure of wisdom and mystery, his eyes reflecting the fire's flickering light as he pondered the road ahead. Aragorn, the Ranger known as Strider, bore the look of a seasoned traveler, his vigilance unwavering as he surveyed their surroundings.
Legolas, the elf of Mirkwood, moved with a grace that belied his keen awareness of the forest's whispers. Gimli, the dwarf, sat sturdily, his axe never far from his side, a warrior ready for whatever perils might arise. Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, appeared restless, his thoughts seemingly torn between duty and doubt.
Merry and Pippin, the hobbits from the Shire, tried to lighten the mood with quiet conversation, their spirits undimmed despite the uncertainty of the journey. Samwise Gamgee, Frodo's loyal companion, tended to the small fire, ensuring their modest meal was well-cooked, his actions speaking of his steadfast commitment to his friend.
As the night deepened, the Fellowship settled into an uneasy rest, each member lost in their thoughts about the quest that lay before them. The stars overhead shone like jewels against the dark velvet of the sky, a silent testament to the enduring beauty of Middle-earth, even in times of shadow and strife. The first night of their journey marked the beginning of an epic tale, one that would be etched in the annals of time, a testament to courage, friendship, and the indomitable spirit of those who dare to confront darkness.
In the heart of a small clearing, under the vast tapestry of the night sky, the hobbits of the Fellowship gathered around a crackling fire. Samwise Gamgee, ever the faithful companion to Frodo, was busily engaged in preparing their evening meal. His movements were methodical and precise, a skill honed from years in the gardens and kitchen of Bag End.
Merry and Pippin, meanwhile, were tasked with chopping vegetables, an assignment that quickly devolved into a lighthearted quarrel. "I still say you're cutting those carrots all wrong, Pippin," Merry chided with a playful grin, deftly slicing a tomato. "They're all uneven! Gandalf's fireworks were more symmetrical than your chopping."
Pippin huffed, slicing a particularly large carrot with exaggerated care. "And I suppose you're the expert on culinary aesthetics now, are you? Perhaps we should have you cook all our meals from here on out," he retorted, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Frodo watched the exchange with an affectionate smile, the camaraderie of his friends a comforting presence amidst the uncertainty of their journey. "You know, I don't think the Sackville-Bagginses could manage such a lively kitchen," he commented, his voice laced with humor. "Perhaps we should invite them over for dinner when we return to the Shire – just to show them how it's done."
At this, Sam paused in his cooking, casting a glance over his shoulder. "Well, Mr. Frodo, if we're inviting the Sackville-Bagginses, we might as well invite all of Hobbiton. It'll be a feast to remember, that's for certain," he said, his tone warm and hopeful.
The banter continued as the fire crackled and danced, casting a golden glow over the group. The aroma of cooking stew began to fill the air, a simple yet hearty meal that promised warmth and sustenance for the night ahead. The hobbits' laughter and light-hearted arguments wove a tapestry of homely comfort, a brief respite from the weight of their quest. As they shared in the simple joys of friendship and food, the Fellowship, for a moment, felt like a distant echo, replaced by the familiar feel of a night in the Shire.
Near the edge of the flickering firelight, Gandalf, Boromir, and Gimli sat in a contemplative huddle. The three figures, each a representation of their respective peoples, bore the weight of the journey ahead in their own unique ways.
Gandalf, the Grey Wizard, sat with his long, gnarled staff laid across his lap, his deep-set eyes reflecting the flames' dance. His face, lined with the wisdom of countless years, was set in a thoughtful frown. His mind was awhirl with routes and strategies, pondering the safest path for the Fellowship to take. The wizard's grey robes and pointed hat, symbols of his order and status, seemed to blend into the twilight, making him appear as a part of the very fabric of the evening.
Boromir, the son of the Steward of Gondor, sat with a troubled expression. His handsome features, noble and stern, were marked by a hint of skepticism. Clad in his finely crafted armor, with the Horn of Gondor at his side, he exuded the air of a seasoned warrior, yet his faith in the mission was frayed by doubts. He struggled inwardly with the enormity of their task and the weight of his father's expectations.
Gimli, son of Glóin, was a sturdy presence, his robust form and thick beard characteristic of the Dwarves of Middle-earth. His eyes, keen and observant, often flickered with a distrustful glare toward Legolas. His deep-seated prejudice against the Elves was a barrier he had yet to overcome, a grudge born from old wounds and histories.
As they sat, the conversation turned to the path they should take. "We must decide on our course," Gandalf began, his voice carrying a tone of urgency. "The road through the The Pass of Caradhras is perilous, yet it may be the quickest way."
Boromir shifted uncomfortably. "The mountains pass filled with ancient dangers. But if I would sooner take the mountain pass and face the snow and wind than the unknown depths of Moria."
Gimli bristled at Boromir's words. "The Mines of Moria are part of my people's legacy. They may be dark, but they hold no fear for a Dwarf. The mountain pass is treacherous, especially in winter. We risk being seen or worse, caught in a storm."
Gandalf listened to their arguments, his mind weighing the risks and benefits of each route. The decision was not an easy one, each path fraught with its own set of dangers. The wizard knew that whichever course they chose would shape the fate of the Fellowship and the quest they had undertaken.
As they debated, the fire crackled and popped, casting long shadows over the trio. Their voices, a blend of concern, courage, and caution, were a testament to the gravity of their quest. The decision of their path was a heavy one, and as the night deepened, the weight of the future lay heavily upon them all.
Aragorn and Legolas, stepping away from the camp's warmth, ventured into the surrounding wilderness to ensure the area's safety. The night was serene, the sky a vast dome of stars above them. Their footsteps were soft upon the forest floor, a testament to their skill and awareness. The leaves whispered in the gentle breeze, and the distant hoot of an owl punctuated the stillness of the night.
As they walked, the conversation turned to matters of the heart. Aragorn, his features illuminated intermittently by the moonlight, spoke with a tone of resignation. "I spoke at length with Lord Elrond regarding Arwen," he began, his voice laced with a mixture of love and sorrow. "I cannot allow her to bind her fate to mine. It is a path of uncertainty and grief. Her immortal life is not to be forsaken lightly."
Legolas, walking beside him with his usual elven grace, listened intently. "Aragorn, you speak as if love is a burden to be shouldered alone. Arwen's choice is her own; love is a rare gift, not a curse. To deny such a bond for fear of future pain is to deny the very essence of what makes us feel alive."
Aragorn sighed, his gaze lost in the distance. "You speak the truth, Legolas, but the thought of her suffering for my sake is unbearable. My path is uncertain, and the shadows of this quest loom large. Her place is in the undying lands, not in the world of men."
Legolas stopped, turning to face his friend. "But Aragorn, love is not bound by realms or the passing of ages. It transcends all. Arwen loves you, and you her. Such love, once found, should be cherished, not forsaken for fear of what may come."
Aragorn looked at Legolas, his eyes reflecting a turmoil of emotions. "Perhaps you are right, Legolas. But the weight of this decision, the potential cost, is a heavy one."
They continued their walk in silence for a time, each lost in thought. The forest around them seemed to listen, the ancient trees standing as silent witnesses to their conversation. The bond between the ranger and the elf was evident, a friendship forged in understanding and mutual respect.
The night seemed a little less dark, the burden of Aragorn's heart slightly eased by the counsel of his friend. The path ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but the companionship they shared was a light in the darkness, a reminder that they did not face their trials alone. As Aragorn and Legolas continued their patrol around the camp, their conversation shifted to another enigmatic figure in their midst - Xena.
"It's peculiar, don't you think?" Legolas mused, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Mortal, still alive after all these years. It defies the natural order of things, even for one as skilled and formidable as she."
Aragorn nodded, his expression thoughtful under the starlit sky. "Indeed, there is more to her tale than meets the eye. Time seems to have little hold on her, a mystery in itself. And her sudden departure with Elladan and Elrohir to Lothlórien raises many questions."
Legolas glanced at Aragorn, his elven eyes reflecting the silver light of the moon. "Her demeanor, too, has changed between days. Once there was a burning hatred in her, a fire that seemed to consume her very being. And now, it has vanished, as if quenched by unseen waters. Such a transformation is rare and speaks of a deeper turmoil within her soul."
"The journey to Lothlórien is no small undertaking," Aragorn added, his voice low. "For her to leave without a word of explanation... it suggests a purpose or a quest of her own, possibly intertwined with the fate of Middle-earth itself."
Legolas stopped, his gaze piercing the darkness. "Do you think she seeks redemption, Aragorn? Or is it something else that drives her on this path?"
Aragorn pondered the question, his eyes distant. "Redemption is a powerful motivator, especially for those burdened by past deeds. But with Xena, there seems to be more. A quest, perhaps, for understanding, or an answer to a riddle long unsolved."
Legolas nodded, understanding the complexity of such a journey. "Whatever her reasons, I hope her path leads to the answers she seeks. The shadows of her past are deep and dark."
The two friends resumed their walk, the mystery of Xena lingering in their minds. Her story was a woven tapestry of courage, pain, and enigma, a tale that echoed the very essence of their world - a world where the line between legend and reality was often blurred, and where every heart harbored its own secret quests and battles. As they made their way back to the camp, the night seemed to hold their words, a silent keeper of their thoughts and speculations.
As the dawn of their departure broke, the Fellowship, weary from their continuous travel, welcomed the chance to rest and replenish around a campfire. The rising sun cast a golden hue across the landscape, touching each member of the Company with its gentle warmth as they partook in their morning meal. The night's watch had been kept vigilantly by Aragorn and Legolas, who now rejoined the group, their faces bearing the quiet fatigue of those who had guarded the dark hours.
Legolas, feeling the caress of the morning sun, pushed back his hood, allowing the light to dispel the chill from his fair Elven features. He walked alongside Aragorn, his thoughts troubled by their nocturnal conversation. They had spoken of the trials ahead, but also of matters closer to the heart.
"I cannot shake the unease from our discussion last night, Aragorn," Legolas confessed, his voice carrying a note of concern. "Your parting from Arwen, after your talk with Lord Elrond, weighs heavily upon you. The shadow that grows in the East threatens all we hold dear, and your worry for her is understandable."
Aragorn nodded, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion. "Indeed, Legolas. My heart is torn. I love her deeply, yet I fear for her safety in these dark times. Elrond's counsel was clear - our paths may lead to sorrow for her. I could not bear to see her endure such a fate on my account."
Legolas placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, offering a silent support. "Your love for Arwen is a testament to the strength of your heart, Aragorn. But remember, she is the daughter of Elrond, wise and strong. Her choice to wait for you is made with full understanding of the risks."
Aragorn sighed, his gaze drifting to the horizon. "I can only hope that our paths will lead us back to each other when this shadow has passed."
The two friends continued their walk, joining the others at the campfire. The fellowship shared their meal in companionable silence, each lost in their thoughts. The journey ahead was fraught with uncertainty, but in that moment, they found solace in the fellowship they shared, a bond that would be their greatest strength in the trials to come.
As Aragorn and Legolas neared the camp, they were greeted by the sound of Gimli's gruff voice. The Dwarf was expressing his opinion on their route, albeit unasked. "If anyone cared for my opinion, which clearly they don't, I'd suggest we're taking the long way around," Gimli was saying. "Gandalf, why not through the Mines of Moria? My cousin Balin would grant us a royal welcome there."
Their approach was halted by Gimli's suggestion. Gandalf, who was near the fire, responded with a firm tone. "No, Gimli. I would not choose to pass through Moria unless there was no other way."
It was then that Sam, who had been sitting near the edge of the group, stood up abruptly, his face curious. "What's that over there?" he asked, peering into the distance.
Gimli glanced in the same direction, squinting his eyes. "It's nothing but a wisp of cloud," he dismissed.
But the cloud moved unnaturally, racing against the wind's direction. "That's moving fast... and against the wind," Legolas observed with a frown, standing up to get a better view.
Suddenly, the sky was filled with dark shapes, a flock of birds swirling and swooping overhead, their movements purposeful and ominous. They covered the land, searching, circling closer and closer to where the Fellowship was gathered.
"Crebain from Dunland!" Legolas exclaimed, recognizing the birds.
Aragorn reacted instantly, his voice a sharp whisper. "Hide! Get down and stay still!"
The hobbits, startled and alarmed, hurriedly gathered their belongings and scrambled for cover. Sam quickly smothered the fire, then followed the others. Boromir and Aragorn helped them, swiftly moving to concealment. Gandalf, Gimli, and Legolas quickly found refuge behind nearby rocks.
Silently, they all lay hidden, holding their breaths as the crebain continued their ominous flight overhead, their black wings casting fleeting shadows over the land. The Fellowship knew the importance of remaining unseen, for such spies in the sky could bring peril swiftly upon them. The air was tense, each member keenly aware of the danger that now flew above.
As Gandalf surveyed the flight of the crebain, his expression grew grim. "Spies of Saruman," he muttered with a sense of urgency. "The passage to the South is under watch." He watched the birds diminish into specks against the sky. Turning his gaze towards the mountains, he added with a heavy heart, "Our path must now lead us to the Pass of Caradhras." His eyes lingered on the distant mountain, its peak dusted with snow, glowing faintly red in the dying light.
Aragorn, sensing the need for swift action, called out to the Company. "Gather your belongings; we must depart immediately."
Pippin, his usual cheerful self despite the situation, protested lightly. "But we've hardly finished our breakfast."
"We will make camp later, when night falls and it is safe to do so, Pippin," Aragorn replied, his tone gentle yet firm.
As dusk settled upon them, the Fellowship resumed their journey. They turned eastward, setting their course towards the formidable Caradhras. The sky slowly darkened, and one by one, stars appeared, twinkling like jewels on a velvet cloth. The full moon rose over the mountains, casting a pallid light that turned the shadows of stones starkly black.
The night passed without incident, and the next morning broke clearer and brighter than the last. However, the air retained its chill, the wind having shifted back to the east. For two more nights, they trekked, their pace gradually slowing as the path wound upwards into the hills, the mountains looming ever closer.
On the third morning, they beheld Caradhras in its full grandeur: a massive peak crowned with silver snow, its sides bare and crimson, as if stained with blood. The sky above was sullen, the sun pale and weak. The wind now whipped from the northeast, bringing with it a sense of foreboding.
Gandalf paused, his nose to the wind, sensing changes in the air. He turned to look back, a thoughtful expression on his face. Those near him overheard his muttered words and understood that he and Aragorn were continuing a discussion that had begun much earlier. They listened with growing apprehension, aware that the decision on their path forward was fraught with peril and uncertainty. The air was heavy with anticipation, each member of the Fellowship keenly aware that the challenges of Caradhras awaited them.
As they journeyed, the Fellowship veered eastward, their eyes set upon the towering form of Caradhras. The mountain, bathed in the soft glow of the moon, shimmered faintly with a crimson hue. The air grew brisker around them, the wind shifting direction, foretelling the onset of colder weather. Caradhras stood dauntingly ahead, its peak crowned in snow, from which gentle snowflakes began to drift down, kissing their faces with a biting coldness.
Without delay, the Company pressed on. They skirted the shadowy silhouette of a ruined aqueduct, a remnant of days long past. As darkness enveloped the landscape and the grey light of day faded, they sought respite for the night. Their bodies weary from the journey, they found themselves amidst the encroaching gloom of the mountains, the wind cutting through them with its icy breath. Gandalf, seeing their fatigue, offered a final draught of the miruvor from Rivendell, its warmth a small comfort against the chill of the night.
Come morning, they climbed to the top of a small hill that had sheltered them through the night. Twisted, ancient trees crowned its summit, surrounded by a ring of broken boulders. Here, they kindled a fire, knowing well that the darkness would no longer suffice to hide them from the eyes of their enemies.
Amidst this setting, the tension between Legolas and Gimli was palpable. The elf and the dwarf, each proud of their lineage and harboring old grievances, found little common ground.
Legolas, standing tall and lithe, his keen eyes scanning the horizon, spoke with a tone of mild disdain. "I doubt not the strength of Dwarves, Master Gimli, but these mountains may test even your hardy spirits."
Gimli, his stout form huddled near the fire, retorted gruffly, "And I suppose the Elves would simply sing to the snow and charm it away?"
Legolas raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps not, but our paths through the woods are not as burdensome and slow as those who trudge through stone and earth."
Their banter, though light, was tinged with the undercurrent of centuries of mistrust between their peoples. Yet, in the company of the Fellowship, they were forced to set aside their differences, a reluctant alliance forged in the face of a greater threat. As the fire crackled and the mountain loomed, the unlikely companions settled into an uneasy truce, their fates now intertwined on the perilous path to Caradhras.
The decision to abandon the treacherous path of Caradhras and head towards Moria came after much deliberation, finally sealed by Frodo's choice. As the Fellowship settled around the fire for the night, the atmosphere was tense with apprehension. Those not on watch tried to find rest in uneasy slumber. Bill the pony, clearly distressed, stood shaking and sweating. The howling of wolves echoed around them, an eerie chorus that seemed to draw nearer then recede into the distance. In the dead of night, gleaming eyes peered over the crest of the hill, some daring to approach the ring of stones.
Suddenly, one of the wolves leapt towards them with a vicious snarl. In an instant, Legolas's bow sang, and an elvish arrow struck true. The wolf fell with a pained shriek, its attack abruptly halted. Gandalf and Aragorn moved forward, weapons ready, but the hilltop was eerily deserted. The wolves had retreated, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake.
As dawn approached, the Fellowship resumed their journey, their path leading back towards the mountains. The old route to Moria was once guided by the stream of Sirannon, flowing from the cliffs near the ancient doors. However, as Gandalf led them, it became apparent that the landscape had altered, or his memory had failed him. The stream was nowhere to be found, and the land was desolate and barren. The absence of life and the stillness of the air weighed heavily on their spirits.
After some time, Gimli, who had been scouting ahead, called back to the group. From atop a hill, he pointed out a narrow ravine below. They hurried to join him and found an old path, its stones broken and weathered, running alongside a meager trickle of water in the channel's bed.
After the attack and the entrance collasping, with no other options, the Fellowship entered the mines of Moria. The hours stretched on as they navigated the dark and oppressive tunnels. They marched for an entire day, with only brief periods of rest. Countless steps they ascended, broad and shallow, until they reached an arched passage with a level floor that delved deeper into the darkness.
Throughout their march, the tension between Legolas and Gimli was palpable. Their mutual mistrust, though somewhat abated by their shared ordeal, still lingered. Legolas, with his elven senses keenly alert to the shadows and echoes of the mine, moved with a quiet grace. Gimli, on the other hand, was stout and resolute, his axe always at the ready, his pride in his heritage evident in every step.
Despite their differences, they both shared a common goal with their companions - to safely traverse the Mines of Moria and emerge on the other side. The Fellowship, united in purpose if not in complete harmony, pressed on through the darkness, each step taking them closer to the eastern exit and the continuation of their perilous journey.
The journey through the dark, labyrinthine passages of Moria was a trial that tested the Fellowship to its core. The ancient mine, once a marvel of Dwarven craftsmanship, now lay as a tomb, its glory faded and its halls filled with peril. The air was thick with the weight of lost ages, and the silence was broken only by the sound of their own footsteps and the distant, ominous echoes that haunted the deep.
Their ordeal reached its climax in a desperate battle against a horde of orcs and a fearsome Balrog, a creature of shadow and flame from a bygone era. It was here that Gandalf, the Grey Wizard and their guide, made his last stand on the bridge of Khazad-dûm. With a mighty cry of "You shall not pass!" he faced the Balrog, allowing the Fellowship to flee. But as the Balrog fell into the abyss, it lashed out, dragging Gandalf down with it. His final words, "Fly, you fools!" echoed in their hearts as they fled, grief-stricken and leaderless.
The loss of Gandalf was a blow that left each member of the Fellowship reeling. Aragorn, now their de facto leader, felt the weight of responsibility heavily upon him. He had lost not just a guide, but a mentor and friend, whose wisdom had often lightened the burden of his destiny.
Legolas, the elf, grieved for the loss of a great ally against the growing darkness, a wise soul who had walked Middle-earth for many ages. His keen eyes, so accustomed to the life of the forest, were dimmed by the shadows of Moria.
Gimli, son of Glóin, mourned the loss of the wizard who had shown such respect for his people and their ancient realm. His heart, stout and unyielding, was filled with sorrow for Gandalf, who had fallen in a place that held so much history and pride for the Dwarves.
The hobbits, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin, felt the loss keenly. Gandalf had been a figure of myth and legend come to life, a guiding light in their journey from the Shire. His fall left them feeling vulnerable and adrift in a world much larger and darker than they had ever imagined.
Boromir, the man of Gondor, felt a mix of despair and resolve. The loss of such a powerful ally against the shadow in the East was a bitter pill to swallow, yet it steeled his resolve to protect the Ringbearer and see the quest through.
With heavy hearts, they emerged from the mines into the dim light of day. The world outside seemed a different place, bereft of the wisdom and light that Gandalf had provided. Yet they could not linger in their grief, for their journey was far from over.
Aragorn led them towards Lothlórien, the ancient realm of the Galadhrim Elves. As they walked, each member of the Fellowship was lost in their thoughts, mourning Gandalf in their own way. The path ahead was uncertain, and the shadow of their loss lay heavily upon them. Yet they walked on, bound by their shared purpose and the memory of their fallen friend, whose sacrifice would not be forgotten.
((Upcoming Chapter Fifty-Five))
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